“Gracie help me.”

Like that she’s sitting next to me. I have pulled away from the therapist and taken Gracie’s hand. She smiles at me and pats my arm, the one thing she knows will always comfort me.

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” Gracie asked, her voice soft, calm like it alway is, soothing.

“She says your not real. Says you an angel. Says you were my twin but you died inside mommy. Tell her your here, tell her. Gracie, I need you.”

“Is Gracie there? Honey, are you talking to your sister?” My therapist interrupts. “Bronwyn? Honey?”

I don’t answer. Gracie is sitting on the sofa next to me, plain as day. We talk back and forth. Gracie comforts me. She holds me, She is real. She is no angel. She is not dead. She is here. Gracie is my savior, my protector, my sister. Together we will get through.

—

“I think it’s schizophrenia. I think she is remembering her traumatic birth and childhood. She sees her dead sister. I think Gracie is her only hope.” Therapist tells my foster mother.

“What can we do?”