Chapter 2: The Fateful Fall
The reception was held on the Cliffside Terrace, a marvel of engineering cantilevered over the jagged rocks and crashing waves below. It was separated into two tiers. The upper tier was the dance floor and dining area, polished teak and marble. The lower tier, about two meters down, was a decorative landscaping area filled with white gravel and sharp, ornamental rocks.
The sun had set, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and orange. The air cooled slightly, but the atmosphere on the dance floor was feverish.
Sarah was drunk. Not affectionately tipsy, but mean drunk. She held a glass of red wine in one hand, using the other to manage the miles of lace that trailed behind her. She was spinning in the center of the floor, demanding all eyes be on her.
Mia was playing near the edge of the upper tier. She had found a friend—the daughter of one of Greg’s groomsmen—and they were playing a quiet game of tag, weaving in and out of the tables.
“Careful, Mia!” I called out from my table in the corner—the “reject” table where they had seated me with the distant cousins and the wedding planner’s assistant.
Mia laughed, turning to run back toward me.
She didn’t see the dress.
Sarah had stopped to pose for a selfie, fanning her train out across the floor like a peacock. Mia, looking over her shoulder at her friend, ran straight into the mass of fabric.
Her sandal caught in the delicate, hand-stitched lace.
Rrrrip.
The sound was sickeningly loud in a sudden lull of the music.
Sarah stumbled forward, jerking violently as her dress was stepped on. The red wine in her glass sloshed up and out, splashing a dark, crimson stain across the pristine white bodice of her fifty-thousand-dollar gown.
The band stopped playing. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.
Sarah stood frozen for a second, looking down at the red stain. Then she whipped around. Her face was no longer beautiful. It was twisted, ugly, and demonic.
“You!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Mia.
Mia froze, her eyes wide with terror. “I… I’m sorry, Auntie Sarah! I didn’t see!”
“You little rat!” Sarah screamed. “You ruined it! You ruined my dress! You ruined my wedding!”
“Sarah, stop!” I yelled, leaping from my chair and sprinting across the dance floor. “It was an accident!”
But I was twenty feet away. Sarah was two feet away.
The alcohol and the narcissism took over. Sarah didn’t just yell. She lunged.
“Get out of my sight!”
Sarah placed both hands on Mia’s small chest and shoved.
It wasn’t a playful push. It was a shove meant to hurt. It was a shove fueled by a lifetime of entitlement and rage.
Mia was tiny. She flew backward, her feet leaving the ground.
She flailed, trying to grab onto something, but there was nothing but air. She stumbled back, hit the low decorative railing that separated the tiers, and tipped over.
“NO!” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat raw.
Mia disappeared over the edge.
Time seemed to suspend. I saw the look on my sister’s face—not horror, but satisfaction. I saw the wine dripping down her dress. I saw the guests frozen with their hands over their mouths.
Then came the sound.
Thud-crack.
It was the sound of a body hitting stone. It was a sound that no parent should ever hear.
I reached the railing and looked down.
Mia was lying in the decorative rock garden below. She was curled on her side in the white gravel. She wasn’t moving.
Blood was already pooling under her head, stark and bright against the white stones. Her left arm was twisted beneath her at an angle that defied anatomy.
“Mia!” I wailed. I didn’t use the stairs. I threw myself over the railing, dropping the six feet down to the gravel, landing hard on my hands and knees beside her.
“Mia, baby, talk to me. Open your eyes.”
My hands hovered over her, terrified to touch her, terrified not to.
Mia let out a low, gurgling moan. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and rolling back. “Mommy…” she whimpered. “My head…”
“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” I looked up at the balcony, where the faces of the guests were peering down like gargoyles.
“Get a medic!” I roared. “Call 911! Call the trauma team! NOW!”
Above me, Sarah smoothed the front of her dress. She looked down at us, at her bleeding niece, and she didn’t weep. She didn’t scream for help.
She frowned.
“Great,” Sarah spat. “Now the photos are ruined, too. Someone get that brat out of the shot.”
