Something bad is going to happen today. I awake to that singular thought, clear and
loud in my head. There’s a knot in my
stomach, the kind you get when your intuition tells you something just isn’t
right. Before I can address this
feeling, I hear an engine staring up outside. Fuck. Becky is taking the
car and leaving without me. Sometimes I
swear she pulls shit like this just to spite me. I groggily open my eyes and drag myself out
of my warm bed to the window. The
morning air is cool on my face and the breeze blows my satin curtains into the
room. Through the light, misty rain I
see my younger sister blow a kiss in my direction as she backs out with the
Honda - the Honda that we agreed to share.
I sigh and rush to get dressed.
It’ll be a hell of a walk if I want to make it to school on time.
School
sucks, as usual, another day of monotonous classes and bitchy students. At least I have my best friend, Erin around
to keep me sane. On this particular day,
she suggests we hit the library after school.
“There’s this lecture on international relations,” she said with a grin. Erin knows me too well; how I love to throw
myself into intellectual endeavors to avoid dealing with my feelings.
When
the final, piercing bell rings, I all but jump out of my seat, grab my bag and
book it out the door. As I cross the
parking lot, I notice a familiar, blonde ponytail a dozen feet ahead of
me. “Hey!” I shout. Becky stops and turns on her heel.
“Hey
yourself”.
“What the heck was
that this morning?”
“I have no idea
what you’re talking about.”
I roll my
eyes.
“Really we’re
going to play this game?”
My sister stares at me blankly. So I reluctantly elaborate.
“I’m referring to
the fact that we are supposed to be sharing
the car and you took off before I was even awake.”
“Sorry, I had places to be.”
“Right… and you
just assume your places to be are more important than mine? I was late for government because I had to
walk three miles in the rain!”
“Awww, three whole
miles?”
Becky makes a sarcastic pout. “Suck it up,” she says. “The exercise is good for you”. I try to calm down. I’m not in the mood for another sisterly
fight. “Look Becky, I’m having a crappy
day and I am really, really not in
the mood to put up with your sarcasm.”
“Fine, whatever,” she says without a trace of sincerity. “I’m sorry for not giving you a ride to
school. Can you get over it now?” God, sixteen-year-olds can be
infuriating. “No!” I snap. “I’m not just going to get over it. I got over it the first five times you pulled
something like this!” “Yeah sure,
whatever, it won’t happen again.
Promise”. I glance at my watch. Shoot!
Already 3:15? “You know what?
I don’t need this. Erin and I are going
to a lecture at the library and if I don’t leave now, I’m going to miss it. “Then I guess you won’t make it. I need to go talk to coach McGuire about
tennis practice tomorrow.” As she turns
to walk away, a wave of anger overtakes me.
I snatch the keys out of Becky’s hand and storm towards my car. Behind me, I hear shouting. “Seriously? How am I supposed to get
home?” I can’t resist throwing my
sister’s own sass back at her. “Exercise
is good for you!” “I hate you!” Becky
screams. These words hurt me, but I
brush them off with a nonchalant “Whatever!” and drive away, leaving her
standing alone in the parking lot.
After
the lecture, I get into the Honda, and turn on the radio. The traffic report says there was some sort
of accident on Almond Street, but the backup is starting to disperse by
now. Just to be safe, I avoid that side
of town altogether and take the back roads.
As I turn onto my street, I see the glow of red flashing lights up ahead.
Huh. Some sort of excitement must
be going on. When I get closer, I
see several police cars in front of my house.
There is a cluster of our neighbors standing across the street,
watching. My stomach tightens a little,
but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.
I pull into the driveway and get out of the car. The neighbors all start whispering to each other. I wish they’d just mind their own business. A tall, policeman with broad shoulders and a
serious expression comes out of the house, slowly. “Are you Jennifer Johnson?” he asks. “Yes” I reply cautiously. “Am I in trouble?” “I’m very sorry, miss. A car hit your sister, Rebecca, this
afternoon while she walking along Almond Street. The driver called an ambulance, but she was
killed on impact. There was nothing they
could do.” NO! “No.” I wait for him to tell me there was a
mistake, that this is the wrong house and apologize for the confusion. He just stands there looking official. “No!”
This time I don’t recognize my own voice. It sounds higher, strangled. “That’s not possible! I just saw Becky three hours ago, she can’t
be…” I trail off. To say the word would
make it too final, too real. “I’m very
sorry for your loss ma’am.” The
straight-faced man says. “No! I don’t
believe you!” Of course I do. “You’re lying to me!” Why
would he lie about this, idiot?
“I understand this is a difficult
time-“
“Difficult? Difficult? No, this isn’t
difficult at all because I know it didn’t happen!”
I will not accept this. “Becky put you up to this, didn’t she?” I force a laugh. “I’m going to kill her!” I look back at the tall man’s stone expression. In a last, desperate attempt, I beg, “Please tell me you’re kidding?” “I wish I could.” And with that, he turns and goes back into
the house. Through the open door, I see
several other officers. I catch sigh of
my father’s arm around my mother’s heaving shoulders. Her sobs make everything real for me and it
starts to sink in. I feel my entire body
go numb; the tightness in my stomach now feels like a bag of rocks; the lump in
my throat is so large, I don’t know how I’m still breathing. Oh, God. I feel the prick of tears in the corners of
my eyes. Oh my God! I want nothing
more than to collapse right then and there on my front lawn, but I still have
my pride. I see the huddle of our
neighbors watching me intensely, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I’m not a museum exhibit. My pain will not be their entertainment. Somehow I make it to the front door. My feet move as if I were sleepwalking. The moment I walk in the door, my mother
tries to comfort me. I’ve never seen her
like this. Her flawless curls are now
disheveled and mascara has formed a dark smudge down each of her cheeks. The sight of my strong, confident mom in this
state scares me. I feel like a bitch,
but I brush off her attempted hug and go straight upstairs to my room. The satin curtains remind of this
morning. When I had stood at that window
with nothing but contempt for my younger sister. The younger sister I would, now, never see
again. With that thought, I crumple onto
my bed and cry until my body can’t take it anymore and sleep drags me under.
Days
pass. I don’t leave my room. I try my usual coping method of throwing
myself into my pile of books, but even that can’t hold my attention. I feel bad for my parents. When I turn down the reheated casseroles they
try to bring me I can see the anxiety written all over their faces. I just can’t bring myself to eat anything,
read anything, do anything. I try
sleep. You can’t feel anything when you
sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I
see flashbacks of that day: Becky blowing me a kiss a she drives away, her
blonde ponytail dancing in front of me, yelling at her in the parking lot,
leaving her standing there all alone.
What haunt me most are the last words we ever exchanged. “I
hate you.” “Whatever.” A wave of anger rises from my gut. Why the fuck did I blow her off like
that? Was my stupid lecture really more
important than my sister’s life? Did she
die thinking I didn’t give a shit about her?
The more I think, the more I hate myself. After a few days, I finally concede, and
choke down some tuna casserole from Mrs. Miller down the street. I remember her standing across the road
staring at our house that night. But,
then again, who wasn’t? The casserole is
salty, but I know I need to eat something.
Not that I deserve it. Why am I
sitting here eating tuna while my little sister is laying in a morgue somewhere
waiting for her burial? The injustice of
it all disgusts me and I can’t force down much food before I want to be
sick. I retreat back to the relative
safety of my blankets and pillows and pray for sleep that isn’t filled with
Becky’s smile.
Days
turn into weeks. My phone rings several
times a day. I know its Erin. I know she’s worried about me. I don’t pick up.
Finally,
my parents tell me they want me to go see a therapist. A
shrink? They expect me to tell some
stranger about my problems when I won’t even talk to my best friend? I try to resist the idea, but they are
insistent. Finally I agree and, two days
later, am dropped off outside a cement, clinical-looking office building. “We’ll be back to pick you up in an hour, Hon,”
my mom says as she gives me a quick hug good-bye.
I walk through the
heavy glass door and sign in with the receptionist, a young man probably still
in grad school. “Just take a seat,” he
tells me. “Dr. Collins will be right
with you.” His voice is soft but sounds
somewhat rehearsed, like he’s trying a little too hard to be comforting. I sit on a plushy, brown couch and take in my
surroundings. The lights are covered in
blue scarves, making the space dimmer; the walls are painted pastel green; the
waiting room smells distinctly like lavender incense. The glass coffee table in front of me is home
to a neatly trimmed bonsai tree, a stack of magazines, and a little Zen
garden. I absent-mindedly pick up the
rake and drag it back and forth through the fine, white sand. “Jennifer Johnson?” I look up at a professional- looking woman in
her mid to late thirties. Her make up is
minimal, but infallible; her dark red hair is tied up in a tight bun. “That’s me.”
“Wonderful. Right this way,” Dr.
Collins gestures me forward with a smile.
Her office has
minimal decorations. It’s the same shade
of green as the waiting room and there are a few candles burning around the room. My shrink sits on an office chair behind a
wooden desk. I take my place in the
leather armchair in front of her. “So,
Jennifer. How are things?” As if I’m going to just start spilling all my
deep emotional crap to this total stranger.
“Fine.” I answer shortly. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to
talk about? You’ve been going through an
extremely devastating time. Whatever you’re
feeling is completely normal. Trust me,
I’ve seen it all.” Please stop talking to me.
“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I don’t want
to talk.” Not to you, anyway. “Look
Jennifer, I understand how you’re feeling.
After the loss of a loved one it’s typical to feel grief, anger, even
guilt-“ My stomach lurches. How does she
know? I didn’t tell anyone about Becky
and my last exchange. I couldn’t stand
the thought of the subtle accusations on my parents’ faces. They’d try to hide it, of course. But it would be there. They would blame me, as they should.
“Guilt?”
“Yes, survivor’s guilt. Some people find themselves questioning why
they were the one to live while another was not. They might even feel personal responsibility
for the situation. The important thing
for you to understand, Jennifer, is that this is not your fault.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just forget it.”
Dr. Collins leans forward in her
chair and looks at me with such an open and patient expression that I almost
tell her everything right then and there.
“Look, Jennifer, I really am here to help you. Please help me do that by telling me what’s
on your mind. I promise, I won’t judge.”
I
start to open my mouth, to confide in this woman I’ve only just met, to bare my
soul, but something stops me. My words
stick in my throat. “I’m fine” is what
comes out instead. “It’s okay not be
okay, Jennifer,” Dr. Collins says reassuringly.
It’s too late. My walls and
defenses are already up. That moment of
vulnerability has passed. “Okay. I’m fine,” I say shortly. “Can I go now?” Dr. Collins sighs. “Jennifer, I can’t help you if you aren’t
willing to let me. I really wish you
would discuss this with me, but if you refuse to, there’s nothing I can
do. But, here, at least take my card and
call me if you ever need anything,” she hands me her purple business card with
DR. COLLINS in bold white letters across the top. I quickly take it, give her a tight smile and
hurry out of the office.
I
sit on the curb and look at my watch. I
still have half an hour to wait for my mom to come pick me up. What am I going to tell her when she asks how
my session went? Oh yeah, mom, everything was great.
I talked about my feelings; we held hands, cried; now everything’s just
peachy! Bullshit.
Screw it. I can’t just sit here waiting for my ride. One of the only perks of living in a small town:
everything’s within walking distance if you have the time. I pick myself up off the sidewalk and walk
home. There are dark, purple
thunderclouds gathering on the horizon, but I’m certain I have a few hours
before they reach us. It’s almost
refreshing to be alone with my thoughts; I let all the sorrow, guilt, and rage
that have been bottled up inside me run free within my head. This may have been a mistake. Every negative thought, every accusation,
they’ve all been laying dormant in my subconscious. Now that I acknowledge them, it seems as if
they are fighting each other for my attention.
This whole thing is your
fault. What would your parents say if
they knew the truth? Would they even
still love you? Everything is your fault. You selfish bitch. My mind races; my own thoughts start to
overtake me and I feel like I’m drowning.
When I see the
black shingles of my roof, I have a brief, moment of relief; finally a safe
haven. But a second later I realize that
these thoughts haunting me are not just going to go away. Now that I’ve opened the floodgates, they’re
never going to go away. Your fault.
All your fault. Everything is
your fault. I stand in the driveway
of my childhood home, confronted by the nightmare of my own mind. I can’t do
this anymore. I will not live like
this.
The Honda lies,
untouched, in our garage; I haven’t had the stomach to look at it since that
day. I can’t do this anymore.
Some mix of determination and desperation clutches me. I grab the keys from on top of the front left
tire and start up the engine. The sound
brings back a flashback; me groggily opening my eyes, looking out my window,
Becky blowing me a kiss as she drives away.
All your fault. I try to shove the thought out of my mind but
others just replace it. Without
realizing what I’m doing, I throw the car into reverse and take off. I know I’m in no state to drive. I don’t care.
I can’t see any thing except the road in front of me. I can’t hear anything except the roaring in
my head and the ringing in my ears. I
feel like I’m possessed. A part of my
brain, which I do not fully understand, has taken control. I have no idea where I’m going; I just
drive.
Finally I stop the
car, and turn off the engine. Of course. I’m parked on the old bridge, steel bridge on
the edge of town. Nobody uses it anymore
since they built the main road back in the 80s.
The vegetation has started to take over; ivy wraps around the steel
support bars, the cement on the bridge and the road leading to it is now ridden
with potholes nobody saw the use in fixing.
Just through the trees is my old elementary school. Becky and I used to sneak away at recess and
eat our lunches on this bridge. We’d
play fairies and princesses, fight dragons and capture thieves. We were best friends back then-
inseparable. What changed?
My hand brushes my
cheek to wipe away tears I hadn’t realized I was crying. I find myself standing on the edge on the
bridge gripping the rust-covered beams. The cool wind from the oncoming storm cuts the
warm air and blows my hair back; it smells like rain. I hear the familiar boom of thunder not too
far in the distance. The sky has been
gradually darkening, making the world a strange color. I stare at the gushing river, maybe thirty
feet below. The water turns white as it
dances over the rocks. It looks so
peaceful, so serene, so beautiful. I do this anymore. My hands tighten around the metal. The rust is cool and solid, the first firm
thing I’ve been able to hold for what seems like years, the first piece of
stability in my life since I lost Becky. All your fault. You did this.
Your fault. You selfish
bitch. You killed her. You killed her. You
killed her. I don’t bother to
wipe the tears from my cheeks this time.
I just let them fall. I keep my
eyes fixed on the rocks below. Every
muscle in my body tenses as I prepare to lift my body weight over the rusty
bars.
Is this really what Becky would want? A voice rings clear in my ears, rising about
all other thoughts. Are you honestly going to leave your parents to grieve the loss of two
children? I come out of my
trance-like state and my situation starts to sink in. This isn’t the solution to my problem. This won’t solve anything. This will only cause more pain. My muscles relax and I let my arms fall to my
sides. I hadn’t realized how tightly my
hands were clenched around the metal bar.
I stand there, in the middle of the bridge alone for a few minutes. I take in the humid air, the stillness, the
occasional thunder.
Finally, I realize
there is only one place to go. I drive
to the John Wilson cemetery. Becky’s
grave still looks fresh. There is only a
thin layer of grass growing over it. I
had never found the strength to come visit until today. The stone is nice; shiny black granite. Big white letter proclaim:
Rebecca Johnson
Beloved Daughter, Sister, and Friend
1997-2014
Beneath the words is a little
engraved picture of Becky. Mom and dad
chose one of her tennis pictures. She
looks so happy, so carefree. She had the
world at her fingertips.
“Hey
there, Becky.” I feel a little awkward
talking to a stone, but continue anyway.
“Gosh, I don’t know what to say.
It’s weird, you know. Talking to
you without getting some sassy comment back.”
I laugh uncomfortably. “I wish
you did have something snarky to say right now.
Believe it or not, I miss our fights.
I miss the challenges you gave me.
I miss my partner in crime. God
Becky, I just miss you so much.” A sob
heaves through my chest and escapes my lips.
“I can’t get that day out of my head.
Everything I see reminds me of you.
Every time I close my eyes I see your face…” I pause for a moment,
taking a few deep breaths. “There are no
words to describe how sorry I am, Becky.
This whole thing is my fault. .
I don’t know how I can ever forgive myself for what I did. I certainly don’t except you to, wherever you
are…” I trail off. “I just want you to
know that even though we used to fight all the time, I couldn’t imagine my
childhood without you. Becky, you were
my best friend, I just wish I had been able to tell you that sooner.” I sit in silence in front of the stone for a
few moments. “Okay, well, I guess that’s
all I have to say. I suppose it’s too
little too late, huh?”
Suddenly I smell what I swear is Becky’s
perfume. She never left home without
copious amounts of the stuff; I’d recognize it anywhere. I look around the cemetery. Someone must have the same brand. But the place is empty; no one wants to get
caught in the rain. Maybe it’s just
wishful thinking, maybe it’s a strange sisterly connection, but I feel like
Becky is nearby. Suddenly an impossibly
light breeze rustles my hair and I distinctly hear Becky’s voice whisper, “I
forgive you.” It can’t possibly be
her. Becky’s gone. She isn’t coming back. I try to convince myself I’m just imagining
things, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m not alone in this
cemetery. The first drops of rain start
to fall. I feel the warmth of relief
that I can’t describe deep in my chest.
It might take awhile, and I may never be okay, but I’m going to get
through this. I can be strong, for Becky
if nothing else. “I love you so much
baby sister,” I say as I stand up and make my way back to the car.
I know my parents are going to be worried
about me by now. I need to get
home. I can’t believe how selfish I’ve
been acting. I shut everyone else out to
deal with my own pain without even considering they’re feelings. My parents must’ve spent so much energy
worrying about me through all this. Not
anymore. I’m going to pull myself
together and be there for my family. I
know I can do that.
Before I start the car, I pull out my
cell phone and a little, purple business card.
I dial the number and listen to the ringing on the other line. “Dr. Collins’ office.” “Hi Dr. Collins. I think I’m ready to talk
now.”
