by Kim Turrisi
I feel the weight of Duke’s face on my knee nuzzling me. Jen found him secured to a post with no tags or collar, just a note nearby that said Free, while she was jogging along a trail in Birch State Park early one Sunday morning a few years back and couldn’t bring herself to take him to a shelter. The white heart-shaped markings on his chest sucked her in, so she said. But his earnest brown eyes did it for me. Our father wasn’t a big fan of Jen’s I-can-save-the-world lifestyle but it’s who she was. And no one says no to a dog.
Not even my dad.
Jen was heartbroken when she couldn’t take him to her new apartment with its strict no-pets policy, but I think my father was thrilled with the rule. That way he had Duke all to himself. That dog stole my dad’s heart.
“It’s been a shitty day, buddy,” I explain, scratching the top of his cashmere-soft head. “The suckiest of suck.” Familiar drops gush down my face. He nudges me with his snout, and I just know he understands, he feels the shift in the house. His food is still sitting in his bowl untouched. His world has changed along with ours, and his eyes beg me for answers. “I got nothing but I will. Trust me.” He licks my hand to show his faith in me.
I send a text to TJ.
You disappeared. I wish I could. Xo
He responds immediately, like he does.
Didn’t want to be in the way. How r u?
Numb.
Need anything?
Just my sister.
When I walk back into the family room, Dad is staring at his lap, now rubbing the folded letter like it’s a genie in a bottle. Like somehow he’s gonna get three wishes if he rubs it just so. He appears to have aged ten years since I handed him the envelope. At least I know he opened it, the flap tells me so. His pin-striped suit jacket and solid blue tie lie in a heap on the floor next to his unopened briefcase.
“Did you know she was so unhappy that she would do something like this?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
“I had no idea. When we had lunch last week, she was just Jen. She kept talking about the fundraiser she was helping to organize for the ASPCA. She even brought the press release she wrote to show me. She was so proud of it. She joked about coming home with another dog.” His voice cracks.
Jen has always been the free-spirit do-gooder, unlike me. In high school, when she wasn’t volunteering at the food bank, she walked dogs at the shelter every Saturday. If that wasn’t enough, every month she organized a group of teens to pick up litter on the beach. I’m more of a sleep-until-noon girl. She made it her mission to change that about me.
It’s not working yet.
“How could we not have known? How is that even possible, Dad?”
His head drops. “I can’t.”
I will myself to speak through the fresh flood pouring over my cheeks, feeling like I’m breathing under water with my mouth open. Instead, I race upstairs to my room, slamming my door and shutting the world out. Stretched out on my bed, head cradled by my pillow, phone raised in the air over my face, I scroll back through the texts between me and my sister. The first few were from Sunday night after she went home. Had to be after midnight.
Glad you came to dinner, Jen. Mom and Dad won’t get off the college application thing. You aced the distraction plan. Time for the next step. Gap year, here I come.
Her response almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
You know I have their number. I got you. Love you little sis.
You too.
I freeze on the next text, her last to me ever.
Never forget that xo
She knew right that second with each letter she tapped that it would be her last text to me. Fuck.
Instinctively, I pick up Hershel, the cotton-candy-pink stuffed monkey that Jen bought me for my sixth birthday, and squeeze him tightly, crying for what will never be. She told me he would keep me company when she wasn’t around. I hope this wasn’t what she had in mind. I ponder what must have happened after she sent me that last text on Sunday. It makes me sick, but I go there. She made herself comfortable on her bed, then methodically began popping pills one after another as she perused family photos.
Blue.
Orange.
White.
A chaser of Cabernet after each one just for good measure, making sure she closed the deal.
Then she scribbled a goodbye letter to each of us, meticulously sealing each one before walking them out to the bank of mailboxes next to the pool. Back in her bed, she slowly drifted into a sleep she would never wake up from. Judging by all those empty bottles, she took enough pills to tranquilize an elephant.
Opening my laptop, I click iTunes and select a song that really captures the spirit of this day. Cole Swindell, “You Should Be Here.” Turning it up, I feel the lyrics hard as I hunt through the photo stream on my iPhone, pausing on every picture, searching her eyes for signs of depression. I burst out in hysterics when I see Jen and me outside the American Airlines Arena pointing to a sign emblazoned with ONE DIRECTION. My first concert. When she told me she would take me to see anyone I wanted, I bet she wasn’t counting on that. I’m sure her ears were bleeding the entire time, but she never let on.
I hear Cole belt out the chorus and all I can think is, “You should be here, Jen,” but you’re not.
I thought I was all cried out.
I’m not.
There’s another pic of Jen and me drinking bottles of Bud Light Lime on the beach during her spring break two years ago. My first beer. Mom and Dad would shit if they saw this. I wore her down after weeks of begging when I turned fourteen.
Determined to find a clue, I keep looking.
There’s a picture of her at Disney World, taken a few weeks after she got home from Europe. One of the last family trips we’d ever take. She’s wearing pink chinos with a crease, a striped tank top, flip-flops and mouse ears, posing with Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger. A happy-go-lucky smile is plastered all over her face.
Nothing. Not a clue.
Dying is black and white, but suicide is gray.
* * *
I’m standing in a corner downstairs, watching an endless stream of cupcakes and casseroles arriving with half the neighborhood. Obviously, they’ve cleared out the prepared-food case at Publix. Hope no one else in Fort Lauderdale wants a precooked lasagna tonight.
I swear I’ve never met half of these people. Their eyes are brimming with compassion and sorrow.
I nod at the I’m so sorrys and promises of We are here if you need anything, but it’s all so absurd. My sister kills herself and it’s suddenly raining food.
After a thousand years, I spot friendly faces hugging my parents. We lock eyes. I point to the stairs and we all slink up to my room unnoticed. I have never been so happy to see Emily and TJ. Plus they are bearing gifts: a pint of Fireball, several bags of Kettle Chips and Cheetos and some weed. Nothing screams brain numbing like a shot or two of 33-percent-alcohol cinnamon whiskey.
TJ nearly pulls me to the floor with the weight of his grip on me. “I loved your sister, Kai.”
“She loved you, too.” I didn’t know it was possible, but I am almost dried out.
“I just don’t get it, am I blind? How did this happen? What did I miss?”
“Oh, Kai. This is so fucked up.” Emily embraces me, her athletic body nearly crushing mine, her cocoa skin warm against my miserable face. My stomach stops flipping momentarily with her tender touch. She’s what I imagine a Zen master would be.
“Like, she chose this. So not fucking fair,” I choke.
TJ unscrews the top of the Fireball bottle and passes it to me. I guide the bottle to my lips, and my mouth flames up with first contact and it burns like hell going down. At least I feel something other than agony.
As the inferno of burning liquid erupts in my belly, I’m struck by the obvious. “Life is so fragile
.”
“More than we all know,” TJ adds.
I turn to the plethora of photos and postcards that decorate the elaborate picture-frame headboard over my bed. My sister went through a do-it-yourself phase and we made it together two years ago. A bonding activity is what she called it. We did a lot of those. She vowed to fill it and made good on her promise once she began to see the world.
Dabbing my eyes with my T-shirt, I freeze on each one of them.
Jen insisted on writing letters and postcards every other week during the year she was gone. The ones currently pinned on my headboard are stand-out favorites for one reason or another. Some for the actual picture on the postcard, some for what she wrote on the back. An English Lit minor, she was quite big on the written word. When she came back from Europe, I missed the postcards.
“She couldn’t wait for us to visit all the places she went,” I say to TJ, unpinning a postcard from Bellagio, Italy.
Bellagio is one of the small towns on Lake Como. Wait till you see what I’m bringing you back from here, little sis. Xo
Eyeballing the picture-perfect handwriting comforts me, if just for a moment. Emily points to a quote in the middle of the headboard. “I love that one,” she says. “Jack Kerouac.”
“Me, too. They both loved the adventure of it all.”
“You’ll always have these,” TJ reminds me as he hands me the Fireball.
“How could this person” — I point at the headboard, then continue — “choose death? It doesn’t add up.”
I hear the distinctive click of my mother’s Louboutin heels coming up the stairs, hitting every hardwood step along the way. Click. Click. Click.
“Shit.” I quickly screw the top on the contraband and hide it under my pillow.
She knocks just loud enough to hear. Even her hand is worn out.
“Come in,” I say.
Mom pokes her head in. “Emily, your parents are getting ready to head home.”
Emily stands up to leave, straightening her cotton flowery skirt, leaning in to kiss my wet cheek. TJ takes my hand, his leather bracelets brushing my flesh.
“I should get going, too, so you can get some sleep. Or do you want me to stay until you fall asleep? Because I totally can.”
“No, it’s okay. I kind of just want to stare at a wall and hope my mind goes blank.”
He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you want. I’ll come by after class tomorrow,” he says. “Text me if you need me, though. No matter what time it is.”
All I can scare up is a weak nod.
By eleven o’clock everyone who’s invaded our space has long gone, leaving a wake of nine-by-eleven cheese-topped pans and endless baked goods. The sight of it makes me gag.
Rotating the nozzle, I let the water in my shower heat up. I undress, letting the day’s clothing fall in a pile, except for the chambray shirt. I draw it up to my face and drink in the scent of the past, then place it neatly next to the garnet-and-gold boxers I got the last time we visited Jen at Florida State just before graduation.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Stepping into the shower, I let the steam suck me in. I let the scalding-hot water fall over me, washing away the ugliness of this not-so-ordinary Tuesday.
Only nothing can wash it away.
Chapter 4
The morning brings more darkness. As soon as I open my eyes, I reach for my phone to text my sister. We hardly missed a single morning since she left for college, yet no texts on Monday or Tuesday. I should have known something was off.
I stare at my phone screen.
Years of comforting words that connected us.
Now, nothing.
My eye catches the handblown Christmas ornament Jen brought me back from Italy. An emerald-colored tree with teeny multicolored ornaments melted into the center of it. Christmas was our favorite holiday. I keep it out year-round. Jen said it would bring me luck.
What would be lucky is if this was just a nightmare and today wasn’t Wednesday, the day after.
Walking downstairs, the first thing I see is the chair in the dining room. Hers. My eyes start to leak.
I notice an overflowing platter of cheese eggs and toast on the breakfast bar.
“Are you hungry? I made all your favorites.” What she means is all of my and Jen’s favorites. We both love breakfast any time of day. Loved. I hate the past tense already.
My stomach turns at the sight of food. It looks disgusting but I don’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. “Not right now, thanks.”
I grab a Starbucks Sumatra K-Cup and gently glide it into the Keurig. Usually, I’m a decaf-with-lots-of-creamer girl. Today seems like a good time to add caffeine. I got about two hours of sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jen.
“Father Michael can do the mass on Saturday morning. Do we want a wake on Friday?” Mom asks Dad.
“No.” I answer for him. “She wouldn’t want two days of mourning. Ever. What the hell is wrong with you?” This little outburst gives my parents pause.
“Honey …” My mom starts down a road I’m not traveling.
“Mom, don’t you remember when Grandpa died and you made us go to the wake and the funeral? She hated every second of it.” I’m not budging on this.
“It’s what Catholics do,” she says.
“Oh my God. We aren’t even close to Catholic. I’m begging you not to make this an event. I cannot handle more than one day of this misery and I’m not even sure about that. It’s such a barbaric ritual. Please.”
There’s that word again.
“We have to go to the funeral home this morning to finalize the arrangements and pick out a casket,” Dad says a bit too matter-of-factly for my liking.
I snap at him. “Casket?”
“It has to be done, Kai.”
“Today?” I yelp.
“It’s part of it, sweetie,” Denial Mom says, flipping pancakes.
My weary eyes constantly refill. “She just died.” I’m coming unhinged and don’t even bother to try to stop myself. I don’t want to.
“Why does everything have to be finalized right this damn second? It’s not going away just because you want it to. She’s gone, as in never coming back.” It’s like they just want to move through the what-to-do-when-someone-dies checklist like it’s a competition and they have to win.
“That’s enough, Kai,” Dad casually remarks, never looking up from the paper. He finishes the last sip of his brew. “I’ll take Duke for a walk, then we can head over to the funeral home. I made the appointment for nine thirty.”
“You don’t have to go with us,” Mom says, turning away from the skillet and toward me.
The last thing in the world I want to do is pick out a casket for my sister. But I have to do it. I really have to do it. I slam down my coffee cup. “I’m still here. I’m part of this family.”
Dad leaves and I hear the sound of Duke’s leash clang against his tag followed by happy barking. I’ll never have that feeling of free and easy ever again. I wish I was a dog. Anything other than what I am.
An only child.
I try one more time. “Mom. Please. It’s important. I’m not ready.”
Seeing my anguish, she relents. “We can move the appointment back an hour, Kai. But we can’t put it off forever. Have some breakfast. You need to eat before we leave.”
Mom goes upstairs, leaving me alone. Loneliness swallows me. It’s so still and quiet. I need to hear the sound of my sister’s voice telling me that it’s going to be okay.
* * *
Funeral homes have a distinct smell. Disinfectant on crack.
Probably to mask the scent of death.
A death vibe permeates the stark white walls, the short-pile pallid gray carpet, the whole damn place. It all reeks of the grim reaper. The lighting has a golden h
ue, presumably to mask the pallor of the pained faces grieving their loved ones. Boxes of white Kleenex are on hand every few feet. Barnes and Sons Funeral Home has been part of the landscape of Fort Lauderdale since the early 1900s and remains the go-to for any and all local funeral needs: so noted my mom on the mostly silent drive over. Even the soft music playing from the ceiling speakers screams death. Every step we take is bringing us closer to the end.
My parents and I sit quietly, properly, on a flower-print couch in the reception area. God, it looks just like Grandma’s condo. There are mahogany tables and chairs that match the couch, with little white doilies on the armrests. Jen and I used to rearrange Grandma’s whenever we visited growing up. I fixate on a small glass dish that is overflowing with red-and-white mints like the ones at the hostess station of every family-style restaurant in the country. For some reason, they’re Jen’s favorite.
My mind wanders back to the letters. Jen’s suicide notes. I hate thinking of those words. We’ve yet to discuss the contents of our letters though I’m certain we’ve all read them. Mom’s is tucked in her purse without the envelope. Dad’s hasn’t moved from the arm of his recliner.
I’ve managed to chew all the skin off my right thumb knuckle just since we arrived. I wipe away the blood on my rumpled Junk Food Orange Crush T-shirt, careful not to get any on Jen’s chambray shirt, which I’m wearing over it. The last shirt she wore. Mom leans over. “You really could have dressed up a bit more. The T-shirt?”
“I have on closed-toe shoes, that’s dressed up for me,” I reply.
“Jesus Christ, Kai.” That’s the best she can muster up. Even she knows she’s being ridiculous right now.
“Is she back there?” I ask. I know it sounds bizarre, but I find it comforting. She’s still above ground with us. I can’t even think about what comes next.
“Yes,” Dad says solemnly, staring down at his wingtips.
“I hope she’s not cold.” She loved the beach, the sunshine. Tears snake their way along my face and drip onto my jeans. “It’s freezing in here.”
