by K. M. Walton
Hannah pours herself a cup of coffee and a glass of milk for me and sits down at the table. There’s a little smile on her face, like she has a secret she’s dying to share. She’s been unusually happy these days. I wonder what’s up with her.
“Aren’t you eating?” I ask as I shovel an entire pancake into my mouth.
She shakes her head. “I ate a couple of test pancakes first,” she says. “And you know I can’t eat once I smell the Spam.” Hannah shudders.
I grin as I grab two slices of Spam covered in maple syrup and shove them both into my mouth. It’s a mean thing to do, given the fact that Hannah hates Spam and only makes it for me because I love it. But at that moment, all I think about is how early it is. Taking another pancake, I rip it in half and make a pancake/Spam sandwich.
Hannah grimaces and finishes her coffee.
“I washed the pans, so all you have to do is clean up your dishes,” she says. “Please don’t leave them in the sink all day. You know how much Mom hates that.”
I shrug. It isn’t like I set out to forget. I always tell myself to do them before my parents come home from the store, but I never remember. I tend to get lost when I’m working on an art project.
“Where you going?” I ask, finally taking note of her clothing.
“To the library,” she says. She’s packed up her messenger bag and her backpack. I’d bet a million dollars and all my art supplies that they aren’t all filled with books.
I snort. “Right,” I say, taking note of her curve-hugging black V-neck top and jeans. It’s a lot trendier than I’m used to seeing her wear.
“New boyfriend?”
Hannah glares at me. “Not everything is about boys.”
I roll my eyes, not wanting to hear a lecture. Just because she’s five years older than me, my parents constantly ask Hannah to give me advice even though I don’t want it. I don’t need advice from the perfect child because I’m never going to be a perfect child no matter what my parents think.
“Whatever, just wondering why you’re all dressed up for the library,” I say.
Hannah sighs and picks up her bags. A little bit of black leather peeks out from the corner of her bag.
“So where are you really going?” I ask.
“I told you, the library.” She slides on her flats and grabs her bags.
“So you need your fancy black boots just to go to the library?”
Her cheeks flush. I knew it.
“Well, well, well, Mommy’s perfect child is lying to her and sneaking around with some boy,” I say, smirking at her.
“I told you, not everything is about romance or dating,” she says seriously.
“Well if it isn’t a boy, then tell me where you’re going,” I demand. Not that I really care, I just like bugging her.
“Hopefully I’ll be able to tell you about it soon,” she says, that same small smile playing on her lips.
“Tell me now.”
“It’s not any of your business,” she says.
“Then I’m going to tell Mom you aren’t at the library,” I say.
Hannah opens the door and turns to stare at me. “Then I’ll have to tell her about the art supplies you stole.”
I blanch and then feel the blood rushing into my face. “You nosy jerk! How dare you snoop through my stuff!”
“I was trying to find my charger, which you’re always taking,” she says. “I thought it fell under your bed, but instead I find the box of missing art supplies Mom and Dad have been worrying about. You shouldn’t have done it. They think one of the workers took it.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Well then, if you mind your business, I’ll mind mine.”
“I hate sharing a room with you,” I shout. “I wish you’d go away!”
“Me too,” she responds. “I wish we could afford to let me stay in the dorms, but then you’d have all of Mom’s attention on you all the time. No reprieve. You should be careful what you wish for.”
“I don’t care, anything would be better than seeing your stupid face every day!”
Hannah sighs. I can see she is really trying not to be mad. “Look, I know it’s hard, but you should tell Mom and Dad you want to be an artist, not a lawyer. You’re really talented.”
“Like it matters what I want,” I respond.
“It does matter, because you need to do what makes you happy, not what makes them happy.”
“Says the girl who is going to be a doctor because Mom is forcing you to,” I sneer.
“Which is why I’m telling you this now,” Hannah says. “Don’t let them push you into being something you’re not. Don’t be like me.”
“I don’t want to be like you! I hate you!”
• • •
That’s the last thing I said to her.
• • •
The police come before dinnertime. Saturday nights my parents let the store manager close up so that they can have dinner with the family. They usually get home by six to find that Hannah has made the rice, but there is no Hannah and no cooked rice.
My mom is distracted cooking dinner. She keeps calling Hannah’s cell phone, but it just rings and goes to voice mail.
“Something is wrong,” she mutters over and over again.
When the doorbell rings, I stand waiting in the hallway. My father finally answers the door. I’ll never forget the look of horror on my mother’s face as she catches sight of the officers.
“Hannah,” she says. “Something happened to my Hannah.”
I hear one of them say “I’m sorry, there’s been an accident” and then my mom just collapses onto the floor sobbing. My dad can’t even console her, it’s all he can do to stand holding on to the door. They’re too grief stricken to invite the officers inside. I’m the one who asks them in to our living room and pulls up chairs for them to sit on. I’m the one who helps my mom up and seats her on the sofa. I’m the one who asks them what happened.
She was crossing Sixth Avenue on Bleecker when an SUV ran the red light and barreled into the crosswalk filled with pedestrians. A big black Cadillac Escalade, one of the biggest and heaviest SUVs there is. The woman had been too busy talking on the phone to see the red light and all the people in the crosswalk. Hannah had her headphones on and was apparently looking the other way. Eyewitnesses said the SUV knocked her off her feet and then rolled over her. They said the only reason the woman stopped was because people had swarmed her car, banging on her windows. It was as if the woman had no idea she’d hit a person. My sister was just a nuisance speed bump on the way to her Pilates class.
“Was she sorry?” my mom asks. “Was she sorry she killed my beautiful girl?”
“I don’t know,” the policewoman says. She looks sad.
“What time was the accident?” my Mom asks. “What time did she die?”
“It happened at 4:30,” the policeman answers. “She died thirty minutes later at the hospital. It took a while to find your information.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” my mom whispers. “That was when I felt an icicle stab me in my chest. That must have been Hannah’s suffering.”
At the hospital we learn that Hannah didn’t go easily. That she suffered tremendous pain before she died. Bleeding to death from having all her internal organs crushed and nearly every bone in her body shattered.
They hand over Hannah’s bag, and I take it because my parents can’t even stand up straight. When they go to see Hannah’s body, they lose all their control, crying hysterically and yelling things out in Korean. I am the only one to notice that my sister is still beautiful, even bruised and faded by death.
• • •
It was my sister who named me. When I was born, Hannah was five years old and she decided that she wanted a sister named Brooklyn. Ironic, since we live in Queens. That summer my par
ents had taken her to Coney Island for the first time and Hannah had declared that she loved Brooklyn. My parents indulged her and let her choose my name. A five-year-old. She always joked that I should be grateful my parents didn’t take her to Niagara Falls instead. The funny thing is she never called me Brooklyn. She always called me BK. I don’t know why, but I tend to like it better than my real name.
I always resented my sister for having so much control over my life when I had none. And yet, my sister loved me. I resented that also. I resented her so much that I don’t think I ever once told her that I loved her.
I’m sitting on the floor of our room just staring at her bed. My parents are in the living room with my aunts and uncles planning the funeral. I refuse to be with them. Suddenly I hear a ringtone. It’s from a K-pop song I hate. For a second I almost yell at Hannah to turn it off. And then I remember.
I grab Hannah’s bag and reach for her phone. I don’t recognize the number. It must be someone who doesn’t know what happened to Hannah. I’m frozen. The phone stops ringing. I stare at it in relief. I can see the battery life on the old flip phone. One and a half bars left even after Hannah… Well, the only good thing about not having a smartphone is the battery life.
The phone starts ringing again. It’s the same number. I open the phone before I can change my mind.
“Hello?”
“Good morning Hannah! This is Tracy from XM Entertainment calling to reschedule your callback.”
“Callback?” I ask in confusion.
“Yes, I don’t think anyone explained why all the callbacks were canceled on Saturday. There was an incident outside the building and several people got hurt. So the building management made us shut down at five. That’s why we had to send everyone home.”
“Reschedule for what?”
“The callback for the Who Wants to Be a K-Pop Idol? competition,” Tracy’s voice is wary. “Am I talking to Hannah Lee?”
I start to cry. This was where she’d been heading to that day. This was her secret that she’d been so happy about.
“I’m not Hannah,” I whisper. “I’m her sister.”
“Oh, okay,” Tracy sounds surprised and a bit uncertain. “Is Hannah there?”
“She was in an accident,” I whisper.
“I’m so sorry, is she okay?”
My nose feels swollen in pain and I feel terrible pressure in the back of my eyes. I’m shaking hard. All my tears that had been pent up for the last two days can no longer be held in.
“She didn’t make it,” I gasp out just as the tears overwhelm me. I’m sobbing, my pain so deep that I don’t know if I’ll ever stop crying. I close the phone and lay on the floor, my hand gripping Hannah’s cell phone.
When I finally stop crying, I realize that Hannah wasn’t as perfect as our parents thought she was. She tried out for a K-pop singing competition. She hid it from all of us. And I know why. My parents would never have let her go. They would never have allowed her to deviate from their chosen path for her future.
And now I’m all they have left. The dysfunctional child. The one who is nothing but a bitter disappointment to them. I know what they’re thinking. They lost the wrong daughter.
I think about my last words to her and my stomach clenches so hard I want to puke. I miss her so much it hurts. I go into Hannah’s bag again wanting to feel her presence. I see her little notepad and pen, her Chap Stick, her iPod. Things she always kept with her. Then I spot a small pink bag that I recognize. It’s a little French bakery in the West Village that makes my favorite macarons. I open the bag and there’s a box with four green cookies. Pistachio, my favorite. I look at the pink bag and notice the address for the first time. Bleecker Street.
I can’t breathe.
I take Hannah’s iPod out and hit play. The first song is my sister’s favorite 2NE1 song, “It Hurts.”
I pound my head on the wall, welcoming the physical pain, because the emotional one is too great for me to handle.
“I’m so sorry Hannah, I’m so sorry I never told you that I love you. Please God, I wish I could see her again just once more so I can tell her that I’ve always loved her.”
• • •
“Hey, wake up! I’ve made you breakfast.”
I open my eyes and see Hannah jumping on my bed. My chest tightens. This dream is too real.
“Come on, you have to eat before it gets cold,” she says, stripping me of my blankets.
I sit straight up and stare at my sister. What kind of dream is this? How torturous can my mind get? I can’t take this pain. I grab for my comforter, wanting to ignore it, but Hannah blocks me and tickles my feet.
“Stop it!” I shriek. I know what happens next. I immediately throw myself out of bed, slamming onto the floor hard.
I’m lying there stunned, as I stare up at my sister’s smiling face. I’ve missed her so much. Are dreams supposed to hurt this bad?
Hannah laughs. “Now you’re up, come eat before I tickle you again.”
She walks out of the door and I slap myself on the face hard. My eyes are tearing and yet I can still hear my sister’s voice, singing from the kitchen. I rise unsteadily to my feet and glance over at the clock. It’s 6:45 a.m. This is the morning of her accident. What is happening? How can this be? Is this reality and what happened before the dream? Could it be true? Could my prayers have been answered? I don’t know what to think.
Hannah is washing dishes at the sink and singing that K-pop song I’d heard only once before. I sit down on my chair desperately trying not to cry. I’m not even hungry. I just sit staring at my sister.
Hannah pours herself a cup of coffee and a glass of milk for me and joins me at the table. She has that little smile on her face that I remembered bugging her about. Everything feels so real.
“Aren’t you eating?” she asks. “I made your favorite.” She pushes the plate of Spam toward me.
Ignoring the plate, I reach over and grab Hannah’s hand.
“Are you really here?” I choke out. The tears start flowing. Please God, don’t let this dream end.
Hannah is looking at me in surprise and alarm. “What’s gotten into you?”
She comes over to check my forehead and I take the opportunity to hug her hard. I can smell her light lemony scent. She feels solid and real. I don’t want to ever let go. I have so much to tell her. I open my mouth but I choke up and the words get stuck in my throat.
“There’s something definitely wrong with you,” Hannah said. “Are you hurt? Do you feel sick?”
I feel as if I’ve been hit by a train at full speed. My body’s a broken mess and my brain is rattling in my head. I sway in my seat.
“Okay, you need to get back into bed,” Hannah says. “I have to go out but I’ll let Mom and Dad know you’re sick.”
“No!”
Hannah goes still.
“You can’t go. I’m sick,” I blurt out in a desperate attempt to make her stay. “My stomach’s really bad. I’m going to throw up.”
I run to the bathroom and pretend to throw up. I really go for it and retch so hard. I feel myself gag and then I’m actually fighting to keep from vomiting. The battle must sound bad because my sister is by my side, rubbing my back.
“You need rest,” she says.
I climb into bed and grab her hand.
“Stay with me.”
I can see the conflict on her face. But she nods. “Go to sleep, I’ll watch over you.”
Something about trying not to vomit and the shock of the morning makes me exhausted. I don’t want to fall asleep, I want to be with my sister. I can’t help thinking this is a dream, but it feels so real. How can it be real? How can I be sleepy in a dream? My mind is reeling and I’m dizzy and nauseated. I fight hard against closing my eyes and keep a tight hold on her hand. I need to talk to her. I need for her to know how mu
ch she means to me.
“Hannah…”
“Just sleep, Brooklyn.”
“No, I can’t.” But my eyes are too heavy.
I wake up and the clock reads 10:30. I call out to Hannah but there’s no one home. I jump up in a panic. She’s not in the house. There’s a note on the kitchen table.
BK—I’m sorry but I had to go out. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Just take it easy and rest.—H
I’m such an idiot! How could I have fallen asleep? How could I have lost her again? No! I won’t. I can’t. I still haven’t told her how much I love her.
I pick up my cell phone to call her, but she doesn’t answer. My voice mail message is blinking.
“Hey BK, I’m so sorry I had to leave you but I had a really important appointment today. I’ll make it up to you and bring you back a sweet surprise. Just stay in bed and feel better, okay?”
I run to the computer and start googling K-pop auditions and finally find a Soompi forum that talks about the auditions for some big reality television series called Who Wants to Be a K-Pop Idol? being held today near NYU. I jot down the information and start getting ready. I feel gross but I don’t have time to shower. I braid my hair, grab my thin black jacket, and run out the door.
It’s late morning on a Saturday and the 7 train is crowded. Forty minutes to Times Square and then transfer to pretty much any train that’ll take me to West Fourth Street. I hate the subway. Yeah, convenience is awesome and all that. But the smell and the heat in the summertime is too gross. And I can’t stand watching the rats pick through the garbage on the tracks. Gross.
At Times Square, I jump on a downtown F train and immediately have to put on my jacket. The conductor’s got the AC on subzero temperatures. The only good thing about it being so cold is that I can’t smell the homeless guy sleeping at the back of the car. I’m too nervous to sit, so I stand by the door and stare out the window, watching the pipes snake up and down the walls and tunnels that appear and disappear before the next station stop. Only a few stops more, but then the train stops at Fourteenth Street for what feels like forever. I’m debating jumping off and running the rest of the way when the doors finally close.
