by Joey Bush
"Why does everyone ask me that? So I slept in a little this morning and wasn't a ray of sunshine. I'm fine."
"Daddy?" I asked. The rest of the words stuck in my throat.
My father turned to me with a hard look. "Your mother's right, she's fine. Let her enjoy her drink."
"You can't, you can't make me be the one that does it," I said. "You have to tell her now."
"Tell me what?" my mother asked with a bright smile.
"You just want everyone to be as miserable as you, don't you, Quinn?" my father asked. "Ever since you were young, you did just as you pleased. Your sister was the one that knew how to take responsibility. She knew how to live up to expectations and be grateful for every opportunity she got."
"Tell her or I will!"
"Now, Barbara, why don't you sit down?" my father said in his best soothing voice. "There's some bad news about Sienna. I can hardly believe it myself. I didn't know how to tell you and I wanted to wait until you felt better."
"Sienna? Is she alright?" my mother shoved her empty glass onto the counter and hung on to the edge with both hands.
My father struggled to get his voice to work. "Sienna…Sienna committed suicide last night."
My mother sank to the floor as a keening wail rose from her lips. I jumped down from my stool and ran around the counter to sit with her on the floor. She bumped her head back against the cupboard, her eyes screwed shut tightly.
"I didn't believe it at first," my father said. "I still don't believe it. How could she do that? How could she throw away all her accomplishments, all her goals?"
"Oh, my sweet girl, oh, my sweet, sweet girl. I know. I know how it feels," my mother whispered to herself.
"Mommy?" I took her hand.
She yanked it away. "You don't understand, poor Quinn, you're like him. Sienna was always like me. She felt things the same way – felt the burning, felt the falling, felt the soaring."
"Can we talk about that?" I asked. "I think we need to talk about that."
My mother scrambled to her feet and flung herself at my father. "You promised she would be okay. You promised me she could handle it. Everything was fine, Sienna was always fine. Lies! Now, I know you lied. It's all my fault. My beautiful, sweet girl," my mother cried.
I stayed on the floor, cringing as my mother flailed her manicured fists at my father's chest.
"Barbara, you need to go lie down. You've had a shock."
"A shock? Why am I the only one that isn't shocked at all? You think people can just magically brush themselves off and be just fine. Well, that might work for you and maybe for Quinn, but not everyone's as heartless as you two," my mother said.
"Everyone grieves in their own way," my father said. He caught hold of my mother's wrists and pulled her towards the door. "It’s no use falling to pieces, its already done and we can't do anything to change it."
"She's not dead, she can't be. You're just a cruel man playing a cruel joke," my mother said. She yanked her wrists free and spun away from my father. Then, she grabbed her phone and marched out the other kitchen door.
I sat on the floor listening to my father's angry breathing as we heard my mother leave another voicemail on Sienna's phone.
"Are you happy?" he finally said to me. He slammed a fist on the counter and walked out.
By the time I managed to stand up, the house was silent. My mother was back in her bedroom suite, my father was in his office, and I was alone in the rest of the stretching square footage.
My mother was not shocked that Sienna had taken her own life. That idea blinked in my brain like the starting cursor of a video game. Was there some sign I had missed? Was there something I could have done?
My legs were heavy as I dragged myself up the stairs to Sienna's room. It had to be my fault. We weren't close, but we were sisters and I should have known if she was feeling so desperate.
Her room was as neat and tidy as always. The Tiffany blue walls and white furniture glowed in the sunset light. Instead of an old-fashioned four poster bed like mine, Sienna had a queen-size bed with a white satin tufted headboard. The comforter was an intricate swirl of pastel paisley. I sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to crease it.
I needed her there. Sienna never sat around helpless. I could see her marching into her room and scolding me. She would have gone straight to her computer and researched the reasons, both psychological and physical, behind suicide.
I wondered if she had researched it before she did it. I should have looked on her computer in her dorm room. Sienna probably looked up a dozen case studies the moment the thought of suicide crossed her mind.
And still, she did it. The thought made me dizzy, and I let myself slip to the floor.
I leaned back against her bed and felt the sharp edge of something stick me in the back. Reaching under her bed, I pulled out a photograph album she had made her senior year of high school. I opened it up, welcoming the sweet relief that happy memories brought.
The first picture was Sienna leading the cheerleader charge onto the football field. Except it was not her red-lipped smile or glowing golden hair that caught my attention. In the far background was a tall blond boy leaning on the fence next to a gangly girl with long wavy hair.
Owen Redd liked to watch the football games from the sidelines instead of the stands. He liked chatting with people more than yelling silly epithets at the field. One time, Sienna had begged me to bring her a different pair of shoes, and I had bumped into Owen at the fence.
Instead of football scores and finals, we talked about Halo and Assassin's Creed. He didn't laugh when I asked questions about strategy. Instead, he explained in detail the successful maneuvers he had done.
Sienna laughed when she found us. "Aren't you two the perfect pair? Too bad Redd looks better on me."
She knew. Sienna knew that night at the football game that I had the most helpless crush on Owen. I could still feel the thrill of his hand accidentally brushing mine as he described good sequences.
I never understood why they were together. Sienna was more annoyed than enamored by most things that Owen loved. He mocked her cheerleading. And I remembered when she got him voted prom king, he was so irritated that he brought her home and left without saying goodbye.
At the thought of goodbye, I slammed the photograph album shut. How could I say goodbye to my sister?
#
It was easy to pretend I was still in high school. The house was quiet when I emerged from Sienna's room. It could have been any one of hundreds of nights when our mother had retreated to her room, my father had shut himself in his office, and Sienna was out. She was always busy, always doing something.
The only one that was ever around was our cook. I found her in the kitchen looking the same as she had for decades: a white shirt, black pants, and a red apron. Her riotous black curly hair was secured in a prim bun and blue eyes sparkled as she sang.
"No one told you," I said, the weight pushing me back onto a stool.
"I sing when I'm sad, too," the cook told me. "It helps. Wanna try?"
"You know I can't carry a tune. Sienna is – was the singer."
The cook put down her red spatula and propped her fists on her hips. "You know you never have to refer to her in the past tense, don't you? Sienna’s memory is just as alive as anyone else outside this room if we talk about her."
"I don't feel like talking, Charlotte," I said.
"And you don't feel like singing. How about baking?" Charlotte asked.
I smiled. I loved to bake. It did not hurt that it was the one thing I did better than Sienna.
Sienna had come home from a cheerleading meeting one year and announced an impressive list of things she was going to personally bake for their fundraiser. After two minutes of baking, in which flour got in her hair, she crushed a raw egg in her hands, and the top fell off the ground cinnamon, she declared that baking was a waste of time.
That night, Charlotte taught me to bake the easiest, silkiest,
and best buttery sugar cookies. We decorated them with a light lemon frosting and glittery sprinkles. Of course, Sienna took all the credit and they sold out in minutes.
"We're going to need a good dessert table for the, ah, for the guests," Charlotte said.
I nodded, my voice gone again. She meant we needed desserts for the reception that would invariably follow the funeral. Still, Charlotte's practicality was comforting as I settled into the regular routine of the sugar cookie recipe.
"It doesn't feel real. She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first batch of cookies went in the oven.
"You'll look for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."
Her calm acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had ten minutes before the first batch was done.
"Have you seen my father?" I asked.
Charlotte shook her head. "He asked for chicken dumpling soup when I came in and then he disappeared."
I went to peer in the door of his office. The lights were off, but I could see his outline propped in a chair. He stared out the window, a glass of whiskey suspended in the air halfway to his mouth.
"Daddy?" I asked.
He jumped as if a gunshot had reported in the wood-paneled confines of his office. "Quinn, Jesus Christ, you scared me. What are you doing creeping around?"
"You're the one sitting in the dark."
He grumbled and turned on the lamp next to him. His eyes were red and puffy but dry as he scowled at me. "How's your mother?"
"I don't know, she's still upstairs," I said. "How are you?"
"Probably a good idea. She needs to rest. I'm tired. Exhausted. You might not think it’s a big deal to drive from Vegas to L.A. all the time for school, but it takes a toll," he said. Finally, he noticed the glass of whiskey and took a long sip.
"Speaking of L.A., I should call school," I said.
"Your advisor spoke to all your professors. The funeral is in two days. You can stay with us until it’s over," my father said.
"The funeral?" I asked. A sour taste filled my mouth at the word.
"Yes, I have a friend at the Walton's Funeral Home, he's the director. Making all the arrangements. Viewing, service, reception, it will all be here. Cook knows the rest."
"It just seems so, I don't know, so fast," I said.
My father snorted. "What did you expect, Quinn? Decisions had to be made. Not everyone can go through life wavering like you do."
"Sienna was decisive. She kinda proved quick decisions aren't always the best, didn't she?" I could not take the angry words back.
He shifted in his leather chair and refused to look at me again. "Check on your mother before dinner," he said and turned the light off.
I retreated back to the kitchen, and Charlotte took one look at my face and folded me into a tight hug. "He's just grieving. Anything that comes out of his mouth the next few months is pure rubbish."
"I, I accused her of being rash. I actually joked about where her quick decision-making got her. It was awful," I said.
"No one can know what went through her head. Sienna always had her mind made up and wouldn't let anyone change it. A trait I'm happy you did not inherit from your mother."
Charlotte and my mother had a long-standing habit of arguing over recipes. Though my mother did not cook, she clung fast to a few beliefs of how things should be done and would not hear reason.
"Everyone always says Sienna is just like my mother."
"It never bothered you before," Charlotte said.
"What bothers me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.
"What's wrong with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell something burning?"
I ran for the oven and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is ever perfect and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over something they can never achieve."
"Your sister achieved plenty," my father said too loudly.
I could not take anymore. "And what about the mood swings? Are you going to tell me it’s perfectly healthy to be so depressed you stay in bed behind black-out curtains for a whole day only to emerge ready to go out for cocktails?"
"And now, we're talking about your mother," my father said. "Your arguments always segue, like your entire life is full of segues. Next you'll be telling me that you want to quit nursing and join the circus, right?"
"Sienna is – was just like Mother. She would refuse to come out of her dorm room for days. I used to have to bring her food. Then suddenly, I would run into her at the cafeteria. She would be bright and smiley and act as if nothing at all had ever been wrong. That's not right."
"They are passionate, they know what they want, and they strive to make it perfect. I don't see anything wrong with that. Sure, they both take disappointments hard, but it just shows how much they care," my father said.
"Just once, I want to hear you admit it is not normal," I said. "And don't even use your lawyer arguments on me. Normal is not postponing Christmas because Mother has locked herself in the closet. Normal is not you breaking down the closet door with a metal baseball bat because she hasn't said anything through the door for two hours. Normal is not a smart, popular, college girl at the top of her pre-med class suddenly slitting her wrists and bleeding to death in a bathtub!"
I looked across the kitchen island at Charlotte. We had stood here and had the exact same conversation over and over again. Friends had offered contact information for doctors and psychologists, given my father books, and invited my mother to meetings. My parents always insisted she was fine.
Now, Sienna would never be fine again and my father still could not face the facts. "Something must have happened to make Sienna do what she did. When I found out who made her feel that way, there will be hell to pay. I bet it was that boyfriend of hers, Owen. She was always complaining that he refused to get a real job or do anything with himself."
I thought of Owen on the front cover of the gaming magazine. My father would never understand. "Speaking of Owen, have you called him?"
"Why would I call him?"
"Daddy, he needs to know! He doesn't go to UCLA. What if no one on campus had his contact information? What if they didn't think to get a hold of him? He might not even know Sienna is dead," I said.
"Maybe he's the one that drove her to it."
Charlotte sucked in air between her teeth, a sharp sound of disapproval. Even my father had to admit that was too harsh.
He shrugged in deference to Charlotte. "I never liked him for Sienna. They were not a good match. He was going nowhere and trying to hold her back."
"That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to know," I argued. "Sienna loved him."
"Sienna didn't love him," my father countered. "She thought he looked good in pictures. I never heard one conversation where they ever agreed. They argued before every date."
"Only because they always did what Sienna wanted," I said.
"Right, exactly. A man needs to have a little bit more of a backbone, don't you think?" my father said.
"Enough backbone to make a phone call," I said.
Charlotte bit her lip to stop a bubbling laugh. My father scowled but a short sparkle of admiration lit his eyes. I had no idea where the sharp backtalk was coming from, but I hoped it could yield results.
"I raised two daughters. I wouldn't know the first thing about having a man-to-man chat with your sister's boyfriend. What if he cries?" my father said. He went to the side cupboard and poured himself another glass of whiskey. "How about you call him and I won't ground you for sass?"
"You can't ground college students."
My father shrugged again and walked out without another word.
&nb
sp; "Don't worry," Charlotte said. "I'll finish the sugar cookies. You have a phone call to make."
I went up to my room and paced around, turning on every light. Sienna had once told me the secret to phone interviews was to talk while you looked in the mirror. She said it made you sound more natural, more relaxed, like it was a normal conversation with another human instead of disembodied voices.
I brushed my hair, pinched a little pink into my cheeks, and put on a light layer of lipstick. I couldn't talk to Owen looking like a grief-stricken zombie urchin – if I could manage to talk to him at all.
We used to talk on the phone in high school, quick chats before I handed the phone to Sienna, but later calls about video games. Sometimes, Owen called to ask my opinion about certain games or to talk through a new strategy. The calls kept up through college, so I had his number in my phone.
The last call had been about a week ago. It started off about Dark Flag and his magazine interview. Then Owen had asked me about classes. We had talked for over two hours about me leaving UCLA.
"Come to Vegas and we'll chat more," he had said.
Well, I thought, I’m back in Vegas. This conversation was just going to be far different than anything I had dreamed.
CHAPTER TWO
Owen
I had to park two streets over. Once the car was off, I could not force myself to open the door. Hundreds of people were going to Sienna's funeral. They walked past my car in their expensive black dresses and hand-tailored suits. It took all I had not to start the car and drive away.
Sienna hated my car. It was the same old, black Porsche I had bought from my father's mechanic when I turned sixteen. The seats were cracked, the exterior paint so worn it had lost its shine, and the dozens of dings marred the body. Still, the engine purred when it started. And, it pissed off both Sienna and my father. I loved that car.
Sienna wanted everything to be perfect. If it worked but did not look good, then it would never be good enough for her. On the flip side, she was willing to put up with broken things that were beautiful. That was the reason I could not get out of the car.
Her family made me uncomfortable. Sienna's mother was always way up or way down. One day, I saw her with her face streaked with tears and smeared make-up. A few hours after that, she was beaming as she belted out "Sweet Caroline" at the local bakery.
