The minister begins to speak. He talks about ashes and dust. But I am not listening anymore. It’s now like a movie on fast-forward.The minister’s mouth is moving, but I hear no sound. I am there, but I am not there. The next thing I know we are standing. Getting into the car. Driving.
Now we are at the gravesite. An enormous gaping hole in the ground leers at me. Cut into the crayon-colored green grass, it looks black and dark and cold. The June sun beats down onto my back through the black dress. I can feel my temples start to sweat. My hair is so heavy; I want to shave it off right now. Be bald.
My mother is weeping. My grandmother is sobbing. I hear sniffles and nose blowing from the hundreds of people gathered around us. I am a statue. Frozen. The coffin is closed now. I can’t see Lizzie anymore. One by one we step forward to lay roses on top of the coffin. My parents go first. When it’s my turn, I choose a lavender rose.
“I love you, Lizzie,” I whisper as I kiss the rose gently and lay it on the shiny surface.
I think, I am doing okay. I think, I am stronger than I thought. But something happens when they start to lower the box into the ground. I stop breathing. I start to gag. The tears blind me, and I know that Lizzie needs me with her.
“Lizzie!” I scream. Someone grabs onto me. And I melt into the ground.
Chapter 7
When I open my eyes, I’m lying in my bed at home. Someone has taken off my shoes and put them neatly, side by side, next to the bed. I’m still in the black dress.
“Jane.” I hear a gentle voice.
Zoe has come upstairs. I turn my head and see her sitting on the edge of my bed.
She wraps her slender arms around me and holds me tight. I feel her warmth touching me, and I want to grab onto it and take it in. But I can’t hug her back. My arms remain pinned to my sides. Zoe understands. Because she’s Zoe.
“Come on,” she says softly, and we head downstairs hand in hand.
I see people mingling around. Some I know. Many I don’t. How can people stand around eating big spoonfuls of tuna salad? I wonder.
Misty is standing with Zoe’s mother. She reaches out and hugs me. Then Zoe’s mother pulls me to her. They murmur words of sympathy, and I nod in return. My thoughts and feelings float through me like wisps of fog. They touch down and then lift off before I understand them. All I know is that if I stand still, the emotions will come pouring out of me like a torrential downpour. So I whisper a thank you, and keep moving.
I drift through the sea of bodies and bits and pieces of conversations touch my ears.
“Such a beautiful girl.”
“What a tragedy.”
“Anorexia is so misunderstood.”
“Some people say she did it on purpose.”
I stop dead in my tracks and whirl around, looking for the speaker.
“It was an accident,” I shoot back when I spot her.
The woman turns ghostly white. I recognize her as the mother of one of Lizzie’s friends.
“My sister never would have killed herself!” I shriek. I don’t notice at first that the room has gone completely silent. That everyone is staring at me.
I have no clue what to do next.
A warm hand touches my shoulder. I turn.
There is a woman standing next to me. She has a black, chin-length bob tucked behind one ear. She smiles at me. Her eyes are warm behind her thin wire-rim glasses.
“I’m Dr. Patricia,” she explains in a soft but clear voice. “Lizzie’s therapist.”
I know that since her first visit to the hospital, Lizzie had been seeing a therapist. But I didn’t expect her to be here.
“Come with me,” she says quietly but firmly. I obediently follow her from the room. As we cross the threshold from the dining room into the kitchen, I can hear the hum of conversation start up again.
Dr. Patricia opens the French doors leading from our kitchen to the patio. Happy to be outside, I gulp in fresh air hungrily. She seats me gently in one of the cushioned wicker chairs next to the lemon tree. Dr. Patricia takes the other chair and pulls herself close. Our knees are almost touching as we face each other. Neither of us speaks at first.
“I’ve thought of you often,” she starts.
“Me, really?” I say stupidly. “How come?”
“Because you are the one everyone forgets about at a time like this.”
I listen.
“When one sibling sucks all the energy out of a family, it is the remaining sibling who suffers the most. The forgotten one.”
I nod, not really sure if I think she’s right or not. Sometimes I did feel angry at Lizzie—everything was always about her. But right now I don’t want to be mad at her.
“I should know. My sister was an anorexic,” she tells me. “She overcame the disease and survived. My family is so grateful. But no one ever noticed how difficult her illness was for me. No one noticed me at all.” Dr. Patricia leans in and looks deep into my eyes. I can smell her perfume, only it’s sort of cologny. Citrusy and fresh. “If you need to talk, please call me. Don’t try to do this all on your own. No one can.”
I nod again. I haven’t spoken at all, but it’s not necessary. Dr. Patricia smiles a sad smile.
“It gets better. You’ll never stop hurting and missing Lizzie, but you’ll find a way to live with the pain.You are stronger than you know. She admired that in you.”
Dr. Patricia stands and drifts back through the doors into the kitchen. Lizzie admired something about me? Me? Suddenly I just want to be upstairs in Lizzie’s room. I slide through the living room. No one bothers me. They probably all think I’m psychotic.
I climb into Lizzie’s bed and bury my face in her pillow. It still smells a little bit like her shampoo. Like roses. I pull the covers up over my head.
And there I weep. For my sister. For myself. And then I fall asleep.
Chapter 8
By Monday morning, everyone is acting normal. Acting normal. No one feels normal, but we’re all good at pretending in the Holden house. It’s more comfortable.
Chocolate-chip pancakes and chicken-apple sausage. Grandpa is the only one who eats.
I’m supposed to go back to school today. After all, there’s only a week and a half left before summer vacation. Dad is driving me. So when he stands, I grab my cleats and peck Mom and Grandma on their cheeks.
“See you later,” I mumble.
I pretend to study in the car. It’s better than talking. But after a few minutes, Dad interrupts me.
“I was thinking maybe we should go on a vacation this summer,” he says.
“Really?” I respond. I don’t want to go on a vacation without my sister.
“Maybe to a dude ranch, or on a cruise to Alaska . . .” he tries.
Now I have to laugh.
“Dad, do you even know how to ride a horse?” I ask as he pulls up in front of school.
“Well . . .” He clears his throat. “Not exactly. But how hard can it be?”
I lean over to give him a hug.
“A-plus for effort, Dad,” I tell him.
And then I go to school.
It’s hard to be there. Knowing everyone knows. They look at me funny. Like they feel sorry for me. And that makes me feel worse. I wish they would just pretend they didn’t know.
Zoe and Misty are amazing. They act normal. Sharing lunches and chitchatting as always. Zoe is going to tennis camp the week after school lets out. She’ll be in Florida all summer. Misty is being shipped off to summer school in Switzerland, which she’s not really looking forward to. I’d switch places with her in a nanosecond. Other than Dad’s very-strange-and-not-likely-to-come-to-fruition vacation plans, I’m stuck at Casa Holden ’til September. And it’s not a pleasant thought.
I try my best on my final exams, but I know my grades are going to be worse than ever this year. I wish I could be like Lizzie and get A’s without trying. But I’m still me—B’s and C’s are my destiny. My parents can’t say anything about it. Usually I would r
eceive at least two days’ worth of lectures about being more serious, trying harder . . . being more like Lizzie. But this time, my mother passes the report card to my father without a word. He just nods.
“Good job, Jane,” my mother says.
They wish they still had Lizzie. If they had to lose one daughter, I’m sure they rather it had been me. Average Jane. Not Exceptional Elizabeth.
Zoe’s mom invites me to a yoga class. I don’t want to go. But it’s our last chance to take a class together before Zoe leaves for camp. So I agree.When Zoe’s mom picks me up, I slide into the backseat, and, for a second, everything feels normal. Here I am in this messy minivan, with the music blaring, on my way to yoga. And for a little while, I can fool myself.
When we get to the yoga studio, Zoe’s mom takes her place at the front of the room.
Zoe and I pick spots on the bare wood floor and roll out our yoga mats. Mine is amethyst. Zoe’s is emerald green. We sit down cross-legged on our mats and begin breathing slow and even. Breathe in, breathe out, I tell myself. I feel my breath warm my lungs. I fill them up to capacity, then let the air out really slow. Up and down my chest moves. It feels good to focus on something other than tears. I coach myself silently.
Breathe in love, breathe out pain. Breathe in peace, breathe out pain. Breathe in . . . I lose focus. Around us, the class is arranging their mats. In a few moments, Zoe’s mom welcomes the group and then asks us to begin by centering our breath. I breathe in and out again, even and slow. Then we begin the poses. We do downward facing dog, where we bend at the waist and put our hands on the ground, creating a triangle shape. It feels good to stretch my legs out long. I feel the pull in the back of my calves. Zoe’s mom presses on my back slightly to deepen the pose. I stretch into the pull.
“Breathe,” she coaches me.
Then we drop into child’s pose, where we crouch on the ground with our chests pressed against our knees and our foreheads touching the mats. Cobra has us lying on our stomachs, stretching our chests into the air, like snakes about to strike. Then back into downward-facing dog.
Later, we stand up for my favorite, tree pose. This pose has us standing on one leg, with the other one bent so that our foot touches our knee, hands raised as if in prayer over our heads. It’s really hard to balance on one leg, but when I really focus, I can do it. And I love the feeling that I can work my body into these positions and hold them. We move slow and steady and Zoe’s mom reminds us to breathe and not to worry about how we are doing compared to someone else.
“Yoga is not a contest,” she reminds us. “It’s a process. This is a journey you take with your mind and your body working together. Trust your body and where you need to be today.”
I breathe and concentrate on my body. And I try to live in the moment. I do a good job. Until the part of the class where we have to sit cross-legged and close our eyes. This is the part where we’re supposed to focus on the light in the middle of our foreheads.
Only when I focus on the light, all I see is Lizzie. She’s wearing a long white flowing gown and she’s waving to me. Her hair is loose around her, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. A pale golden light surrounds her. I want to touch her, but she floats just beyond my reach. I keep trying, but I can’t reach her. I cry out.
Someone touches my shoulder. I open my eyes. Zoe’s mother kneels beside me.
“Jane, breathe.”
I nod and take a deep breath. I know she knows I have been thinking about Lizzie. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn’t say it. And neither do I. But I feel one tiny tear slip out of the corner of my eye. It sears my skin as it falls down my cheek and drips off my chin onto the mat. I look at the little droplet. Shiny on the amethyst mat. And then I wipe it away with my bare foot. I watch the smear evaporate. And then it is gone. Like it never happened.
We all open our eyes and bring our hands together, palms touching in front of our chests. Then we bow to Zoe’s mom and say “Namaste.” It’s an Indian greeting that is a way of honoring one another. It also signals the end of class. I roll up my mat slowly. Nothing is the same anymore, I think. I used to love yoga. Now I’m not sure I ever want to come here again.
On the way home, I am quiet. Zoe munches trail mix. Zoe’s mom turns down the radio.
“Jane, you’re welcome to come to class anytime this summer, even when Zoe is away. I’d love to see you.” Her tone is light, but I know Zoe’s mom is worried about me. Normally, this would make me feel warm and happy inside. But right now all I feel is empty. So I respond mechanically. It’s all I can do.
“Thank you.”
When they drop me off at home, Zoe grins at me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m wearing my new bikini.”
I manage a small smile. Tomorrow Misty’s mom is having a going-away party for her. There’s going to be swimming and ice-cream sundaes, popcorn and hot-dog vendors; even a DJ. Zoe has been planning her wardrobe for a week. I haven’t even decided if I’m going. But I haven’t got the energy to tell her that—or to see the look of disappointment on her face when she hears I’m not going to be there with her.
“See you,” I say, and close the door.
By morning, I have decided to go to the party, just for a little while. After all, it is my last chance to say good-bye to Misty and Zoe. I choose an old bathing suit from last year. It’s a purple one-piece with bright blue zigzags. I pull on a pair of blue-and-white board shorts and a white T-shirt. I smooth my hair back into a ponytail. Then I slather sunblock all over my face and body. Don’t want to get any more freckles.
When I am ready, my mom drives me over to Misty’s house.
I synchronize my red diving watch to the clock in Mom’s car. “Come back in exactly one hour,” I tell her.
“Why don’t you call me,” she suggests. “You might be having a good time.”
“One hour,” I say before I shut the door.
Misty’s house is really fancy. Her mom has all these white gauzy canopies hanging over the lounge chairs. Stone statues peeking out from rosebushes.They even have a pond with floating lily pads and those oversize goldfish with the big gaping mouths. Misty has invited the entire sixth grade class. Everyone is swimming and eating ice cream. Even Kirsten Mueller and her henchgirls are here. I don’t take off my shorts or T-shirt. I just sip a soda and plaster that fake smile on my face again. I drift around the party pretending to have a good time. No one notices. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I’m looking at the fish in the pond when suddenly I notice my reflection. It surprises me. Because I don’t look like me. At least not the me I think I am. I look like someone has put a mask over my face, and now I am “sad girl.” I stare at this stranger and I wonder if I like her. I can’t decide. My body aches, and I want to go home. I check my watch—only fifteen minutes to go.
I find my friends to say good-bye. Misty wants me to stay longer. She tells me her mom will drive me home later. Zoe says the same. But the truth is, I want to go home. I hug both of them and tell them I will miss them. I see a cloud of worry pass over Zoe’s eyes, and I rush to leave before she says anything.
“I’ll e-mail you,” I promise. And then I hurry out the back gate to the street. I sit on the grass in front of the house and wait for my mom. As soon as her car drives up, I climb in and close the door.
“Did you have a good time?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. It’s only a few minutes to our house. The silence in the car is deafening. I can’t wait to get out.
As soon as I get home, I find myself in Lizzie’s room. Again. I guess I just want to talk to her. I want to laugh with her. To share secret dreams with her. I want her to be with me. My sister, my best friend.
I sit on the floor and look at the pictures taped around the mirror. Lizzie’s Secret of Success. Her icons. I touch one of the photographs. She doesn’t need these anymore, I think. And I tear one down.Then I reach for another. I feel a sick sort of pleasure when the tape sticks and the ma
gazine photo rips in half. So I pull off another.
With an increasing fervor that both frightens and excites me, I proceed to destroy each and every photograph on Lizzie’s wall of perfection. When I have all the photographs torn off, I stuff them into a trash can. I hurry to the kitchen for matches.
I take my contraband back to my room. And I light the trash can on fire. I burn each and every photo. Lizzie’s dreams. Burning in a trash can.
I have to admit, I love watching the flames slip over the pictures, curling the edges and turning them black. It feels so good to watch them turn to ashes and disappear forever.
“Jane! Jane!”
My mother’s voice wakes me from my trance. My parents must smell the smoke because they both come rushing into my room. But by the time they get here, only embers are left, glowing crimson at the bottom of the pink metal can. I reach in with one finger to touch them. To make sure that there is nothing left of Lizzie’s secret. Ouch! I burn my finger. I pull it out of the ashes and see that it’s covered with soot.
“What in the world is going on here?” my father demands.
“Jane!” My mother.
But I am unfazed. I shrug my shoulders. “Having a little bonfire. To herald the first day of vacation,” I quip. My dad raises an eyebrow. Mom puts her hands on her hips.
They are both giving me the eye. Like they think I’ve gone mad. Straitjacket mad. I decide to ease their nerves.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on burning the house down. I just wanted to get rid of a couple of things.”
Dad spots the matches and swoops them up. “No more matches for you.”
“Don’t need them anymore,” I tell him. “I’m all finished.”
Jane In Bloom Page 5
