by Shey Stahl
“No.”
It’s her lavender hair, shades lighter than my worst nightmare that sends my heart racing. Purple.
You’re purple, love. I’m black. Together we’re a desert’s midnight sky.
The purple in my mind never fades. It overwhelms. I glare back and divert my eyes up the street right through her. She walks away. The downtown streets of Pasadena are teeming with people, but this girl catches my eye for whatever reason. It’s the purple, a color deeply rooted in my mind.
When my phone stops ringing, I pull it out and call my buddy Nells. His dad’s a defense attorney in Los Angles which means Nells—much like the Kardashians—has an endless supply of money, drugs, and pussy at his house constantly. Not so different from my house, but it’s always better at Nells’s place because I don’t have my brothers or Ricky breathing down my neck. My entire relationship with Nells revolves around getting loaded, plain and simple. It’s hard to explain how drugs and alcohol can take over your life, but it can. Fuck, it can destroy it.
Nells answers on the first ring. “I’m heading to Brennan’s. Meet me there?”
I agree, because it sounds a whole hell of a lot better than going back to the house where my brother and Scarlet will be. I know exactly what happens at Brennan’s too. Shit-faced until I can’t stand and then back to Nell’s place where drugs are on demand and pussy’s around every corner.
You’re probably wondering how a guy like me who has a promising career in freestyle motocross ends up drinking away his emotional hatred for life at a bar in the middle of the afternoon, aren’t you? It’s easy really. Alcohol takes away the pain. Drugs take away the pain. Pain doesn’t have a watch. Pain doesn’t care if it’s morning or night, so why should my way of coping with it have to adhere to some fucked-up definition of when it’s appropriate to party?
I have scars. Emotional. Physical. . . and some, well, I hide them pretty fuckin’ good if you ask me. It’s the kind of scars one would understand if they’d grown up too fast, abandoned too soon, and are hardened by life. The kind of scars that burn my skin they run so deep in my veins. Lost in the artful ink plastered on my skin, there’s a statement of how far I’ve sunk in the depravity of that particular world. It’s downright hatred fueled by a once juvenile ignorance and an ever-growing anger. Or hell, maybe it’s the chemical destruction of my brain. I embrace it. I’m lost, I’m soulless, and I’m eaten by hatred. Hatred compounded by being betrayed by the one person who should have loved me unconditionally. Nothing matters to me. Live fast and die young, right?
I’m anxious. He won’t answer my calls. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s when people don’t answer when I call. Maybe they’re justifiably busy, but then again, why not text and say Hey, can’t talk. There’s even a button on your phone that does it for you.
But still, here I sit, anxious, waiting for the one who makes me smile unreasonably, and feel cold in the hollow of his absence, missing the way his hands trace my curves and his lips press to my collarbone.
Twisting the ends of my hair around my fingertips, still anxious, I set my phone aside and impatiently wait for the pizza to arrive. I try to remember if I have enough money in my bank account to pay for my hair appointment next week.
It’s not cheap to get your hair colored purple and when you go every three weeks like I do. And I’ll put this out there now. I spend a lot of money on hair products and dye because being an ordinary brunette just won’t do.
You might be surprised to learn I went to beauty school, too. If three weeks counts. It does because when have I ever done anything for more than three weeks?
Actually, I take that back. I’ve worked for Jett Industries selling merchandise at motocross events for the past year.
So there. I have some responsibility. And some could argue that’s only so I have money. For my hair. If it weren’t for money, I’d be a sloth who stays at home and colors her hair every three weeks. I’m totally that girl who has big plans to go out every Friday night and then cancels last minute because sitting on the couch is so much better than club life. You’d think I was forty, not twenty-three.
Logging into my credit card app, I realize I don’t have enough and wonder if they’ll increase my credit limit overnight? I only have $23.49 in available credit.
Crap.
A heavy weight hits me. Not because I’m nearly out of money and don’t get paid until Wednesday, but because something is lying on me. A big hairy dog that smells like fruit snacks. He smells that way because he keeps eating them from the pantry.
“Why are you lying on me, Kona?”
He doesn’t answer me.
Maybe because he’s a dog and probably has no idea what I’m saying. I’m house-sitting for my sister, Ava, and her overly large golden lab who insists on lying on me, though I’m certain he weighs more than me.
I don’t particularly like dogs. It’s not that I hate them. No, they’re cute. It’s their hair that bothers me. I don’t like picking my own hair from my bright green cardigan. Why would I want to pick Kona’s coarse blond hairs from it?
There’s a knock at the door and Kona’s ears perk up. He jumps off me, and I’m able to breathe again. His nails click against the wood floor. He skids to a stop in front of the door, his barking bellowing through the house with vaulted ceilings and thick white craftsman style trim everywhere your eyes land. While everything is clean and precise in my sister’s home, my studio apartment is nothing like this. My place is something out of a rock ‘n’ roll bedroom with deep rich colors splashed on everything, while hers belongs on the cover of Homes & Gardens.
With a heave, I draw myself from the couch, padding over to the door as I yank my socks up one by one. It’s probably the delivery driver with my pizza. Cracking the door open, I attempt to block Kona from getting out. He peeks his head through my knees about the time I get out, “Hold on a second.” I take a quick glance at who’s standing before me, but it takes me another before it hits me.
Straining for my purse on the floor, I gather my wallet in my hand only to drop it when my eyes find the compassionate man before me. Two police officers.
“Are you Amberly Johnson?”
I nod, taking in the sight of his pressed blue pants and shiny shoes. “You’re not my Uber driver delivering my Milo & Olive pizza, are you?”
The younger officer clears his throat, his shaking hand that’s holding his hat drops to his side. The older officer next to him nods, as if to offer his own support to the young man beside him. “No, ma’am. I’m not. I’m Officer Reyes with the Santa Monica Police Department. This is Officer Phillips.” It’s never good news when a police officer comes to your door at night. It’s even worse when he politely requests, “Can we come inside, ma’am?” I notice the soft-spoken words, my eyes drifting to his aquiline nose and straight forehead.
My heart squeezes, a heavy feeling weighing on my chest. “Why?” Kona’s nose roots at my knees, attempting to pry my legs apart. Reaching down, I take a firm hold of his collar and yank him back.
“Ms. Johnson, I’m very sorry, but I have some bad news,” he says, pulling my world apart. “Can I please come in?”
With my cheek pressed against the cool metal door, I watch the man with saddened eyes conveying sympathy and understand my heart doesn’t understand yet.
I don’t say anything. I wait, anticipation for his words gnawing a hole in my stomach.
He takes a deep breath. His compelling green eyes, firm features, the confident set of his shoulders, it tells me he’s done this before. Though he doesn’t look to be over thirty, he’s surely given someone bad news before.
He waits.
I nod, pulling back on Kona again. “Let me put him in the bathroom.”
Tears form in my eyes, my legs moving like heavy weights, dragging a growling Kona to the bathroom down the hall. With a deep breath of my own, I mentally prepare myself for the news this guy is going to tell me.
Do you see the way my cheeks redd
en and my pulse hammers? Can you see the dread creeping in? I know he’s going to tell me someone’s dead. My mom? Dad? Alexandra? Ava?
With each name, their face flashes in my head and then fades just as quickly.
Fear tightens my muscles, and I wipe my sweating palms on the front of my jeans, adjusting my cardigan before releasing the breath I’ve been holding.
In the foyer, the men stand stiff postured and speaking quietly to one another. Officer Reyes notices my return, clearing his throat and angling his head my direction. He doesn’t say anything. Do you see the way he tips his head to the side? The grimace and slight shake of his hands? Maybe he’s never delivered news like this.
There’s another knock on the door, followed by Kona’s howling to my right. This time it’s my Uber driver and the pizza I ordered.
The door’s still open. The young Uber driver wearing a baseball cap and ripped jeans smiles awkwardly. “I have your order from Milo & Olive.”
I take it from him, but don’t say anything. Suddenly the smell of the cheese and garlic makes my stomach knot and I feel like if I open my mouth, I might vomit.
The kid backs away, back to his car running in the driveway, and I push the door closed, resting my back against it. My eyes find Officer Reyes. “Why are you here?”
The lines of concentration deepen along his brows and under his eyes. He’s about to destroy my world. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, Ms. Johnson, but your sister Ava and her husband were involved in a car accident.” The line of his mouth tightens a fraction more before saying, “She died at the scene.”
My knees give out.
Do you see that girl on her knees? The one with her heart rate increasing, her air passages constricting?
That’s a girl who’s receiving the worst news of her entire life.
It’s different than how I imagined taking the news that my sister—the girl who taught me everything about who I am—is dead. I imagined we’d be old and gray, and I would have dementia so bad I wouldn’t understand the meaning let alone the devastation of losing her.
But it’s not that way. We’re not gray and old. She’s twenty-seven. She can’t be dead. This doesn’t happen to people like her. It happens to murders and child molesters. People who deserve to die young.
I breathe in, and then out. . . again and again, trying to fill my lungs with air I desperately need, but nothing works. The pain in my chest doesn’t ease up. If anything, it’s worse, an action I’m incapable of. It’s like I’m trying to fill a water bucket only to have it keep tipping the more I pour water into it. I’m certain I’m having a panic attack. Or can you have a heart attack at twenty-three?
It begins in the pit of my stomach. That feeling, that pain, that anxiety. . . it takes over from there like poison in my veins. All these sensations. . . they increase the blood flow and oxygen to my muscles to prepare me to run away from something life-threatening.
A voice fades in and out and I lean against the wall. Seated against it, I pull my knees up against my pounding chest.
No. No way. It’s not real. Can’t be.
A sharp pain hits my chest like a knife and I can’t breathe. Ava. Cullen. They’re gone? No, damn it. No!
My thoughts spin, accelerate, rage out of control like a storm in the night. I want to slow them so I can breathe, but nothing happens. The breaths, they come in gasps feeling like at any moment I might black out from either too much air, or not enough. I can’t tell the difference anymore. The room spins, my heart hammering in my chest. I feel sick, my stomach rolling, clenching, hurting.
I look up at the man who has destroyed my world in a minute. “And the baby? Is she. . . ?” My voice cracks, unable to finish the rest of the sentence.
Goddamn it. No. Don’t let this be real. Please no. Not River.
Officer Reyes kneels, looking down at me intensely. “She’s fine. Not a scratch on her.”
I’m a paranoid person. And for a terrifying few hours, I convinced myself from Google, I was schizophrenic. This is scary to admit, but I have fears, or maybe visions of events going wrong. Every single detail plays out in my head before me as if it’s actually happening. Then I blink and realize it’s not real. Just my subconscious worrying about the things I can’t change in the world.
When I’m driving, I imagine the cars in front of me coming together, crashing, metal tangling with metal and then the spin, the roll, the bodies of the passengers being ejected because they weren’t wearing seatbelts. Like a scene out of those Final Destination movies.
Then I see myself approaching the scene, their bodies lying motionless on the pavement and then me performing CPR on them. By the way, I don’t know CPR. I went to a class once, but just seeing the mannequins on the floor sent me into a full-on panic attack that I might have to use those skills on someone. Could I be responsible for saving someone’s life? I can’t even manage to pay rent on time. What makes me think I can save a life?
I blink.
And I blink again. This time. . . the paranoid parts of my brain. . . they’re not visions, the details of the accident, they’re reality. One I have no choice but to accept.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” Officer Reyes reaches for my shoulder, his grasp on my skin anything but comforting. “Do you need some water or can I call someone for you?”
I need you to tell me it’s not true. I need you to tell me it’s not true. I need. . . I don’t know what I need.
My thoughts move quickly from one thought to the next, until they land on one. River. Their only daughter. My niece. My world. The fear of losing her too sits on me like a weight, and I find it hard to get out what I want to ask. Enough air passes by, allowing my body to function, but it’s still crippling as I get out the words, “Where’s the baby?”
Reyes clears his throat, eyebrows pulling down and his eyes narrow on mine. “She’s fine. She’s with child protective services. I can take you there.”
“Take me to her.” My words sound abnormal, like it’s not me speaking. I scramble, my throat constricting, tightening as the tears break free. My heart begins to shake. I don’t mean literally. I don’t think your heart can shake, or can it? Maybe it’s just that my entire body is shaking.
I take a breath and reach for my jacket that was beside the door next to my purse. The pizza sits, untouched. Holding my coat in my hand, I stare at it, gripping it tightly. It’s one Ava gave me. Said she didn’t use it anymore. “Babe, I can’t pull this color off. You’re beautiful so you try it.”
Ava knew me better than I knew myself. Is that a trait of all big sisters, or just Ava? Because Alexandra doesn’t know anything about me. Not like Ava.
The jacket. . . it’s bright yellow and obnoxious, but I love the way it makes my purple hair stand out, so I wear it.
My thoughts return to Alexandra, my other sister. “Have you gotten in touch with Alexandra?”
The sheriff swallows, hard, nodding to the door. “No. We attempted to make contact with your parents, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson which led us here.”
“They’re out of town this weekend. I’m house-sitting for my sister, Ava.”
How’d this happen? How’d I go from house-sitting with Kona, to this. . . getting notified my sister and her husband are dead?
“Can we call someone to go with you to the police station?”
There’s only one person who comes to mind. It’s not Alexandra. It’s the one guy who helps me out of everything. The one person I’m constantly falling back on. Tiller. Just like the thoughts of everyone I might have lost earlier, Tiller’s face flashes in my head. His Mohawk. His eyes.
Swallowing, I shake free from the hold he has on my mind and reach for my cell phone. “Where is Ava now?”
Reyes nods to the door. “She’s at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center with Mr. Taylor. We can take you there.”
“Is uh. . . Cullen died too?” I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to ask about Cullen.
The officer’s face is solemn. “Mr. Taylor died in
transport.”
They tell me details. Like where it happened, that I can see her body if I want. . . ask me again who they should call to comfort me and all the while, Kona barks and my mind returns to the one person who can help me through this.
My shaking hands hold my cell phone up, the bright screen blurring with the tears in my eyes. Though it’s a Saturday night, it’s debatable whether or not he’s going to answer. He hasn’t answered yet, why would he now?
I call two people on my way to the police station where River is in the custody of child protective services.
One answers.
He doesn’t.
I’m given information. Some I knew. Some I didn’t. I’m told Ava was killed instantly and Cullen died in transport. They swerved to miss a motorcycle that came into their lane on Mulholland Highway between Malibu Canyon and Kanan Dume Road and hit an oak tree head-on.
The motorcycle rider left the scene. Never stopped.
I’m told where my sister and Cullen’s bodies are. Where they will go from there. I’m asked if we want an autopsy and told that they were organ donors and asked if they can have their eyes? It’s been hours since their death and someone wants to cut their eyes out to give to a donor?
I’m asked to sign papers and given pamphlets on grief and loss.
I’m hugged and offered condolences and a million “I’m sorrys,” that essentially mean nothing to me. I’m sorry doesn’t make this any better. It doesn’t take away the pain.
There’s a girl wearing a pink and purple princess dress and a loosened side braid. She’s clinging to a purple blanket, rubbing her nose with the soft fleece tainted in her mother’s blood. It’s midnight, a time when little girls like her should be sound asleep, tucked away safely in their homes, but not this little girl. She’s in a room surrounded by social workers.
Unaware, she doesn’t know or ever realize it’s her mother’s blood she’s rubbing against her face, but then again, it might be her father’s. Regardless, oblivious, she holds on to the only memory she has left of them.
