Shadows and Survivors
Breathe in, breathe out.
Morning. I lay in my bed, consumed by the
overwhelming stillness of this time of day. My eyes are still closed but I can
feel the sunlight dripping in through the blinds on my face. I’m nebulous,
unknowing of where my body ends and the cotton of the blanket begins. It’s
still those few milliseconds before I remember that I’m human and, even more
unfortunate, I’m me.
Then-- Ok! Let’s go! You’ve gotta get up and
boogie!
No. Absolutely not. No. Nope.
If you want to boogie you gotta get down on the
dance floor. We’re gonna have a mighty fine good time!
It’s too early for this. I grab my pillow, flat
from the sleep I wish I could return to, and pull it over my head. The closest
thing I have to a shield. It softens the sound of Dana’s jumping and clapping
but, tragically, not that insufferable commentary blaring from the TV. It’s too
early for this. I burrow deeper into the blankets. The effort is futile. The
stillness is gone, always too soon.
Jazzercise. With Judi Sheppard Missett and the
Jazzercisers.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know what is
happening on screen. At this point in the tape, Judi, in all of her blonde,
feathered bob glory, is showcasing her alarmingly white teeth while
continuously blurting exuberant words of encouragement. Her yellow hair is
bouncing on beat as she swings her thin hips aaaall the way around, clapping,
and flailing her toned arms. Behind her, two brunette followers, matching in
both blue striped leotards and haircuts, enthusiastically
follow her lead, bouncing and swaying in time. I add my comforter as
fortification for my pillow.
Why? What had possessed mom to think it would be
a good idea to give this VHS to Dana last Christmas? It had been over a
year now of actual dedication to this New Year’s resolution to get in shape. If
anything, the clapping had only intensified since that day.
I never make resolutions anymore.
Woohoo! Hot Dog! And smile for heaven’s sake!
It’s getting too hot under the mass I built as a
sound moat. I exhale and my morning breath is amplified by the
combination of heat and close quarters. If I stay under here any longer I’m
going to die of suffocation and/or heat stroke. Almost worth it but… no.
Today’s battle is over and I’ve lost yet again.
A mere 18 months older, Dana had always come
first. First to discover the truth about Santa, first to enter high school,
first to drive…
And first to wake up. Apparently.
“Really?” I groan, snatching my drool-encrusted
pillow off my face and tossing it in the general direction of brown and hot
pink blur lunging between our two beds. I roll over, away from the sun seeping
through the blinds. “You’re gonna wake Dad up.”
“Good.” Another lunge.
“Come on Nicole, it’s time to get up.” Dana’s tone is practiced and precise.
Despite her robotic voice, she is in a strange, fluid contortion as some sort
of flailing human triangle. Her forehead is much closer to the floor than any
part of the face should ever be and her palms flat on the ground.
Grab those ankles and STREEEETCH it!
“Cole. I just go by Cole now. It’s been almost a
year now, Dana.” I tell her yet another time. Maybe I should stop trying. I
stick one arm out from my cotton comforter cocoon and feel around blindly for
my glasses. Ok, so maybe not really feel around so much as knock anything out
of the way that doesn’t feel like glass held together by a wire frame.
“Can you at least turn the volume down? The sun’s
barely up.” I slide on my glasses, and blink the sleep out of my eyes. My mind
is still hazy from the night’s dreams when I was able to go Elsewhere. The room
comes into focus. I try to catch my bearings. It’s all there: posters covering
every inch of wall-space, the lips-shaped phone on Dana’s side of the room from
all those years ago that still creeped me out when I tripped over the cord at
night, the pile of mix-tapes from boys who still thought she had a heart to
give, the urn.
And Dana. I can see her clearly now, clad in her
cheetah print leotard and hot pink leggings now. The contrast between her blank
face and and Judi’s somewhere between a sugar-high and cocaine-high energy is
almost comical. Almost.
“It is seven and the school bus comes in an
hour.” Dana turns the volume up higher.
Was that… annoyance in her tone? A spark of life!
It’s the first even slight response that I’ve gotten from her in months. I
celebrate silently in my mind. Maybe she’s finally waking up too.
***
Most siblings have a lot in common. Or at least
something. Growing up together, under the same roof, with the same familial
struggles will do that to you. Dana and I used to be those siblings. Less than
two years apart in age, we had no choice in the matter. Dana was older and
therefore the assigned leader.
For a long time, that was okay. More than ok. I
idolized her. I wanted to do everything she wanted to-- be everything she
wanted to be. And Dana wanted to be everything.
Dana used to be so full of life. You could never
tell her a secret because her face would give it away at the slightest hint.
That was Dana. She felt life fully. Excitement. When our mom pushed us to
study ballet, she cheerily agreed for both of us and begged her to let us study
soccer, gymnastics, and karate even before the movie came out. Curiosity. We
spent our afternoons climbing trees to see further and trekking parts of the
woods behind our house we’d never been to before, hunting for Honeysuckles and
blueberries. The taste of the sweet sugary nectar of those flowers after a
mouthful of hard-earned fruit was the only time we deemed worthy of pausing our
adventures. At school, her curiosity could get her in trouble but she usually
found a way to charm her way out of any major punishments. Happiness. She never
held back. She had a terrible laugh that was a ridiculous mix of a snort and a
choking dolphin but I loved hearing it. People around her didn’t have to hear
the joke to feel her joy. Sometimes she would wake me up in the middle of the
night, still laughing from a joke hours before. Pain. She is-- was-- my best
friend.
Mom’s passing made Dana speed up, me
slow down, and Dad come to a complete stop.
***
Those days are so far away. I can see Dana’s
reflection in the full-length mirror sandwiched between a poster of Judd Nelson
in The Breakfast Club and Tom Cruise in Risky Business. She’s frail now.
Fragile. Her weight loss over the past few months put her only a few paces
before emaciated. She’s almost bird-like in the way she moves. Jerking and
hopping from place to place--nervous. Never able to slow down much less stop.
In one hand Dana holds a can of hairspray and, in
the other, a purple brush. The amount of time and focus she put into teasing
her hair every morning and finding an overly colorful outfit grew on days like
this. Days when she almost remembered but did everything in her power to
distract herself and others. The brighter the outfit, the less people noticed
something was wrong. The bigger the hair, the less people noticed her face. Her
face: now constantly an emotionless, straight-faced stare with a burst of red
lipstick as the only sign of life.
She never cried
anymore.
I sits on the edge of
her bed waiting with my backpack on my lap.
“So are we ever going to talk about this?” I lean
forward, trying to meet her eye in the mirror. She won’t take the bait.
“Talk about what?” She slightly moves to one side
and I catch a glimpse of a polaroid Dana and I on my 5th birthday taped to the
frame. I’m sitting there, crooked teeth bared to the camera in my, then,
definition of a smile, drowning in my oversized birthday crown and
hand-me-down, pink, velvet dress. Mom swore I'd grow into it but, when this
picture was taken, that day had not yet arrived. Still, there’s a certain
euphoria evident in my face that I can only attribute to the mass of cake in
front of me and Dana’s arm around me. Dana is proudly leaning over me dressed
as a purple fairy complete with flowers painted all the way up her left cheek.
Back when we were inseparable. Dee & Nic.
“Dana. Look at me.”
Silence evident even in the cloud of hairspray.
I sit up
straighter. “Dana! Are you listening? This isn’t healthy.”
She finishes her
hair, moves over to her desk, and begins organizing her books and straightening
papers. Still silence.
I stand, pushing
my backpack to the floor.
I can see it: Mom
rushing in, half of her hair still in her squishy pink rollers. Her hand
gripping the front of her robe with a fist mirroring the fury in her face.
Sucking her teeth followed by a hushed, “Are you kidding me? The day hasn’t
even started yet! This is no way for young ladies to behave!” She would have
heard the pens hit the floor. She had a sixth sense for conflict. Somehow,
making their mother raise her soft voice always made the two sisters act out
more. Dad was the only one who could calm them. She could see him too. He would
have followed Mom into the doorway soon after. He hated seeing anyone upset and
would probably crack a joke to ease the tension. Maybe kiss Mom on the cheek
and wink at his girls as he slowly calmed her cajoled her out of the room.
White lights flare out my fantasy.
The door remains
closed.
In the distance, I can
hear the faint sound of staticy voices from the old TV downstairs in front of
which Dad is probably passed out, nearly overdosed on alcohol and pain
reliever. Where we found him most mornings now.
I’m too tired to
fight. Any anger I feel melts away as soon as it comes. I drop back down into a
sitting position on the bed, exhale the tension inside of me and rest my head
in my palms.
“It’s been a year, Dana. Please, we haven’t
talked about it once.”
“Talked about what?” Dana mumbles, refusing to
tear her eyes from her papers in front of her.
“Mom. The car? I’m tired. I miss you. Please.”
I’m almost whispering now. No need to ease my way into these conversations
anymore. Still, Dana’s bony shoulders tense at the mention of that night.
I see her eyes flicker to the urn. When they
pulled her from the wreckage, Mom was unrecognizable. They could sew her up,
put her in nice clothes and makeup for the wake, we couldn’t bear seeing her
that way-- calm, eternally still. There, but gone.
I can still hear Dana screaming. Screaming at the
white lights through the side window as a car ran a red light at the
intersection. Screaming as the officers pulled her away from the car. Screaming
when she woke up and realized Mom didn’t make it to the hospital with her.
Screaming while Dad sunk deeper into himself and away from us. Then silence.
“We have to… we need to talk about it
sometime. She’s gone Dee. Dad might as well be. I need you. I miss you.
Please.” I don’t notice the tears beginning to stream down my face till I hear
my own voice crack. I’m no longer crying over the loss of one life but three.
I’m crying for the silence.
Dana speeds over to her closet and starts
organizing shoes and rearranging her clothes by color. It didn’t matter. Barely
anything fit now.
“Dana! Can you stop moving for once?” And
then, softer, “It’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you? You were a new
driver but you were good. Are good. The other guy was drunk.” I tear her hand
away from the papers and hold it in mine. “It’s not your fault, Dee.”
I can see it: Dana’s hand squeezing back.
Turning to face me. Meeting my eyes. Seeing life. Light. Something. Anything.
Knowing that, one day, we will be alright.
Dana freezes and
slowly turns, fully meeting my eyes for the first time in months. I see it. I
see the face that I know so well, but it’s changed. She’s gone. The Dana I knew
is not there anymore. She grabs her bag and walks out of the room, not once
pausing to look back.
“Come on, the bus is almost here. We’re going to
be late.”
