Sister Pact (15 page)

Words float in and out of me. I am adrift.

“It was a mistake.”

“Is she?” I look at him.

“Pregnant? No. That was her just now. She did the test. It's no.”

I nod. The tears pour out of me fast and furious.

“Allie.” He tries to put his hands on my face.

“Don't.” I pull them off me.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't.” I get up.

“I… We…didn't mean for it to happen.”

“Whatever. You're a free agent. So is she.” The words sound distant. Like they're not mine. Max and Emery. Together. My world is ending.

“Don't push me away. I didn't mean it. I don't love her like—”

I turn to face him, my face wet and hot. “Don't. Don't ever say that to me again.”

“Allie, please…”

“Get out of my room!” I point toward the door.

“Allie.”

“Don't. Ever. Come. Back.”

“Okay, I'll go. But I'm not giving up. You'll forgive me. You will.”

The door closes, and I put my head in my hands and cry full-out. When I can't cry anymore, I grab my purse. I pull out the baggie John Strickland gave me at that party and the one he gave me today at school.

“Let me help you pick. I know these,” Leah says.

She looks at me, her eyes now the exact same blue as mine. If I looked in the mirror, would I have her brown ones? Are we switching?

“God, I'm stupid,” I say, hoping she'll disagree. Knowing she won't.

“Your friends were stupid. You were just too trusting.” She rifles through the bag but must see me stare at her, because she says, “They're not the same. I wouldn't do that. I promised. These are powder blue. Baby blue. These won't hurt you. I swear.”

I take the pill.

“I'll get you water.”

I shake my head and swallow it dry. Don't need any.

Leah lies back on the bed. “I hate people. They totally suck. You need to be more like I was.”

Before she killed herself.

“And I can't believe they
told
you. I mean, what was the point? If I didn't tell you, why would they?”

I sit straight up, despite the pills and the woozy and the numb. Somehow the message still gets through. The party. John Strickland's. Had to be. “How could you?”

Leah sits up too. “What did I do?”

“You knew. You knew and didn't tell me.”

Leah's mouth gets firm, and her eyes turn to steel. Her jaw sets. “I couldn't.”

“You didn't.” For once, I match her.

“I was going through a lot.” Her voice is buzz-saw sharp.

I get off the bed. I need to get away from her. As far as I can. “How would I know? It's not like you told me. You never told me the important things.”

“You're too much. I killed myself. I
killed
myself. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I didn't mean it the way it sounded…”

“It means everything to me. It's the only thing I can think about. It's ruining my life. And my art. It's ruining me.”

“I didn't mean…”

I stand. “Get out of here.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You heard me. I won't leave. You invited me here. Now deal with me.”

“You said it was up to me. You said just when I wanted to see you.”

She laughs. “I lied. I'm here because you brought me here. Remember that.”

I look at her ring that I painted on my wall.

“Oh God, Allie. You can't be that dense, can you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You think that's why I'm here? That graffiti? Hardly.”

My head swims. My heart pounds. She can't mean…

“The paintings…”

I feel as if she slapped me across the face. Why am I always the last to know? I walk down the stairs, unsteady and fighting the dizzy and the sick. Black-and-white photographs of Leah and I that run the length of our staircase blur by me. I pass through the empty living room, choking on my pain. Sophie circles my legs, almost tripping me. I grab the key chain from the hook in the kitchen, knocking a set of keys to the floor. The sound they make reminds me of the Cape memory—everything crashing down.

I push the door open, Sophie on my heels, trying to keep up, her tiny paws slipping on the cold ground. I know I should help her. I know I should protect her, but I can't. The pain is screaming through my body. All I can think about is stopping the pain.

And the whole time I'm running, she's with me. Leah. She's my shadow, hugging me to her. I couldn't shake her if I wanted to. I should have known. I'm so stupid about people. When I get to my studio, I try to jam the key in the lock but miss. I try again.

“Let me.” She grabs at the key.

I ignore her and shove it in the lock, twist, bump the door with my hip, and the two of us go flying inward. Once inside, I'm not sure I want to do this. Maybe I should go back upstairs, forget she said anything. Maybe I should just take another pill.

“You're going to have to face it one day,” Leah says.

She's right. Like always. I creep toward the paintings, most of them covered with sheets, looking like burial sheaths. Just one is uncovered and I wonder when that happened. Who uncovered my past? It's the one with Leah in her ballet leotard. All black with pink tights. It was practically her uniform. So I tried to capture that mood.

“I'm so pink.” Her voice comes from that memory, not from her ghost. This one memory is real. Not summoned. Or imagined. “Is that how you see me?”

I move forward, my hands tracing the painting. Leah standing straight, her back to me, the simple lines of her neck and back, the outline of her profile. She looked so sweet. And soft. And pink. All kinds of pink.
Innocence. Reverie. Blush. Bridal pink
. That painting was supposed to be a summation of all the Leahs—past, present, and future. Except now she isn't going to have one.

I move to the next canvas and pull the sheet down. It's Leah sitting on my window seat, wearing Sean's jersey over her skinny black jeans. I walk from one painting to the next, pulling the sheets off each of them.

Leah with Sophie in her lap, wearing her college-girl look, complete with violet glasses. I painted her hair shiny and honey blond with lowlights and highlights and everything so completely perfect, like she was. It's so real, I can almost smell the mango shampoo.

Leah in her dance uniform ready for the pep rally. These pictures are exactly how ghost-Leah looked when she came to me. All of those times. So it must be true. She's in my mind. Only in my mind. I was just remembering her. I sit down. I am crazy. Definitely.

Leah sits next to me. “Crazy runs in our family. You know that.”

“You're not real?” I ask, hoping there's another explanation.

“Of course I'm real. To you, I'm real.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I put my hands to my head. Press in. I need to make this stop. It's too much. I need to make it stop.

“This was how you brought me back. So what? You're grieving. It's not
that
crazy. It's not tragic crazy, kill-yourself crazy, like I was.”

“But we had a deal. We had a pact. It
is
the same.” I look at the pill bags in my hand.

Leah raises an eyebrow. “That's a good point, Allie. You know what Dr. Applegate would say if she were here?”

I shake my head.

“She'd say you need to take your pills.” She takes the baggies from me and empties them into her palm.

I look at them and shake my head. “Not these. Not like this.”

Leah's ghost that isn't really a ghost but really just me says, “The blue ones mellow you out. Take two.”

I don't want to, but that makes sense. Mom always took two. Should I? No one answers. Of course they don't. Another test failed. I take two pills.

“You think I should take more? Is that the right thing?” I know it's crazy to ask advice from a ghost. Especially my sister's ghost. My eyes are swimmy and my mouth feels fuzzy. I'm not sure I could swallow more pills if I tried.

“It's about the colors, Allie. And the pills. And the choices. Which bottle, which pill, which color, which guy? The red one gets you up. Do you want to get up? The blue one gets you down. You already seem pretty down, so I'm thinking red.”

I agree. At least I think I do. I'm not entirely sure. But honestly, why am I arguing? Leah's always right. Isn't she? Even imagined Leah?

“Good one, Al,” she says.

I'm funny. Leah thinks I'm funny. And that feeling spreads through me, warming me, making me feel as if everything is going to be okay. Even though I can barely focus my eyes or feel my lips or fingers or anything. If Numb was what I was aiming for, I totally nailed it.

“You ready for a yellow one? A red? What color do you want, Al? You're the artist. What's your color?”

I look at her. And then at my paintings. I look at the pills in her hand. And I realize I have no fucking idea what my color is. I'm an artist who doesn't know her own palette. I start to laugh. Really laugh, because that's the funniest thing I've ever heard. I try to stand. My legs, guitar-string loose, won't hold me. So I sit.

My phone rings. I try to look at the number, but my eyes won't focus. I show it to Leah.

“Who's calling?” I laugh, because everything seems so completely hysterical.

Leah laughs with me. “Let me see.” She squints at the phone. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You soooo don't want to answer this one.”

“It's not…”

Leah nods. “It is.”

“Max?”

“One and the same.”

I take the phone from her.

“What are you going to do?”

“Hang up,” I say, and I throw my phone against the wall, shattering it.

“Oh my God, Allie. You just killed your phone.”

I giggle hysterically, bending forward, my body folding over completely.

“What's so funny?” Leah puts her face by mine. “Allie?”

I hold up the baggie that held the light-blue pills, which is now empty. “I think I killed myself too.”

Fits of laughter come out of me and Leah till I can't tell who is laughing harder. Till I'm not laughing anymore—till I'm crying. Crying for my sister. Crying for myself. Crying because I never wanted to do this, and now I have. The room swims. I put my face on the floor of the studio, letting the cold seep into my skin, cooling my hot cheeks. My eyes close. I think about falling asleep and not coming back. The thought makes me a little bit happy and that makes me wonder when I switched with Leah, switched from the dopey little sister who didn't quite get it to the general in charge of this death mission.

“Allie?” Leah slaps my face. “Allie?” Her voice changes pitch. It's not her at all. It's Mom.

“Oh my God, Allie!” Mom screams. “No!” I hear her dial three numbers.

I pass out.

The feeling of scratchy sheets under me and tape holding an IV in my arm, the sound of a monitor beeping, tell me all I need to know. I'm still here. I'm okay.

“Allie…” Mom's voice cuts through the cotton in my ears. “Thank God.”

Guilt washes over me. What have I done? My eyes feel cemented closed. I try to open them, but I can't.

“Here,” Mom says, patting my forehead with a wet washcloth. The water feels good. My eyes blink open. Her small voice and careful movements make me feel so sorry for her. It must have been awful finding me. Right after Leah. That must have sucked. And suddenly I wish I could take it all back. Tears slip out from under my eyelids.

“Oh, baby…” Mom cries as she wipes my cheeks. “Why?”

“I didn't mean it… I wasn't…”

I wish I could make her understand. I wish I could explain everything. But we're already on two opposing teams. She thinks I tried to kill myself. I didn't. I just tried to stop the pain. And it almost killed me. I know that sounds like a cop-out. But it's not. It's the truth. Straight up.

Dad's here. I scan my mother for her tells. Her hands are steady, but her lips are droopy. That means she's taken just enough to deal with the situation but not enough so she can't drive home. Since Dad doesn't drive her anymore.

When he nears the bed, I see how much I've stripped his colors. He's white as a ghost and looks as if the air has gone completely out of him. Dad looks smaller. I've done that to him. He holds my hand. I fight the urge to pull it away. “Allie,” he says, gruff voiced.

I never meant to hurt them.

“We are just so glad you're okay,” Mom says.

I just wanted it to stop hurting.

“We just want to know why,” Mom says.

“I didn't mean to…”

“You didn't mean to?” Dad repeats, anger creeping into his voice. “They said you had Valium and Xanax and Ritalin and all sorts of other drugs in your system. What were you doing? A science experiment?”

“David, don't.” Mom puts her hand on his arm.

“Jesus.” He gets up and walks away, parting the blinds and staring out into the parking lot as if he is completely wrapped up with what's happening out there.

Mom pours a glass of water from the mauve plastic pitcher on the side table. She holds up my head and twists the bendy straw so I can drink.

“It was an accident,” I say.

“You don't take that much medication by accident,” Dad says from his perch at the window.

This is the dad I know—angry and accusing and judging. Dad thinks he's so honest and upright. But he's not. He may be the biggest liar of all. He lied to Mom when he married her. And to us every time he seemed happy to be with us. He lied to Leah after one of her recitals, when he said she had been the best thing he'd ever seen. His new girlfriend is. He always puts her first.

He comes back to stand next to my bed, somewhere between deflated and demanding. And I'm not sure which side of him to trust.

“Thank God you're okay,” he starts. Lie. “I love you so much.” Lie. “I just wish I knew why you did this. With everything I've given you, a talented girl like you…” Finally how he really feels. I'm trapped. I can't breathe. I reach for Leah. Memories flood me. I see her as I painted her, the way she came to me. I can't believe she wasn't real.

“…don't know what I've done wrong. Your mother and I…”

The pain hits me full-on. Leah is gone. Really gone.

“Stop. She's had enough,” Mom says.

“I was just…” Dad's voice breaks. Lie.

I try not to listen to them. Try not to let them pull me under. I wish for the millionth time that Leah were here with me, deflecting her fair share. Sisters do that for each other. Until one of them bails.

“You're always just…” Mom says. Dad gets silent.

Images of the day invade in my thoughts, even though I don't want them. John Strickland. Max and Emery. Nick. Leah. My insanity. Everything explodes like the chaos of colors that Mr. Kispert said was my best work.

I close my eyes. Leah. She left more than a hole in my heart; she left one in my head too. She lived inside of me, and now that she's gone, what will fill in the missing parts?

Mom starts crying again.

“Karen, please.” Dad's voice cracks.

“It was like finding her again.” Mom sobs. “Sophie was barking at the back door. I followed her to the studio.”

“Thank God you did, Karen, but you have to stop thinking about it, obsessing. It won't help.” Dad says.

I remember finding Leah the morning after the party. She was mad at me. I had checked out, but I wanted to make up. Leah always had music playing or the TV blaring or was on the phone with Brittney. You could usually hear Leah from a mile away. That's how much life she gave off. But it was dead quiet that morning. I remember thinking she must have really been upset.

I walked in her room and saw her lying there, like she fell and couldn't get up. I could tell something was wrong. Pills, robin's-egg blue, formed a splatter pattern next to the bottle of wine she'd drunk from. Part of her lips were burgundy red—underneath the vomit that spilled from her. Some people might miss the burgundy. But I didn't. It's the color that stood out the most to me.

I knelt down next to her and saw she wasn't breathing. Her body was cold. So cold. My hands shook. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't. She promised she wouldn't leave me. Nothing made sense, except she was so cold. I went to get the cover off her bed. I thought maybe if I could warm her up, it'd be okay, she'd be okay. “Please, please, please.” I was screaming. “Leah, you have to get up. You have to!”

She didn't move. The air around me pressed on me, and I felt like I'd fallen down a hole.
Leah killed herself. Leah killed herself. Oh my God, she killed herself.
The words became real in my mind.
Leah killed herself. She really killed herself.
Then I remembered my training and thought,
I have to kill myself too
. I grabbed for the pills. They tasted like puke and death. I didn't care.

Mom rushed in. She put her hand over her mouth. Then she grabbed my arms and started shaking me.

“Oh my God!” Mom had screamed. “Oh my God!”

“No!” I shrieked. “She's okay. She's going to be okay.” I don't remember scooping up the pills. They said I did, but I don't remember. “I was supposed to go with her. She promised me. She promised.”

My mind had buried this memory deep so I wouldn't have to remember how much it hurt to find her. To know she was gone. Except I remember now. Fresh pain assaults me.

“Allie…” Mom sits next to me on the bed.

I lay my head on her shoulder and cry. The sobs feel good, like they're wringing the bad out of me. As if that's possible. After all that's happened. With Leah gone and me alone. With the betrayals and the lies. And the drugs. I cry till I feel cleaner. I know there are still some drugs left in me. For now I feel better. A little.

“It's okay, honey,” Mom says. Lie.

Mom lies to keep us moving. She is fine: lie. Dad still loves us: lie. I am good enough: lie. Each move is carefully negotiated. Each lie is designed. She plays an excellent game. I should be impressed. I'm not. I don't want to live like this anymore.

“Dad?” I ask even though I know he's gone.

“He can't deal. It's not okay, but he can't,” Mom says. Truth. Finally.

Dad walked out. He can't stand weakness. It's worse than trying to kill yourself. He'd take tragic over lame any day. God, I hate him. Lie. My head hurts bad. I push my hands against my temples.

“Headache?” Mom asks.

“Yeah.”

“I'm not sure you can take anything right now.”

She means now that I'm a suicide attempt instead of just an addict. Labels mean something. Despite what it looks like, that label is a big fat lie. Despite the picture I painted for them, I did not want to kill myself. I'm completely sure of that. Mostly.

“My phone?”

“Honey, you smashed it.” I can tell she wants to give me what I want. Like when I was four and screaming for her to buy me something I didn't really need. I can tell she wants to feel useful. “But I can get you another one. No problem.”

My phone. Gone. It's stupid to be upset about it, but another tie to Leah is gone. We had the same phones. Dad gave them to us. Together.

“Allie?”

“I'm so tired. Going to go to sleep for a while.” Lie. I turn over.

“Okay.” She kisses my cheek. I wish she wouldn't. Because I don't deserve it. She doesn't know about me. She doesn't know I heard Leah up and moving around that night. That I didn't think… She doesn't know I could have stopped her. If I'd just gotten up and gone to her. If Mom knew, she'd hate me. Like Dad does.

“I'll ask the nurse about something for your head,” she says as she leaves.

“Uh-huh,” I mumble and pretend to be asleep. Just one more lie piled on the heap.

“Oh, Allie? A psychiatrist is going to come in and see you. Dr. Ziggler, I think.” Sneaky-Mom timing.