Sister Pact (21 page)

My hand closes around her phone. John said he thought about not giving it to me.

I try to turn it on and it's dead. I climb off my bed and grab my charger. Plugged in, I power it up. The wallpaper picture of me and Leah takes my breath away. I keep going. I need to do this. The last text messages she exchanged were with Dad. My stomach drops. I get dizzy. I don't want to see those yet.

I can almost hear Leah's singsong voice, “Save the best for last.”

I scroll down.

She texted
5grcrsh
. I'm guessing John Strickland.
Need u.

Him back to her:
Where r u?

Her:
Ill come to u.

Party going on. Come around back.

The next series of texts are from Brittney. After the party.

Tlk to me.

Please

Pick up

Before the party.

Whatcha wearing?

My hair sux

Mine 2

Urs never does

xoxoxo

I look at these texts, and something suddenly makes sense to me. Brittney wasn't her bestie. John was. Brittney was her cover. And I feel like laughing. Leah did have taste. Secretly. Scrolling down, I find another series of texts from an “unknown number.”

Unknown:
There's nothing I can do.

She wants me off the team.

I can't help you. Drugs mean automatic dismissal. Zero tolerance. But I won't send your file to anyone. I won't stop you from transferring.

That's the end of that conversation. But I picture Vanessa at the party taunting me. “Ask your sister why she isn't on the team anymore. Ask her.”

She meant because Leah was caught with drugs. I look at Brittney's texts, and I remember her saying that Leah reset her password to keep her out. But I remember that day that Leah set our passwords on our phones. Dad had just left. I was destroyed, and Leah wanted to help me. She was always doing that.

“IMSS,” Leah had said, grabbing my phone.

“Stop, Leah. Give it to me,” I said. “You are so messed up.”

I grabbed hers. “Okay, then yours will be”—I laughed as I typed—“IMWF.”

“What does that mean? I am white female? Dork!”

“No.” I imitated her sharklike smile. “I am worst first.”

I expected for her to be mad at me, but she just laughed. I remember I'd made her laugh.

“Okay, that fits. I
am
the worst.”

I'd handed hers back to her and tried to take mine. She'd held on for an extra second.

“Promise not to change it though, Allie. Because that would be cheap.” She'd looked right into me. “It'll be our thing. Between us. And I love you, even if you're sloppy.”

“I love you, even though you're the worst.” I nodded solemnly, despite having to work hard not to smile.

Her eyes teared up, and she hugged me hard for just a second. Then she pushed me away and got off my bed. “You should totally take my bed when I'm gone.”

I thought she had meant when she went to college.

I scroll to the texts from John Strickland, one of their conversations a few days before she died.

Her:
Lets really do it. Run away.

Him:
I'm in. When?

Her:
Im Srs.

Him:
No ur not. What's wrong?

Her:
Nothing.

Him:
Tell me.

Her:
I've messed everything up. I don't know that I can fix it.

Him:
Then I will. Come over. Now.

Her:
K.

I stand up. And pace. I piece together the puzzle of Leah's last few days. And it's pretty grim. So far, I've got that she wasn't going to be on the dance team anymore because of drugs and Vanessa. As horrible as that is, then she found out Sean was cheating on her with Brittney. And then the texts with Dad. Was he the last straw? And what exactly did he do that made her feel so hopeless?

John Strickland warned me that some of it would be hard to take. The
being kicked off the dance team
thing sucked. But I'm betting the Dad stuff is worse. Should I look? I sit back on my bed and chew my nail. I have to know. I open up her conversation with Dad.

I scroll to the begging of their conversation. The first message she sent him.

Dad? I need to talk.

What's up?

Can u talk?

Can't. In a meeting.

Please. I need to talk.

Text me what's wrong.

I need to get away. I need to start over.

Are you taking your meds?

It's not about the meds.

If you take your meds things will seem better. Take them. Then we'll talk. That's final.

The rage boils up inside me. Too much to contain. One of Dad's get-tough campaigns. Wow. How could he take a chance like that? What kind of father doesn't listen when he's previously suicidal daughter asks for help? Who puts conditions on helping her?

Almost an hour later.

Leah:
I'll take my meds. Okay? Then can I come live with you?

I don't think that's a good idea.

Y not? Please.

He never answered her. I wonder why. I think back to that night in my bedroom. She said she found out that Dad was living with Danielle just before. So what's missing? My head spins. I have some guesses, but I have to know the whole picture.

I pull out my phone and dial John Strickland's number. Not the one he gave me. His personal line. The one he only gave to Leah.

He answers on the second ring. “Figured you'd call.”

“Hate being predictable,” I manage.

He laughs. “What's up?”

“You know why I'm calling.”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Please.”

“She went over to face him. To force her to deal with him. And found Danielle and him together.”

“I figured. After she found them, did Dad talk with her?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell her?”

“He told her he was sorry, but Danielle said she couldn't live with them. In a year, she'd be leaving to go to college anyway. He'd help her in any other way possible. She should take her meds and go home and things would look better.”

“God, I hate him.”

“Get in line.”

“You think he gets, for one second, what he did?”

“I don't care about your dad. I'm sorry. I don't care about him at all. I could have taken care of her. I would have. But for some reason, she wanted
him
to. Or she believed he should want to. And if he didn't want to, it was just more proof she wasn't worth it. How fucked up is that? It's like she had to pass all these tests…”

The tests. It takes me a second to catch my breath enough to say, “I've gotta go.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing bad.”

“If you need to talk, call me. I'll keep my phone on.”

“Thanks.”

My head's swimming with too much pain and rage and information. I go into Leah's room. Her sacred space. All the sparkle was a show. The biggest role Leah played was herself.

Leah lied to me. All the times she said she was fine, she lied. All the nights she acted like she was okay, lies. She wasn't okay. She was losing herself. Bit by bit. And I didn't know. She kept me away from her on purpose so she could do what she had to do. She should have come to me instead of Dad. I would have helped her. I would have. But she didn't want my help. I was always just her backup plan.

I take the picture of us skiing and throw the frame as hard as I can. Sea glass explodes against the wall. I'm glad. I took something of hers and broke it. Like Dad broke her. And like she's breaking me now.

I pick up the picture of Leah and Brittney and launch it against the other wall. Shattering Leah's image feels great. She was never as perfect as I painted her.

I think about Dad. He chose Danielle over us. Not just over Mom. Over us too. Like we were a mistake he couldn't get away from.

“I hate how you treated us!” I scream at Dad. And to Leah, “I was never good enough for you. I hate you for leaving me!”

I throw more picture frames, relishing the sound they make as they break. I hate Leah. Lie.

My heart beat slows, and I start to wind down, collapsing next to the heap I've made. I push the debris away and pull out the picture of Leah and me on the ski trip.

“Let's pretend we're in college,” she had said as we got on the ski lift. Her voice reaches across time and echoes in my ears. I cut my finger on the fractured glass. The blood leaks out of me and onto the picture.

“Shit!” I say to the empty room. I try to get a grip. “Did you think I wasn't strong enough to kill myself? You think I would have chickened out? You don't know me. You don't know.”

For the first time in a long time, I think about my emergency stash of pills. The one Leah collected for us to use if we needed. Our arsenal.

My whole body is screaming with pain. Not just my heart or my head. I am a mess of heartbreak. Raw and raging and out of control. I need a getting-over-Max Help. I need a forgiving-Mom Help. I need a missing-Leah Help. I need something. Anything.

I stand, grab my phone and Leah's, and head downstairs.

I take Gatorade from the fridge. Anger pours from me in waves. I put on my boots and my jacket. Sophie follows me. “You stay here this time.”

She puts her head on her paws and whines. I can't have her see me like this.

I grab my studio key and go out the door. I pull my hood up and brace against the rain. The twenty seconds it takes to make it to my studio leave my face feeling pinpricked. The path is slick, but I keep going. I need to get this out of me.

I jam my key in the lock and push open the door with my hip. I open the first cabinet and stick my arm all the way back until I find the baggie I'm looking for. A stash she made me promise not to ever take without her. Some of Mom's pills but also John Strickland's gifts. The ones she didn't take that night. Maybe because they weren't enough. Maybe because she didn't want John to feel guilty that she killed herself with his stuff.

I spill the contents into my hand. Twelve pills. But is this what I want? My hand shakes. I think about the choices in front of me. Pills or pain? Art or life?

I look at the empty easels, waiting for my decision. What's it going to be? I take my phone out and almost will it to jump to life. Play the game again. If someone calls, I won't do this. If anyone texts, I won't. But the phone stays silent. I've got to decide this for myself.

“Oh, fuck!” I say to no one in particular. So I change the game. If there are canvases in the other cabinets, I'll paint it out. My hand shakes as I check the first one. Empty. Shit. The next one is the same. Last door. Please be there. Please. I close my eyes and open it. I'm shaking and sweating. Please. When I open my eyes, I can't believe it. Four empty canvases are there, waiting. Four. Thank God. I shove the pills in my pocket and take two of the canvases out and throw them on the easels. I have art to make.

I open the drawers and grab a handful of paints and brushes. I start to mix. This one's going to be Dad's painting. As I paint, the pain seeps out of me and onto the canvas. Every stroke of the brush, every decision, takes some pain away.

Dad's palette starts with the camouflage colors—army green, gray, khaki, and black. I grab a size-twelve brush and paint a rose opening. The camo colors spill from the flower and across the painting from the top-left corner through the middle of the painting. I dribble bloodred throughout. In the bottom-right corner of the canvas, I paint robin's-egg blue ovals. Some complete, some distorted. To the left of the blue ovals is a pool of burgundy. Around the top border and wrapping around the right side, I write
I don't think that's a good idea
in charcoal and ebony.

I pull out another canvas and put it on the easel—another round in the chamber. I paint tiny strokes of Leah's colors: purple, powder blue, canary yellow, silver, gold. Then I add Dad's colors—charcoal, ebony, army green, gray, khaki—in lines. Leah's reasons. Each stroke an accusation. War games. Death. Betrayal. Each one displayed for the world to see. How Dad ran out on us, how he broke Leah. And Mom. But how he didn't break me. In the corner of this one, in tiny baby blue letters, I paint
That's not a good idea
.

When I'm done, I sit and look at what I've made, my hands shaking. I pull my phone out. I take close-up pictures of the letters and then back up and show the full view of each painting. I send a copy of each to Dad. And then to John Strickland. Exhausted, I turn out the lights and lock the door. I walk across our yard and back into my house. I open the cabinet and return the pills. That's when I see Mom's note on the counter.

Let Sophie out earlier. Just go to sleep when you're done. Your paintings will be coming home tomorrow. XOXO, Mom.

I pick up Sophie and walk upstairs. When I get to my room, I collapse in bed, fully clothed. I'm about to fall asleep when my phone lights up.

They're beautiful. Like you!
John Strickland's text reads.

Gnite. Sweet dreams.

I put the phone under my pillow and close my eyes. I'm beat-down tired, and I could use some sweet dreams. When I'm almost all the way out, I see her. Leah. I'm sure she's just part of my dream. But I don't care. She's sitting in the grass, the sun a halo behind her head. She's clapping her hands for me. The last thing I see before I'm out is an explosion of sweetheart-rose pink.

I sit in the waiting room, restless, my paintings by my side.

The receptionist opens the door for me. I slide past her and take my place on Dr. Applegate's couch. She comes in from the other side of the office, closing a door behind her. I wonder what's behind that door. But Dr. Applegate isn't required to hand over her secrets. That's my gig.

“Good morning, Allie,” she says.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks before turning to see that I've brought a little show-and-tell.

I shift in my seat. How am I feeling? Pretty freakin' crappy. And raw. And used up. All in all, I feel pretty much done. “I'm fine,” I say.

“Fine?” she asks, her eyes resting on my display.

“Yes. Fine,” I insist.

“What have you brought me?” she asks.

“Just did them last night.” I hold each one carefully by the edges.

“May I?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She walks over and picks up the camo-rose picture. She holds it up and examines it. Then she walks to the light by the window and turns it so she can see every bit of it. I should be nervous. I usually am. But these paintings are good. I know that. And more than that, they are exactly what I envisioned when I painted them.

“Do you have a name for this one?”

“
Downfall.
”

She turns to me and flashes a bright smile. “I love this. It's very complex. These words. I'm assuming they are important.”

I nod.

“Do you want to tell me what they mean?”

“No.”

She extends her hand so we can switch paintings. Her face screws up. Finally she says, “This one feels as if it's about pain. A driving rain kind of pain. Relentless. Unyielding. I want to look away, but I can't. Because it draws me in. Is that right?”

My throat closes. I can barely get the word out. “Yes.”

“These are excellent. Do you have a title for the second one?”

“
Reign.
”

“Like rain from the sky or the other kind?”

“The other kind.”

“They're very powerful.”

“Thanks.”

“How would you say these compare to the ones you did of Leah?”

“I wouldn't.”

“Your art has changed. That's normal, considering.”

I look at my painting. My art
has
changed, but is it for the better?

“I mean, you could have gone darker with your art. You didn't. You got more connected to it. You got closer.”

There's part of me that believes this, that thought this before she even said it, but I've always got those doubts about my art. I mean, when you are so close to it, how can you really know? “It's true. Think about the Leah pictures. Besides the pink one, can you tell me about the others?”

“There was one with her wearing her skinny black jeans and Sean's jersey.”

“And what perspective was that painted from?”

“From the front.”

“And below or above?”

“She was sitting on the window seat in my room.”

“Where were you?”

“I was on the floor.”

“Why?”

“It's just how we set it up.”

“We?”

“Leah and me.”

“But I thought you were the artist.”

“I am… I was…” I squirm in my seat. All of a sudden, I'm feeling overwhelmed, remembering how I let her manipulate me. How I always let her decide.

“But this painting, the rose one, who set that one up?”

I look at it. “Nobody did.”

“You had to. You were the artist, right?”

“I didn't.” I stand and pick up the painting. “It just…came to me.”

“It came to you? Why? When you were painting it, were you worrying what people would think of it?”

“No.”

“Did you worry about what Leah would think when you were done painting her?”

“Yes.”

“All the pictures of her? Did you worry each time what she'd think?”

“Yes.”

“How about other paintings you did? Before Leah's. Did you worry what people, your art teacher, you parents, the judges at the contest, the other art students would think?”

“Yes.”

“But not these, right?”

“Right.”

“Because your art has changed. It's matured.”

Guilt invades me. Isn't it wrong to benefit from this? How can I get better because Leah died? I'm the one who gets to live. I'm the one who gets to paint. Why? I close my eyes.

“Your art is deepening. That's good. That helps you. But I think it's important to think about how you view your art and yourself.”

My head starts to pound. My hands go to it. The pain I tapped into when I painted these wants its payment.

“Think back to the first Leah painting. The pink one. Can you think of a word that describes Leah in that painting?”

Tears drip down my cheek. “Flawless. Leah was flawless.”

“Flawless. And you?”

“I don't know…”

“If she were flawless, then that makes you…”

“I don't know.”

“You do. If Leah was flawless, you were…”

“Not. Okay? You happy? I was not like her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Perfect. I wasn't perfect. Not like she was.” My face starts to heat. My breathing gets tight. I shift in my seat. I don't want to talk about Leah like this. Have Dr. Applegate dissect her.

Dr. Applegate softens her voice. “You think Leah was perfect?”

I stay silent. She can't make me testify against Leah. She can't.

“Allie, do you think Leah was perfect?”

“No. I guess not, okay?” I push the heel of my palm into my eye. “I mean, perfect people don't kill themselves, do they?”

“They don't?”

Leah wasn't perfect. She wasn't. But she was the best I had. And way better than I will ever be. Wasn't she?

“Allie?”

“No, perfect people don't kill themselves,” I say again.

“No, Allie, they don't. But to be fair to Leah, nobody's perfect. Even if that's how you painted her, she still wasn't. Do you know why you always compare yourself to her?”

I shake my head.

“I think you see yourself as reflections of each other.”

“I guess.”

“But it doesn't have to be like that. You both could be powerful. You could both be wrong. She doesn't have to be the way you painted her. It could be different.”

I sit silent. Is she right? Did I take make myself smaller just so Leah could shine more? Was that because Leah expected it? Or did I just paint myself that way? Isn't this what sisters did for each other?

“Tell me what you thought of the pact,” Dr. Applegate says. “What it meant to you.”

“I don't know.”

“Come on, Allie.”

I grit my teeth against the barrage of questions I know will come now that Dr. Applegate is in her rhythm. But part of me thinks it's time to do this. Or at least that I'm tired of having to keep it all in. “It was a promise.”

“A promise of what?”

“Like a safety net.”

“If it were a safety net, why don't you think Leah used it?”

I look out the window. A few leaves on the tree have already started to turn. My stomach twists. Everything changes. Everything. There's no stopping it.

“Allie, this isn't a rhetorical question. I need you to answer. Why don't you think Leah came to you about the pact?”

“Because she didn't trust me. Because I wasn't strong enough or good enough or just plain
enough
.”

Dr. Applegate shakes her head. “I'm pretty sure that's not it.”

I stay silent. Dr. Applegate can speculate all she likes, but how will I ever know the real answer? No one will. Leah took that secret with her.

“You keep telling me you're not depressed, and I agree—you're not. But Leah was. She told Dr. Gates that sometimes it felt like she was drowning, even though she wasn't in the water.”

I nod. That's true. I know it is. There were times when Leah would get so dark, no one could reach her. She'd hide away in her room until she was feeling better. I remember sitting, my back against the door, waiting. When I was little, I'd slip notes under for her, but I'd stopped that long before she killed herself because I knew when Leah was like that, you just had to wait it out.

“She said sometimes that the darkness was so heavy, she couldn't see a way out of it. That's why I think she did it. For some reason, whatever happened at the end, Leah didn't see a way for it to get better. She couldn't find her way out of her darkness, and she didn't tell you for two reasons.”

I lean forward, my hands on my knees. I know Dr. Applegate is guessing, but maybe she's on to something. Maybe, just maybe, she can help me with this. “What reasons?” I ask.

“One, she didn't want you to stop her. Two, she didn't want you to follow her.”

Her words light a fire inside me. Could she be right? Could it be that simple? I lean my head back and close my eyes. What I wouldn't give to know the truth.

“Okay, Allie, why don't you relax?”

I nod, too tired to fight her or her treatments. I let myself go. For once my mind doesn't seek out the memories. This time I go back to that happy place in my mind I went last time we did this exercise. The ocean. The colors. Cool and clean and beautiful. Me. Alone. Until I'm not. Leah finds me. I don't look for her, but she finds me anyway. And at first I don't really want to see her.

She's walking into the ocean, her hair curled at the ends like the mortician did for her funeral. Like she wore in the production of
Beauty and the Beast
.

I almost don't want her to go too deep into the water. I don't want her curls to be swallowed by the waves, but I don't say anything. I watch her walk all the way in, the water now almost up to her neck, her hair trailing in the sea. I think she's going to be mad at me for not bringing her back. I'm sure she's going to say something mean. I can't take that right now. If Leah is sharp with me, I'm going to shatter.

Instead, she reaches out for me. She looks soft, like she did in the pictures with John Strickland. “I'm sorry, Allie. For everything.” She starts to cry.

Her nails are perfect, the French manicure Dad sprung for so she would be perfect in her casket. Her silver ring shines on her delicate hand.

I point to it. “John's?” I ask.

She nods.

Leah bobs in the water in time to the slowly churning waves. I bob too. It's what you do when you're this far out. “I know you're mad, but I didn't want you to know how sick I was.”

“I wouldn't have cared.”

“But I would've. I was your big sister. I wanted you to think I was perfect.”

My mouth goes dry. “You said it wasn't Dad, but it was.”

“It wasn't only him. He was one of the reasons. He was going to be my way out. If I could live with him, I could go to Southside. The dance coach there, Colleen Dimarco, loved me. It would all be fine. I felt better than I had in days. The pressure lifted. You know?”

I nod.

“And I got all excited. You were going to the party with me. I wanted to make that night special for you. My baby sister was growing up. I thought you wanted that.”

“I did.” Lie.

“And we had a good day together, didn't we? We had fun. A great last day.”

“We got ready together,” I say.

“You wanted to go to the party that night,” Leah adds. “Because Max was out with someone. You didn't know who, but he was going on a date. Remember? And you had decided you were ready to do it, to show him you were ready, that you could be fun too.”

I'm dizzy. My ears are ringing. She's right. He came over just before I left, smelling like my favorite body spray: menthol and something spicy. I loved that smell. It made me want to press my body against his. That body spray made me want to act on feelings I always pretended weren't there. My face burns. He had put the cologne on for Emery.

Leah looked in the mirror, holding a blue minidress to her body. “Hey, what do you think about this one? You can wear the red one; it makes you look eighteen at least.”

I had taken the dress from her hands, mine shaking. Leah was trusting me with her clothes and her friends. She walked to her desk and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a crumpled- up napkin. She opened it. Inside were two little blue pills. She held them up.

“You might need a little help loosening up tonight. Take one now and then one right before, you know.” Leah smirked. “If you need.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat, the same size and shape as the pill I took from her. I needed some power. Max had taken all I had, and I couldn't embarrass Leah. She said the pills made her more fun. I figured if she could do it, I could. I remember. I wanted to be fun. Like Leah and Emery. Like the girls Max liked.

“Not bad,” she called as she held up her phone and took a picture. “You look sophisticated.”

I remember being so happy. Leah thought I looked good. Not baby-sister good. Sophisticated good.

“We got to the party, and right away you started drinking.” She continues, “I thought it was cool. That you'd be okay. You chose Jason, and he was all in. I told you to take it easy. I went to find Sean.”

I see it happen in my mind, like I'm there again. Jason flirting with me, handing me that frozen drink. I started to believe it was going to be okay. My mind got all loose. Jason leaned into me, his eyes focused just on me. On me. His hand played with the top of my dress.

“You're so pretty, Allie.”

I smiled and leaned in to kiss him. And it felt good. I remember I wanted to. Mostly. But I was scared too. So I drank some more. Sophisticated, fun girls don't chicken out. I had to do this.