This Much Is True (2 page)

“Need. Help,” I say to the stranger who carries me.

We run—this stranger and me.
He
runs
. His baseball jacket and jeans are already soaked by the heavy rain. His dark black hair is plastered against one side of his face. He wears a Stanford Cardinal baseball cap backward at a jaunty, cool-guy angle. I keep thinking his dry-cleaning bill is going to be astronomical in order to get all that blood out of his clothes.

“I was driving. We were arguing. It’s become our favorite pastime. We argue over Rob Thorn and my overuse of the word
fuck
all the time.”

He looks down at me in surprise. Then, he just looks sad. I start to ask him why but then there’s a thundering explosion from right behind us. He shields my face and runs faster. After a few moments more, he automatically turns, still holding me in his arms. The two of us helplessly watch this raging inferno engulf what’s left of my car as well as the black SUV forever welded to it. The flames rise high into the air. There are the faintest screams for a few precious seconds, and the gathering crowd cries out in this unified song of terror. I focus on those screams, despite the hypnotic chorus all around. “My sister. She’s an angel,” I say in this toneless voice I don’t really recognize as the screams die away. I point to my car—the raging inferno that was my car. My wrist dangles at an odd angle and there’s so much blood.
It’s everywhere.
“My sister.”

“Oh God. No,” the stranger says.

“There is no God, Elvis,” I whisper.

And then there’s nothing. Mercifully, the blackness takes me.

Months later, I still hear Holly’s screams in my head in just about every moment I’m awake. No need to write horror; I live it.

* * * *

CHAPTER TWO

Linc ~ There was this girl

“
T
here was this girl
.
She would have been brought in a few hours ago? She was in a car accident with her sister. Her sister…she didn’t…make it.”

I swallow hard as I’m all too familiar with how to damp down this kind of painful loss for myself, even though empathy attempts to wrestle with me now. I’m still shaken by what transpired on the 101 just three hours ago. It was horrific for everyone there but especially for the girl I swooped up in my arms and ran away with from the inferno. The image of her beautiful devastated face and haunting emerald green eyes stay with me.

The woman behind the information desk has this long mane of silver hair that’s gathered up in this huge gold clip and neatly pulled back from her surprisingly unlined face. I notice the fashionable style because my mom used to wear her hair that way, whenever my mom had a big interview with one of the entertainment shows or a big spread with Harper’s or Vogue. Cara Sanderson Presley said it made her feel young and fresh and put together. This woman looks like the same kind of regal queen as my mother as she sits there behind this huge computer monitor that makes it difficult to fully see her. This lady stares at me with her mouth half-open, as if she’s trying to place me but isn’t quite sure yet.

For my part, I pull my baseball cap forward because the last thing I need is someone to recognize me, a
lthough that might help with the situation.
Seconds later, I decide to take off my cap and hold it in my hands and give her my best
I-need-your-help
look, complete with a charming smile. “There’s this girl. She has raven-black hair; well, it’s more the color of dark ground espresso, I guess. It’s long? She was in a car accident about three hours ago. And I was just wondering…”

“We can’t give out information about our patients, young man. And aren’t you that baseball player? The one the major leagues are clamoring to sign? Baseball pitcher. What’s your name? A President’s name. Something Presley. I remember it because I remember it was Elvis’s last name. The singer? Surely you know his songs. Young people these days not remembering Elvis Presley is just a crime. We watch American Idol sometimes, and I keep hoping one year they’ll feature his songs because if you really want to know who could sing and dance—well, it had to be Elvis Presley. Well, it’s a good way to remember your last name in any case. I’m sure you get that all the time.”

“All the time.”

“My husband would be thrilled at meeting you. I am, too, of course, but…well, I’m not much for baseball anymore.” She sighs. “We used to go all the time, but now it’s just so darned expensive. Our son will splurge for tickets every once in a while, and he takes
Dickie—
that’s my husband Richard, actually; but everyone’s called him Dickie since…well, since we met in the eleventh grade fifty years ago.” Her cheeks are flushed, and even her scalp that peaks through her thinning silver hair is tinged a faint pink.

I swoop in when she gives me a chance to speak. “My name is Lincoln Presley. Yes, I’m actually playing on the Stanford Cardinal baseball team again this year. First game next week. Now it’s practice pretty much all the time.”

“Oh. Well, good luck—although I personally think you should stay in school.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll finish up at Stanford this June. And the sports reporters are covering the stuff with major-league baseball’s interest in me. I can’t really comment about that. My publicist would have my head if I did.” Kimberley would be so proud. I actually try to smile. “My dad’s Davis Presley. He played for the Giants. Maybe your husband remembers him.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. Your father is Davis Presley? Then your mom was Cara Sanderson? I remember when she up and married Davis Presley. I loved her films. I’m so sorry she died.”

She makes this sympathetic clucking sound while I hold my breath and strive for composure by hanging my head to hide my face before it betrays all these emotions that I don’t usually give into when people mention my mom.

“I don’t…I don’t talk about my mom. I’m sorry.”

There’s this awkward silence. She folds her hands into her lap and mumbles an apology and manages to look disappointed at the same time.
In me?

I’m a little taken aback that even this woman demands I talk about my mother.
I have to tell myself to forget it, even though I feel bad for a brief moment like I always do. I let the moment pass because, even though it’s been eight years, I still hold on tight to the notion that I don’t talk about my mom or my brother Elliott to
anyone,
least of all a stranger. My feelings about their loss are mine, and I don’t tell anyone how I feel about that. I sigh deeply and start again. “I’m looking for this girl. There was this girl. She was in a car accident, and I was just wondering if you had any way of looking up her information. I’d like to know if she’s okay. Her sister…” My voice shakes. The woman’s blue eyes alight on mine. She looks sympathetic again. “Her sister didn’t make it. I didn’t get her name.”

“Mr. Presley, I’d like to help you—I
really
would—but I can’t give out information about the patients.”

“What’s the information desk for, then?” I ask gently and flash her one of my most charming smiles as a last-ditch effort to disarm her enough to help me anyway.

“Oh, you know.” She gets this little smile. “We tell people how to find their way around. And when people
know
the patient’s name, we look up the room number for them and direct them from there. That kind of thing. I’m just a volunteer three days a week. It helps pass the time.”

“I’m sure it does.” I sigh again and fidget with the baseball cap in my hand.

The woman eyes me closer. “Were you there at the accident? It sounds like it was awful. It’s all over the news, and that girl—the other twin—she was too young to die such a horrible death. How sad. I just feel so sorry for the family. He’s one of the best…here.” Her eyes get teary. “But there was just nothing he could do. It was too late for his daughter.” She studies me for a few long seconds, clearly aware of the small tidbit of information she’s just given to me. “You really need to get the blood of out your clothes before it completely dries; otherwise, it will never come out. She’s not going to want to see you like this. You’ll scare her and remind her of the terrible tragedy she’s just been through. Poor girl.”

“I don’t think I’ll be wearing these again.”

“Why don’t you sign for a nice bouquet of flowers with the gift shop? I can make sure they get delivered. I can’t give you the room number, but I can deliver it after you leave.”

This seems the best I’ll be able to do. Charm isn’t working today, and my inexplicable quest for pursuing this whole thing begins to weigh upon me. There’s nothing I could have done. I did all I could, and clearly it wasn’t nearly enough. I push off the counter and head toward the gift shop. Within minutes, I pick out white roses and baby’s breath, and a nice little blue and white vase that I think my mother would have liked. I add a small teddy bear to my purchase as an afterthought once I reach the counter. I manage to spend a little over $120 on a girl whose name I don’t know and probably never will in less than ten minutes. And it still feels like it’s not nearly enough. But I have to do something. I lay out my Visa card, and the cashier runs it through with a slightly dazed smile.

Ten minutes later, I’m placing a nice little cardboard box containing the vase of flowers complete with a white ribbon tied around it—because pink seemed inappropriate, and red seemed too morbid—and the little teddy bear tucked in next to it back on Mrs. Trinity’s desk. Times ahead were going to be rough for this girl, and giving her some flowers is the least I can do.

Mrs. Trinity beams at me. Women really do like it when you do exactly what they’ve told you to do. It never ceases to amaze me even under these surreal circumstances.

I can’t even explain why I’m here. Why I felt compelled to check three hospitals in the general vicinity of San Francisco and basically got the same answers from the same kind of helpful women at each information desk I went to. This is the first one who suggested the flowers, so I know I am, at least, in the right place this time.

I flash her a little smile and give her a slight wave, and she nods with approval at my gifts. “She’ll be better tomorrow. Tonight, she’s just resting. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up and wonder where her sister is for a few minutes before she remembers.” The woman’s lips tremble as she says this. “It’s very kind of you to do this. I must say, I’m impressed. Now, if you just stay in school, Mr. Presley, and finish up at Stanford before you chase the money and that huge contract for baseball, you’ll really make me and your wonderful mother in Heaven both proud.”

Audacious.
My smile falters a little because she’s mentioned my mom again and Heaven in the same sentence.

She waves her index finger at me. “Get those clothes washed. I’ll be here again tomorrow. Look for me then, and maybe she’ll be well enough to ask me about the flowers and who sent them, and I’ll tell her. Oh, you need to sign the card.”

She slides the little white card that the cashier placed in with the flowers over to me.
Thinking of You
is printed in black script across the top of the card. I’m not sure it’s the best thing to say, but it’s better than the other card choice that said
With Sympathy
.

I hate those cards.

I write:

Thinking of you. This much is true,

Elvis

For some reason, the anonymity with the name Elvis seems appropriate. She probably won’t even remember that she called me by that name at the accident. I can’t be here tomorrow. I won’t be here tomorrow. I’ll be on my way to L.A. to see my dad. I don’t volunteer this bit of news to Mrs. Trinity because, for some reason, providing her with that easy excuse and garnering her general disapproval is too much. Truthfully, the idea of seeing the girl from the accident again scares the hell out of me because there was something about her that captivated me at a soul level. Somehow, I think this woman would pick up on that. The truth is this: I can’t afford any kind of distraction, not even for the beautiful broken girl with the amazing green eyes and long dark hair lying in a bed somewhere in this hospital.

My one and only focus is baseball. That’s the way it’s been for almost ten years, and every call from my dad about the upcoming season and major league baseball’s June draft serve as constant reminders of that singular focus and commitment to this one and only thing allowed in my life—baseball.

* * * *

CHAPTER THREE

Tally ~ The air is different

T
he air is different. I cannot breathe, and a part of me doesn’t really want to anymore. We spent the first seventeen years of our lives together and shared everything from our looks to our clothes to our innermost thoughts.

But then, one day, it was over.

And no one prepares you for that.

No one
.

* * *

The church where the funeral was held had been packed. And now, at the cemetery, the entire student body of Palo Alto High School (Paly to the initiated) has come. It’s a chilly day—this third Saturday in February. Even the promise of spring has made an auspicious retreat. The wind blows off San Francisco Bay as if in conspired commemoration to coincide and dominate the funeral of one Holly Elizabeth Landon. This fierce wind is both cruel and cold; it sears the skin. Its own grief is palpable and felt to the very bone of all the mourners who attend this last event for Holly. God has let there be sun and blue sky; but few bother to look up. No. Most are caught in the foggy haze of nothingness and left to wonder how this kind of tragedy could happen to someone so young and so full of life.

How can she be gone forever?

I feel Holly’s loss at such a potent level that my mother has slipped me another one of her Valium. Yes. Pills at regular intervals have been dispensed to keep me functioning among the living. For once, my mother and I agree that pills are the only thing that can potentially save us.

And, for once, I do as I’m told.

I swallow this. I drink that. I wear this. I stand here. I do this. I say that. Rote memorization serves me well in these dark days.

If Holly were here, I would have suggested sneaking away by now. I would have proffered up a pack of my favorite cigarettes, while Holly would have waxed on about the hazards of smoking between every toke she took with me. The thought makes me almost laugh, and I dully acknowledge its inappropriateness at my sister’s funeral, even as a fresh round of heartbreak surges across my mid-section and threatens to tear me in half.

I am only half a person now. My better half lies in a casket slightly suspended aboveground, while everyone awaits my reaction and takes turns saying something meaningful about her. I’ve declined to participate in this social commemoration of the already clearly dead in this way.

What a debacle. What a sham.

They do it for themselves—to cleanse themselves in some way—for not being able to do anything to save her in the first place or bring her back from the dead now.

Ignoring the swirling paranoia that flows freely with all eyes upon me—the remaining twin—I slyly glance sideways at Marla.

“Are you okay?” she whispers in that sympathetic all-knowing way of hers.

I focus on her long enough to slightly move my head up and down in answer. Marla is my best friend. Always has been. The three of us had been inseparable even though Marla was more like me—edgy, rebellious, and competitive. Marla loved my sister Holly as much as I did; however, she had always been closer to me. Holly knew this. She accepted it. She loved us both. I close my eyes and sway, remembering when Holly first noticed this. “Marla likes me well enough, but she
loves
you. You have some kind of mind meld thing going with each other. That’s okay. I love you both.” I remember not answering her, just giving her a nonchalant shrug as acquiescence and recalling her gap-toothed grin. I open my eyes and stare at the black-clad crowd. We must have been seven or so when Holly said this.
She always knew
.

Now, I stand here gazing out at Holly’s white casket and curse the sun, the blue sky, God, fire, rain, black SUVs of any kind, and Rob Thorn. The last one stands forlorn in a far corner. He’s dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit.

He hasn’t said a word. We share in this oppressive silence, but that’s all I’ll give him.

I glare in his general direction and crazily blame him for this catastrophic event that has upended and changed my life forever. If he hadn’t insisted upon Holly coming over to prove her fucking love to him; none of this would have happened. If it hadn’t been raining. If it hadn’t been Valentine’s Day; but a different day. If I hadn’t just filled up the gas tank of my old Mercedes sedan. If God had cared at all about Holly and me, none of this would have happened.

A sheen of wetness shines on Rob’s face. It takes me another full minute to realize he’s crying.

Go ahead and cry, you bastard. You did this.

Why did she have to love you? Why?

We all want to know the answer to that.

From some faraway place in my mind, I calculate the ineffectiveness of the Valium against grief and make a promise to myself to take another as soon as we return from the cemetery.

* * *

The turnout is grand. Spectacular.

I stare at the crowd in fascination. My drugged state makes me feel loopy and ungrounded. I am like a helium balloon all set to float up and away just as soon as they release me. My parents stand on either side of me and hold onto my hands effectively holding me down. This is how I am able to stay here—tethered to them both in my newest role as the dutiful daughter, however incongruent that might be, instead of floating up and away to Holly in heaven. The brilliant daughter? The perfect one has gotten away. The good one? She’s been incinerated into obliteration. All they’re left with is me—the rebellious one—and Tommy.
At eight years old, my little brother understands less of all of this than I do. But I can feel his fear—in losing Holly. Everyone loved Holly best. And now there’s just me—the lesser part of the twin set—this prize of little consolation. What a disappointment for us all.

And no matter what these well-wishers and the priest will insist upon saying—in concerted shrill, I might add—just know that telling me that Holly lives on in our hearts doesn’t resonate as true with me because, in my heart, I can’t feel anything. There’s nothing there. It’s empty.
I’m empty.
I can’t feel her there. Not yet. A big part of me wonders whether I will ever feel my twin again. This thought alone just about breaks me.

A part of me is now missing. I fear its permanence. I am only half of a person without Holly
.
Can half of a person survive?

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
The priest’s words mill their way into my head poking at me like shards of broken glass, effectively cutting away at my psyche with every sweetly bestowed utterance. A lone tear rolls down my face but my parents clasp my hands so tight from each side that I can’t even reach up to wipe it away. I can’t even cry properly. And I can’t feel Holly. That terrifies me most of all.

* * *

It’s been sixty-four days to the day. I still wear a cast on my wrist and although my ribs are almost healed they still ache with too much movement.
I ignore the pain—all of it
. Instead, I rise early before I hear the stirring of my mom and dad or Tommy. My parents were up late, whispering in that quiet way of theirs that’s been prevalent since Holly’s death. Last night, I heard my mom’s muffled cries again and my dad’s gentle tone as he tried to soothe her.

Now, I shiver at the memory as I don leotard and tights and pull on a pair of cast-off navy sweats that Holly left in my room all those days ago. The faint smell of her assails my senses. I start to shake, wipe at my eyes, and gasp for breath. Grief arrives in such unexpected ways and moments. I can’t decipher if it’s the remembering that is more painful or if the incessant worry of not remembering everything about her that might be worse.

One of my new greatest fears these days?
That I’ll forget what she looks like, unless I check a mirror. Desperate to escape the morbidity of home life, I’ve decided to embrace my normal routine again for a Saturday—dance class. I run a comb through my hair and tug at it hard with my good hand and hope to at least re-channel some of the pain when I think of Holly and carefully re-wrap my three broken ribs with the heavy ace bandage my dad got from the hospital staff.

After a few minutes, I put my hair up in a familiar ponytail, but I don’t bother with the painstaking Bobby pins to clasp up the strays.
Screw Madame Tremblay.
I’m not pinning my hair back the way my ballet teacher will insist upon as soon as she sees me. Today I just want to dance.
Forget the hair.
I grab my ballet bag that contains two pairs of shoes and an extra leotard and retreat from the bedroom without looking back. Reminders of Holly are everywhere. A silver hair band she liked—that she must have cast off in one of those last days—remains on the hall table like a permanent memento. Her favorite lipstick still sits in the brass key tray by the foyer. A stack of sympathy cards are rubber-banded together there, too; but no one among us is brave enough to open them and read them.

The house remains still, even as I noisily take the stairs two at a time. Intent on escaping this tomb for the majority of the day, I stop only long enough to write on the message board: “Saturday 4/18 Gone to class. Then to Marla’s. Back at 6:00 p.m. or so. T.”

This is probably the most direct communication the three of us have had since the accident. Holly would think it is funny that she died on Valentine’s Day. She would laugh at the thought of haunting all of us in this way, as the colors—red, pink, and white—and valentines and flowers and happiness and love and, basically, anything good left in the world serve as constant reminders of her loss. I try to conjure up her face or even the faint echo of her laugh, but I can’t feel her. That scares me even more. I could always feel Holly. Now, I can’t feel anything.

I shake myself from this sad reverie. I’m still holding the dry-erase marker in mid-air although the note is finished. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here. Time stands still like that every so often. I cannot explain it, and I’ve quit trying. A glance at my watch tells me I’m running ten minutes behind now.

My stomach growls and I temper its excitement with a glass of water and a few vitamins.
Breakfast is served.
I can count on one hand the things I’ve eaten in the past few months.
Since.
Normally, my diet regimen is closely monitored after the bout with an eating disorder just last year, but since a decade of sorrow has moved in permanently on all of us, thoughts of what Tally has or hasn’t eaten no longer registers with importance of any kind for any of us. Plus, I’ve judiciously erased all the voice mails from my counselor who I’m supposed to be seeing every week. The idea of discussing my eating disorder carries no significant weight in my psyche any longer and seems to have slipped my parents’ minds as well.

Grief counseling prevails these days. At least, there is a discussion of this. Yet, even the medical doctor among us—
my father
—doesn’t have the stomach for a single session. My mother will only go if my father attends. My father will only go if I attend. No one wants to even consider Tommy attending since he remains the most normal among us these days. We should all take cues from the eight-year-old. My mother won’t go. So, the circle begins and ends there. And, there are no grief counseling sessions for the Landon family. We are in this implied standoff, and we all wallow in the loss of Holly. None of us can really breathe, though not one of us will openly admit this to anyone else, least of all, ourselves.

* * *

The bus ride gets me to the dance studio a miraculous eight minutes early. I quietly slip inside and discover Allaire Tremblay dancing alone. She dances to Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
from Act II, seemingly unaware that class is scheduled to start soon. She’s oblivious to her captivated audience of one, unaware that her star student—the silent voyeur—watches.
Me
.

Her legs move freely, so sinewy and taunt. Only her face belies her youth, although she gracefully moves across the floor with such enviable confidence and fluidity that she remains unsurpassed as the best dancer I’ve ever seen. She would seem to be a girl of twenty, not a woman approaching forty. With angst and fascination, I gaze at her from behind the marble pillar at the far end just out of sight of the gigantic mirrors that grace all four walls of the dance studio and normally provide Allaire Tremblay with an uncanny view of all that goes on in her renowned dance studio. The music echoes and seemingly pulses with her movements. Tremblay continues to perform at a high level. She artfully executes the most complicated steps in this pivotal scene with enviable ease. She is not so much a part of the dance as the epitome of it, serving as the very definition of both perfection and beauty. Her mastery of the intricate movements from the strength of her leg as it lifts into a perfect arabesque to the endless execution of the tortuous foutes is not lost on me. Taxing, difficult. Tremblay makes it look easy. Envy washes over me as if perfectly timed to coincide with the knowable sadness that still follows me around like a chronic flu.

Will I ever be as good as Tremblay?
Admiration and hate for the accomplished principal ballerina course through me at an astonishing rate as if these two feelings have been synchronized with my heart beat.

Even as a teacher, Tremblay’s demand for perfection prevails. The woman has zero tolerance for laziness, tardiness, or absence—no matter how profound, no matter how gut-wrenching, no matter how devastating. She expects and demands her students to be here.

And, I’ve been gone for nine weeks.

Even as I entered the premises, I experienced a good dose of trepidation that has now developed into downright palpable fear as to what she will say to me when she sees me. Tremblay expects her students to be ready to go at precisely nine in the morning on weekends and four in the afternoon three times a week, at a minimum. Seven days a week, if you’re serious.

I have been serious for the past seven years, up until two months ago.

I’m almost catatonic—suddenly impaled by certain grief and this appreciable unease at having displeased her with my continual absence these past weeks—these now threaten to overtake my weakened psyche. Apprehension tears through me but a small part of me still besieged by the endless sorrow is prepared to do ferocious battle with the unexpected cold front that is so clearly Allaire Tremblay. This numb part of me that has almost brought me to my knees even now, on this day, just another day like yesterday, and the day before that one, which always has me silently asking:
Why am I still here?
As if anyone would answer or know of one possible reason for this.

Holly is dead
. The thought assails me yet again.

I’m stolen from the respite of this almost dreamlike state in watching Tremblay’s impromptu performance and plunged into harsh reality by grief again. It feels like a punch to the gut. Well, what I imagine that would feel like. The assailant is grief. The aggressor is fear. A double dose. Only the pillar I still hide behind provides me with solace. I tightly grip the cold marble and lean further into it, suddenly engulfed in this strange fervent hope of finding some kind of relief from all of it for a just a little while longer.