ONE
Hayden
To Charlotte,
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
You died on a Wednesday. I remember it so clearly, like a movie I’ve watched so many times, I can recite the actors’ lines, even though I myself never needed to memorize them. It plays over in my head, sometimes, before I go to bed or when I’m alone with no one to distract me. Sometimes it surprises me when I remember, other times it doesn’t, because I know the movie is going to roll. Like the time I saw your sister in Wal-Mart with her boyfriend, and I made my mom leave because your sister reminded me so much of you. That time, and so many before and after it, I cried for hours as the movie rolled in my head—my story, your story.
It was just before first bell, and I could hear someone was calling my name. At first, it was distant, seeming almost as if I shouldn’t be able to hear it. Then, though, it was getting closer. Suddenly, it was the only thing I could hear.
I looked around in every direction, unsure of where the voice was coming from. The view from behind me made me feel somewhat like Moses parting the Red Sea. People were pulling away from the crowd, towards either wall of the hallway. Something was wrong, I knew it already, because running through the parting sea of people, was Jasmine. She was crying.
“Charlotte’s dead,” she told me, nearly tackling me to the ground in the middle of the hallway, grasping my shoulders. She was really crying, her voice cracking on the words as she shook me with what seemed like unintentional force. “Hayden, Charlotte’s dead.”
“What?” As I said this, the bell rang, but I stayed where I was, in the middle of the emptying hallway while Jasmine gripped my shoulders so hard her knuckles were turning white.
Approximately a million and one thoughts flew through my mind, some blurring together into incoherent phrases and words, like the little white word magnets that people make poems with on their kitchen appliances when they have too much time on their hands.
Charlotte. You, what happened to you? What was it that Jasmine said? Dead. Charlotte’s dead.
Holy. Shit.
“Jasmine!” The hallway had cleared out—it was just Jasmine and I, alone—it made everything seem so much louder. “Jasmine,” I said again, my voice coming out in a whisper. “What happened? What happened to her?”
“Hayden,” she said, her voice steady and calm, too calm. “Sit down.”
“What?” I snapped at her, giving her a look like she was crazy.
“Dammit, Hayden, sit down!” she insisted, pushing my shoulder towards the tile floor with her hand. She’d never been this impatient. I was afraid, afraid for you, afraid for Jasmine, afraid for me. So I sat down.
Jasmine sat down beside me, her expression softer, the intensity in her eyes draining. Her gaze was on the speckled white tile under her leg. She turned to me, taking a breath in.
“Charlotte killed herself.”
Instantly, all the blood in my face dropped, sinking down into my feet. It felt like it was all coming out of me, making me ice cold. I killed you. That was my first thought. I killed you.
Beside me, Jasmine was still looking at the floor, rubbing her finger over the smooth white tile. “Her mom called us this morning. My dad went over to see her. When he came back home, he said he watched her…”
“I always meant to.” Hot tears were sliding down my cheeks as I said this. Already, I was crying, and I didn’t know what you did, why you did it. But I did know, didn’t I? I did know why you committed suicide, and that’s why I said it.
“What are you talking about, Hayden? What did you always mean to do?” Jasmine asked, watching me, crumbling to pieces in the middle of the deserted hallway. It was like a dream, where I wanted to run but couldn’t, and didn’t know why. I knew I didn’t want to stay there, I knew I wanted to move, but my feet wouldn’t go, I couldn’t even stand up.
“I always meant to help her.” I brought my knees up, resting my head against them so I was staring at my thighs. “But I never did.”
“Hayden, there’s nothing you could’ve—”
“She’s dead.”
“My dad said when he got to her house her breathing was already—”
“She killed herself. It doesn’t matter. It ended. And it’s never going to change.”
I couldn’t let Jasmine finish. I couldn’t hear about how your breathing had slowed, then stopped, because I already knew that’s probably what happened when you died. I didn’t even want to know what happened anymore, what you did to end your own life. The guilt was swallowing me, encasing me, breaking me, just knowing that you’d done it.
* * * *
My sister, Elle, drove in from college the day of your wake. She came to see your brother, because they were friends when they were in high school, and she was taking me.
“Hayden,” she said, knocking on my bedroom door. She was ready to leave, and I could hear the heels of her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor in the hallway. “We should go now.”
Her voice was soft, like it had been her whole life, unless she was angry. I wanted to reply, tell her that, yes, I was coming in just one minute, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I wasn’t ready to leave. I wasn’t ready to see you like that.
“Hayden?” Elle said, again. I still didn’t answer. Instead, I gathered the black skirt Elle gave me into one hand, pulling it from the static of my black tights. Then, I sat down on my bed, kicking my shoes onto the floor. The heels hit each other as they fell, sending one to the left and one in front of my feet.
“Hayden, it’s time to go,” Elle announced from the other side of the door. She sounded like she was hiding a fair amount of impatience. If it hadn’t been the day of your wake, Elle would probably have blown up at me for not answering. “I’m going to have to leave without you, if you don’t hurry up.”
“Wait,” I called out, so suddenly I began to wonder if I had said it out loud or in my head. The sound rang back in my ears. I may not have been ready to see you, but then again, when would I ever truly be? “I—I’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” Elle replied. I could hear the clacking of her heels again, the sound becoming fainter as she walked farther down the hallway, towards the staircase that led down to our foyer.
It was almost nice to have Elle home, except that she had only come home because she heard what had happened to you. Before she had gone to college, Elle and I had been best friends. She was more than a little impatient, and I’d learned to deal with her. I annoyed the hell out of her, and she’d learned to deal with me. I guess we were still best friends, in a weird long distance talk-once-a-week-via-phone-with-bad-reception way, though.
One thing I liked about Elle was that she wasn’t the kind of person who would ask me why I was crying, especially when it was obvious. I didn’t realize how grateful I would be for this trait until we were a few blocks away from the funeral home where your wake was, and I started crying.
She didn’t make me talk about you, like everyone else wanted me to, because she wasn’t that kind of person, either. She didn’t ask if I wanted to go back home, because she knew the answer. I wanted to see you, one last time.
I had stopped crying when Elle pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. I watched her push the gear shift into Park, open the driver’s side door and step out. A few parking spaces over on the driver’s side, Shannon Piper was stepping one foot out of a little silver car driven by one of the basketball players. There were no cars between Elle’s and the one Shannon was stepping out of, and I watched as the basketball player—Will, I think—also stepped out, and walked around the car to meet her. He took her hand, and helped her up out of the car and onto the pavement in her stiletto heels.
Elle had walked around her own car by now, and tapped on the passenger side window with her knuckles. It made a rapping noise, which made me jump, my gaze shooting from Will, who now had an arm around Shannon’s shoulders, to my sister on the other side of the glass.
“Come on,” Elle said, her voice sounding morphed because of the window between us. “It’s time.”
I took a breath in and went to push the door open, only to realize that Elle had done so already. I set my right foot on the ground, let the breath I had been holding out, and set my left foot beside the right.
“Ready?” Elle questioned, as I used my hands which had been resting on the seat to push myself to a standing position.
I nodded. My throat felt as if it were knotting up, closing in on itself. I wouldn’t have been able to form words if I had to.
“It’ll be okay,” Elle told me. She patted my hand awkwardly. “I promise.”
I tried to keep in pace with my sister, following her heels clacking on the tar of the parking lot from her car to the square, one-floored building about one hundred yards away.
As Elle turned the doorknob on the side entrance to the funeral home, I felt like my internal organs were dancing. I was going to see you again. I was going to see you for the last time.
I stepped over the threshold, noting again how I had left the black heeled shoes Elle had given me on my bedroom floor, and had picked up my mother’s black ballet flat shoes at the last minute before leaving the house. I didn’t feel dressed up enough, sad enough, nervous enough—I didn’t feel enough in general—at least not enough for you.
The line procession for the wake curved around a corner. As it began to move, I could see the picture collages on easel stands, the pedestal holding the guest book. It was all for you, all of you. All these people, in front of me and my sister as well as stepping in the door behind us, and all the people sitting down in chairs in so much sadness, so much silence—they were all there for you.
The line continued to move. We turned the corner completely, walking past more easels, more pictures. So many faces, features, colors and details, all in those pictures. But I couldn’t keep my gaze on all those faces and features, because there you were. The deep mahogany coffin was open, surrounded by so many flowers you very well may have been in a garden. I could see your hands had been folded at your waist, your blonde hair splaying out around your head, making you look completely angelic. You were wearing a summer dress, printed in a bright floral, contrasting with the long woolen jackets and scarves worn by visitors.
The line moved again. The man in front of us had stood from the small prayer space before your casket. It was Elle’s and my turn to say our prayer for you. We knelt down, and I watched as she made the sign of the cross, folding her hands to rest on the wood in front of us, and closing her eyes. I followed her lead, copying her actions.
I wanted to say a good prayer, something that would make up for all the mistakes I had made in not helping you, not accepting you. In the mistake I made in barely even knowing you. But all I could do was peek through my almost-closed eyes at you, positioned to fit perfectly inside the dark mahogany wood, so flawless and still, and let my mind go blank.
The time passed so quickly, I questioned for a few seconds if it had actually happened. Elle stood up from her kneeling position, moving past me and on to expressing her condolences to your family. I followed her, once again just one step behind. Elle had already shook hands with your mother and sister by the time I had stood from my praying. As I took my first step towards your mother, Elle was hugging your brother. As soon as she pulled back from their embrace, tears began to roll down her cheeks. It was almost as if seeing your brother had broken her emotional dam, and everything had come flooding down at once. Her shoulders were shaking as your brother took her into another embrace, rubbing his hand on her lower back in slow circles. It seemed so backwards—she should’ve been the one consoling him, not the other way around.
“I’m sorry,” I saw her say to your brother, but I couldn’t hear it, because it was quiet and garbled by her sobbing. “I love you, Chase.”
“Are you alright, dear?” Quickly, I turned around, and found myself facing your mother. I had been shaking her hand for what seemed like an extensive amount of time.
“Oh! I’m…I’m sorry. For your loss, I’m really sorry,” I told her. I pulled my hand back. “I’m really sorry.”
Your mother gave me a small smile. “Thank you,” she said to me. “It’d mean a lot to her to know that you were here. Really.”
She said it like she knew exactly who I was, like I was actually making a difference by showing up. Maybe, to her, I really was.
I kept my eyes on my feet, watching them shuffle forward awkwardly towards your sister. When I looked up, I realized that we were at exact eye level with each other, despite the fact that I was three years older than she was.
For a few seconds, we exchanged awkward eye contact. She was very pretty, especially for being only thirteen. Reaching out, I took one of her fragile-looking hands in both of mine.
“I’m sorry, Adrienne,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. I hope everything’s okay.”
I looked down at my two hands, engulfing her small, ashen one, the sight something I never thought would happen.
The man standing behind me, sick of waiting for me to move on, put one of his big, rough looking hands on your sister’s shoulder, gave her a sad, slow nod, and walked around me, towards your brother. I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to do that at a wake, no matter how young a person is.
I dropped your sister’s hand, still looking at her, noticing the dark circles under her eyes, the way her mascara was clumping at the corners of them.
“Thank you, Hayden,” she said to me. “I wish it was.”
In my peripheral vision, I could see the man who had touched Adrienne’s shoulder standing beside your brother, watching him talk to Elle. Your brother was ignoring him, like he wasn’t even there.
“I’ll call you,” Elle was saying to your brother. “Maybe we could, get some coffee together sometime? Will you be home for break next week?”
Your brother nodded. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll talk to you then.”
“I love you, Chase,” Elle told him. She had been in love with your brother for most of high school, I knew, but this was different. I knew she wanted to be there for him. That’s the kind of person Elle was.
“I love you too,” your brother replied. He bent down and kissed her forehead the slightest bit, like he used to do when they were in high school.
“I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. I really am.” I watched her, slowly snaking back towards all those easels, all those pictures. I had almost forgotten how much she loved your brother.
I looked at him, obviously uncomfortable in a black suit and tie, his hair swept the wrong way, so it stuck up a little. His eyes were following my sister, as she made her way through the crowd of people, steadily walking in and out, to the door.
“I’m sorry, Chase,” I told him. Though, from the look in his eyes, I knew it hardly mattered. He was letting her go again, the only person who could make him stop hurting.
Elle.
