Suicide Club

by Rachel Heng

  “Come on, Fishy,” someone whined. “Hurry up. You’ve had your turn.”

  Lea passed Domino on, a sharp stab of loss prickling as the soft mass left her hands. She watched as her classmates cooed and stroked and cuddled. A tiny flame seemed to burn within her.

  * * *

  At recess Lea crept back into the empty classroom. She picked her way through errant backpacks strewn across aisles, chairs pushed back from their desks haphazardly, cardigans and scarves lying pooled on the floor.

  When she slid the door of the cage open, her movements were silent. Cradling Domino once more, she felt again how flexible his ribs were. A birdcage in a fairy tale, wrought of wispy, tarnished gold, curving gracefully around an invisible treasure.

  She felt the strength in her own small fingers, and she squeezed. Gently at first, as if testing the firmness of an orange. As Domino squirmed, the flame in her belly flared, purple and hot, and she pressed harder, harder still.

  He was still struggling when the bones snapped, his black beady eyes bulging like tadpoles. The blood ran hot and fast in her veins, a ball of white emotion expanding in her chest. She squeezed harder and harder, even after everything was loose and crunchy and Domino was still, even after her fingernails were tipped with red.

  Finally the heat subsided. Lea could hear her own breathing, the thump of blood in her ears. She could hear shouts and laughter from her classmates down the hall, where they sat in the cafeteria with their bowls of iron-enriched spinach and eggs. In a flash, Lea saw how Betty would cry, the rest of the class looking on in horror as she cradled the cold, stiff ball of fur in her arms. Maybe some of the others would cry too.

  She imagined owning up to it. Waving her rust-colored fingernails in Betty’s pretty freckled face. How Betty would stop crying, her porcelain eyes wide with fear. They’d stop calling Lea Fishy, fishy fish fish fish. The rest of the class—all secretly jealous of Betty with her tight golden curls and menagerie of furry living things—would cheer, rise up, and crown Lea their queen.

  A door slammed somewhere in the building. The heavy thump set Lea’s heart pounding again.

  There would be no cheers. She would be labeled a Potential Threat, like dark-eyed Dennis Zhang, who tripped a boy while playing tag one day. Despite the mandatory protective pads, the boy had managed to scratch his shin and his parents threatened to sue. Dennis Zhang disappeared. The whispers had it that he’d been transferred to a school for sub-100s, somewhere in the Outer Boroughs.

  Lea stroked Domino’s matted fur, trying to take in what she had done. He is dead, she repeated to herself. I did it. I made him into this cold and sticky thing. She waited. But there was nothing.

  The ceiling fans circled like birds of prey. Walking over to her desk, Lea pulled out a brown, neatly folded lunch bag from her backpack. Out went the kale chips and nutri-bars; in went Domino, head first.

  There was no one in the hallway. The beat of her heart seemed to echo down the empty passage. She felt sure that at any moment, a teacher or classmate would come out of hiding, fingers accusing, voices raising the alarm. Her sweaty hands gripped the paper bag more tightly.

  She passed like a ghost down the hallways, moisture gathering behind her knees, bangs clumping. The dumpster was out back. As she lifted the creaking lid, Lea wondered if she should say something, the way she’d seen murderers do in movies. He was a good rabbit, and always liked being cuddled, something like that. But the thought of his snuffly mouth and velvety fur kindled the same feeling as before, a strange knot of heat that made her want to kick and scream. She flung the bag above her head and into the dumpster.

  * * *

  Because she’d left the cage door open, everyone thought that Domino had escaped. All afternoon they combed the hallways and cupboards, crawling on hands and knees to peer under desks, calling his name as if a rabbit were capable of responding.

  Lea went along with it, nervously at first, sure that the deception showed on her face. But once she realized no one suspected anything other than poor Betty’s carelessness, Lea went about the charade boldly, calling louder than anyone and inspecting the back of the classroom so thoroughly that her knees turned black with dust.

  When her mother picked her up from school that day, Lea was in high spirits. She told her all about Domino and how mysteriously he’d disappeared, how furry and docile he’d been. She said she hoped he hadn’t been run over by a car and that he’d found a nice garden to live in, one full of lettuce and tomatoes. She asked her mother if rabbits went to heaven, like dogs. She talked and talked and talked, stopping only when, on the way to the car, they passed the dumpster.

  THIRTEEN

  Silk sleeves and skirts slipped through Anja’s fingers like water. They were named colors like Mink Gray, Iceberg Pink, Aurora Blue—the first sign that everything in that shop, in that mall, was far beyond what she could afford.

  The elegant bun sitting atop the salesgirl’s head wobbled as she trailed behind Anja, rearranging hangers as soon as her fingers left them. The salesgirl’s lips were pressed together in a horizontal line, her footsteps pert. Even her breathing seemed to exude disapproval.

  Anja didn’t take anything off the racks, content to run her hand through the flowing silks as she walked through the store. It was very relaxing, almost meditative. Even the wound-up presence of the salesgirl did nothing to disturb her peace.

  “Did you want to try anything on?” The salesgirl’s voice sounded like anything but an invitation. Still, she maintained a minimum level of courtesy, less out of professionalism and more out of respect for Anja’s shiny hair and supple skin. Despite the uncut hair that reached her waist, despite her worn trench coat, one button missing, it was impossible to mistake Anja for anything but a lifer.

  “Sure, why not?” Anja turned to face the girl.

  There was a pause. The salesgirl seemed to be waiting for something, one plucked eyebrow lifted.

  “What would you like to try?” she said finally.

  “Oh,” Anja said, turning back to the rack. “How about this one?”

  She pulled out a dress at random. The salesgirl winced as its lacy edge dragged across the plush carpet.

  “One of our best-selling models,” she said, quickly taking the dress from Anja, cradling its long skirt like a baby. “Champagne Peony,” she pronounced in a hushed tone.

  The salesgirl carried it with outstretched arms to the dressing room. Drawing back the heavy curtain to reveal a mirrored room, she hung the dress up on a gilded hook in the wall. She stroked it lightly, as if it were a pet.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said to Anja before drawing the curtain behind her.

  Anja undressed slowly, letting her clothes fall to the floor in a pile. Her mother would like the dress, she thought, fingering the smooth cold fabric. It shimmered under the warm light. It wasn’t the kind of thing Anja wore. This dress was far too beautiful.

  Still, she slipped it on. It was so soft against her fingers that she wanted to feel it on her skin. The blushing fabric fell in waves around her, fluid as milk. Anja turned toward the mirror, sticking one leg forward in a mocking imitation of what she’d always seen her mother do when trying on dresses before a performance.

  But when she saw herself in the mirror, something began welling up inside her. Anja found herself smoothing out wrinkles in the fabric with cold fingers, hiking her hair up in a makeshift updo. Strands of hair fell about her face, dark gold in the soft, stage-managed changing room light.

  She saw the tears in the mirror before she felt them on her face. They spilled out of her, hot and fast. Anja didn’t sink to the ground or make a noise, she didn’t let her face fall into her hands. She stood there, holding her hair up, cheeks shining with silent tears.

  “Everything all right?” The salesgirl’s prim voice cut through the thick air in the dressing room like a knife.

  Anja let go of her hair.

  “Fine,” she said. “Very pretty. Actually, can you
bring in something in a different color? Blue, or gray maybe?”

  “Of course.”

  A minute later, the salesgirl’s arm poked through the curtain, hanger in hand. The new dress was similar in cut, but the color of the sky. “Crepuscular Teal,” she announced.

  Anja wiped away her tears and changed into the blue dress. Now her gaze was critical, businesslike. It would be her first public appearance. She didn’t doubt that word had already gotten out, but this was to be the official announcement, the full shindig. There would be people, important people. There would be a band. She might perform too.

  This dress wouldn’t work either. The blue flattened her skin tone, made her look sickly. She didn’t need to be beautiful, but she had to be presentable, she had to command respect. It was a big role she was stepping into, after all.

  “No,” she called out. “Can you bring me a few more?”

  “Of course.” She could almost hear the salesgirl’s lips tightening.

  Countless dresses later, Anja cast her gaze back to the first she’d tried on, which she’d hung up rather than tossing it onto the colorful pile on the ground. With its loose cowl neckline, hip-skimming shape, and low back, it was the phantom of another dress, one that as a child Anja had seen her mother carefully shake out before each performance.

  A flutter of voices came from outside the changing room, cooing and gasping and giggling. Dresses rustled, and the salesgirl could be heard naming more colors (“Sea Mist,” “Before Dawn,” “Rose Silver”).

  Anja pulled the gold dress off the hanger and into her backpack. Balled up like that it was nothing more a puff of fabric. Slinging the backpack across one shoulder, Anja gathered up the rest of the dresses in one messy pile that obscured most of her face and walked briskly out into the shop.

  The salesgirl was now surrounded by a tittering group of coiffed, perfumed ladies. She turned to Anja with a look of simultaneous annoyance and relief.

  “All done? Found anything you liked? No? Pity.” She gestured toward the counter. “Could you just put them there, please? Lovely, thank you, hope to see you again soon.”

  And then she turned back to the group of women with a smile far more generous than she had offered to Anja before, ushering them toward the dressing room.

  “Sea Mist After Dawn, now that’s a popular bridesmaids’ choice…”

  * * *

  The diner where Anja worked was a bright, boisterous place, filled with movement and shouting and the smell of stale oil. She kept her distance from the rest of the staff, content to immerse herself in the carrying of steaming plates and metal jugs, the mopping of sticky floors and wiping of crusty tabletops. All the others who worked there respected Anja’s silence, automatically excluding her from the daily flow of gossip and banter, defaulting to a detached professionalism whenever they had to speak to her.

  All except Branko. Branko was an Outer Boroughs native whose knotted forearms were snaked with veins and who wore undershirts even in winter. He seemed to take her silence personally, and had made it his mission to harangue her out of it. Every day he scolded and flirted alternately, making jokes about her perfect posture and her lilting intonation. He made up songs about her, spent three consecutive days guessing where she was from, brought her wilted flowers.

  Usually Anja smiled and bore it. But the night before she’d been thinking about the Club, had been unable to sleep. The gold dress was hung up behind the apartment door, catching the reflected headlights of passing cars in the street.

  So that morning at the diner, when Branko called her “babe” for the fifth time, asked her to ditch this shift and join him for a party of their own, something inside her snapped. “I’d love to,” she said. “But I have a dying mother to get home to.”

  “Don’t we all, babe,” he stuttered. “That’s life, isn’t it?” But his face was a deep purple. He turned and walked the other end of the diner, a handful of dirty cutlery in one drooping hand.

  He tiptoed around her all day. The lewd jokes stopped. All jokes stopped. She felt the atmosphere in the diner shift, become heavy. The other staff averted their eyes, throwing themselves into the demands of the lunchtime crowd.

  Anja had been twelve when her father died. The questions from neighbors, teachers, people at the grocery store were endless. What was her favorite memory of him? Had they traveled much together? Did he take his morning coffee black or white? The questions had made her cry. She remembered breaking down in public places, convulsing in embarrassing sobs. She had felt aggrieved, attacked even. It seemed a cruel thing to do to a twelve-year-old girl who had just lost her father.

  But here, in this country, where there was only silence around death, Anja finally understood the purpose of those questions. Back home they would have asked about her mother, kind yet direct. They would have posed questions about her illness, bedsores, siblings, favorite food, all unabashedly. Perhaps they would have made Anja cry. But at least her mother would exist, would be a human being once again. She would be more than an inconvenient body to hide or handle, more than a statistic warning against the dangers of black-market extensions, more than Anja’s responsibility, Anja’s burden, Anja’s life.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, Anja asked Branko if he could give her a lift to the ferry terminal.

  “Sure, of course,” he mumbled, still not meeting her gaze.

  She got into the car. Branko started the engine, shifting gears with rough ease.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked, looking around. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been in a driver-controlled car. These days, only eccentric hobbyists or men like Branko owned them anymore. They were relics from a different time, carefully maintained over the years.

  “Had it since I was a teenager,” he said gruffly. “Antique, I guess you could say.”

  “Is it quite valuable, then?” she asked, looking doubtfully at the balding seats and scratched windscreen.

  “Who knows. Could probably sell it in the Markets, they’ve got a big vehicle section. But who’d buy it? You like R&B?” he said. He pressed a button on the panel in front of him and music jerked through the speakers.

  “No, not really,” Anja said.

  “So what do you like?” He kept switching stations. Most of it was that terrible mandolin and ukelele strumming that people now called music.

  “My mother is being kept alive by a heart replacement that won’t stop for another fifty years,” Anja said.

  Branko’s fingers stopped moving. An upbeat pop song came on.

  “I thought you said she was dying.”

  “She is. I mean, she should be.”

  He fiddled with the control panel. “Your mother’s not really dying, then,” he said.

  “Of course she is.” Anja’s eyes flashed.

  “My brother had a heart attack, five years ago. He was forty-three. I never had the chance to say goodbye. His eight-year-old daughter lives with me now. She looks just like him.”

  “Oh,” Anja said. “I’m sorry.”

  It had never occurred to her before that Branko, and probably everyone else who worked at the diner, was a sub-100, as the Americans called them. She’d never thought before what that meant, what that must be like in a place like this. She wanted to tell him that back home, in her town, there was no such thing as a sub-100, but she didn’t know how to say it without sounding pitying or patronizing.

  “What kind of music did he like?” she asked.

  He paused. Then, reaching out, he turned off the radio.

  “Old stuff. R&B, hip-hop, drum and bass.”

  Anja smiled politely.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Branko said. “Man, Milan would flip out if he were here right now. He’d talk your ear off for like, five hours. It would become his thing, his personal mission, to educate you. Trust me, you’re lucky he’s not here.”

  “Is that his name? Milan?”

  “Yeah. Milan.”


  She watched the dark streets roll past. Scattered among the homogeneous apartment blocks were low houses, sandwiched in on either side by towering concrete. Once, she had heard, Staten Island had been all houses like that. Surrounded by water, it would not have felt too different from home, she imagined.

  “So, what’s your mother like?”

  “She was an opera singer. That’s why we came here. She sang at Carnegie Hall.”

  Branko’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Carnegie Hall? That’s a big deal, right? So she’s some kind of celebrity.”

  “Some kind, yes.”

  He turned the radio back on. Baby, you should have come over, a deep voice crooned.

  “So what’s the daughter of a famous opera singer doing waiting tables at New York’s finest eatery?” Branko grinned.

  “She doesn’t sing anymore.”

  His smile faded. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She had some replacements. Now she’s almost a hundred and fifty, things are breaking down, but she can’t, you know, die.”

  “You’re a lifer,” he said, turning to look at her as if they’d just met. He squinted in the dark, as if trying to make out the telltale signs on her face. “How old are you?”

  “Just over a hundred.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I know. I think that all the time.”

  “Why? I mean, that seems strange. All the lifers I’ve met seem to think, you know, we’re the fucked-up ones. Not them. We’re the damaged goods.”

  Anja laughed. “Where I’m from, we’re all damaged goods.”

  “And where’s that?” he asked. There was no mockery in his tone now.

  “Sweden.” The word escaped her like a sigh.

  “Sweden, right. Winter, pancakes, universal healthcare. Why’d you leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Anja said.

  Baby, won’t you come over. Branko stopped the car. “Well, here we are,” he said.

  They were pulled up by the terminal. Ahead of them, the lights of Manhattan and Brooklyn twinkled like wildfire, sending specks of gold dancing across the dark water. Somewhere in that forest of buildings was the room she shared with her mother, that damp, silent room. Even as she sat there with Branko, the sharp beauty of the night sky spread out before them, Anja felt the walls of the apartment closing in.