by Nyla Ditson
“The wind storm’s going to continue until Monday,” Sebastian said.
I tugged at my black overnight bag nestled on the top of my closet. “I like how you don’t say it’s supposed to be windy, just that it will be.” After I gave the bag a hard yank, purses poured down on me from the closet. Yelping, I covered my head.
Sebastian picked up my overnight bag and handed it to me. “I should’ve said it was going to be raining purses and scarves.”
“Funny.”
Taking Sebastian’s words to heart, I ignored the warm weather section of my closet and placed just jeans, my two sweaters and a few layering t-shirts inside my bag. The weekend was still four days away but I figured I’d pack early.
“We never got a chance to talk last night, Celeste.”
Opening my black dresser drawer, I took out my pyjamas. “Yes, we did.”
“Not about everything I wanted to.”
Leaving the room to fetch my toiletries, I suddenly recalled Sebastian telling me as I had readied for dinner at my mom’s that he’d wanted to talk afterwards. Curious, I returned to my room and sat on my bed. “What do you want to talk about?” I asked him.
“Death.”
A low moan escaped. “Can we please not talk about that?”
“I realize it’s a tender subject with you but as your guardian angel, l need to make sure you’re protected.” Sebastian sat down next to me and continued. “That includes protecting you from yourself.”
I didn’t want to talk about this; couldn’t. I needed something else to fixate on, something to ease the disturbing thoughts of death constantly grating at my soul. Listening to the wind howling outside, blowing the chimes on my apartment’s front patio, I inspected Sebastian’s hair. Unlike my tousled hair, his golden mane was perfectly smooth. And I bet if he was wearing mascara his eyes never would water and leave dark smudges at the corners like mine do in the wind . . .
“Celeste, please keep your mind fixated on what I’m saying.” The look Sebastian showered me with made me feel three years old. “It’s exceedingly important.”
I looked away, locking my jaw. “Talk away, then,” I said curtly.
“Please listen away, then.”
The tone of his voice made the corner of my mouth twitch. Though my determination to appear emotionless was useless against Sebastian’s abilities, he didn’t make a cocky comment. Instead, he got up and pulled my computer chair over to the bed. Sitting in front of me, he spread his hands out. “I need you to realize that death is not the answer, Celeste. It won’t bring your dad back and it won’t make you feel better.”
I sucked the corner of my cheek in to refrain from an outburst.
“It’ll only make you feel worse, especially if your heart isn’t right with God,” he explained.
This time I couldn’t hold my tongue. “And what exactly does that entail?” I demanded.
But my scowled words slipped off Sebastian, like water on a rain slicker. “To believe, confess, trust and vow to live a life that follows God’s teaching in the Bible.”
“No thanks, I’m fine without that garbage.”
“Except you’re not fine. I saw your dream last night and heard your screams, Celeste.”
“They were silent.”
Sebastian shook his head. “The first one wasn’t.” Sebastian rolled the chair closer to me, his legs touching my knees. “But God hears every whimper, every breaking heart, and He hears every silent expression of pain produced by His creations.”
“Sure, whatever.” I moved and slung my legs over the side of my bed. But Sebastian was quick and pushed off the bed, positioning the chair in front of the bedroom door.
“You can’t leave yet, I haven’t told you the good news.”
I tried to measure if there was enough room for me to crawl under the chair into the hallway. “The only news I’ll ever deem as good is that my dad’s death was all a misunderstanding and he’s really still alive.”
Sebastian’s arms were around me so fast I only saw his form blur as he stood. Liking his warmth and aura of security, I relaxed and let myself be held.
“It’s too late for your dad,” Sebastian said after a minute. “But it’s not for you.”
I pushed away from him. “What are you saying? That my dad’s in hell?”
Sebastian took my hands and I was too shocked to swat him away. “Suicide doesn’t pardon pain, Celeste. Like you realized today on the train, it will only create more. Not just for you, but for others as well. Think about what losing you would do to your mom, your brothers, Malaya… or Sam.”
I heard the hesitancy when he said Sam’s name but brushed it aside. “But I deserve to die, Sebastian! I caused my own father’s death!” I tried to pull away, not to get away from Sebastian but to wipe the tears in my eyes.
At last, Sebastian released my hands and I staggered back, glad Malaya was still at school so I could raise my voice. “Death is the only way I can make this right! The only way I can get the punishment I deserve.”
Sebastian took a step forward. “Do you really think that’s what your dad wants, for his little star? To be condemned to an eternal life in hell and purposely deny herself a chance at a new life, found only in Christ?”
Images of scorching flames eating away at my dad’s body, accompanied with screams of anguished suffering shrieked in my head. “Stop it, just stop it!” I yelled, shaking my head, feeling the splash of hot tears burning down my cheeks.
“Celeste,” Sebastian sat me down on the bed and knelt before me. “I’m not saying this to be heartless, I want you to have hope. Hope that there is another answer to your problems, one that’s universally correct despite the given question.”
I dragged my hand across my cheek and sniffed. “What is it?”
“God.”
And with that, he slowly rose and left me to ponder his softly spoken answer.
After my intense conversation with Sebastian on Monday night, you’d think my life would’ve plummeted to a standstill. But I allowed my weekly tasks to envelop me, twirling me around in a blur of routine. For me, this consisted of attending class at UBC, tackling endless piles of to-do lists scrawled on loose-leaf, cooking, eating, and pretending to be unaffected by Sebastian’s words. For a while, I actually believed it myself.
For three blissful days, Tuesday to Thursday, my life returned to a typical state. Gone was the presence of supernatural, good and bad. And thanks to my busyness with classes, tutoring my neighbour’s son, and evenings with Sam, Malaya and my study notes, my grief depression also vanished.
Briefly.
Tuesday was a boot camp morning and even though I felt like hell, courtesy of Sebastian’s lecture on death, I still woke at six, made a mango smoothie in my Magic Bullet, packed a PB & J and baby carrots for lunch, stuffed my blow dryer, straightener, make-up, and shampoo in my gym bag and headed out into the cool morning air.
Boot camp was exhausting. When I sat down in my general chemistry class at nine, I had to keep pinching myself to stay awake. I met Sam at twelve for lunch. Taking one look at me, he shoved his Kit-Kat my way. “Trust me, he said, “this stuff works better than Red Bull. I already ate two. I hardly remember staying up until four, finishing my sociology report.”
“Lucky you,” I mumbled, breaking off a strip of chocolate, sliding the rest back to Sam. Spending the early morning hours cramming to complete an essay sounded like paradise compared to the tossing and turning I’d done all night.
After lunch, I went to biology with Sam which didn’t let out until three. We did some homework together in the library until five, picked Malaya up from her French class and went to Henry’s Kitchen on McDonald Street for supper.
Aside from tutoring, the next two days played out the same as Tuesday. After supper, I would pick out my clothes f
or the next day, chat with Malaya, study my lecture notes, update my fridge calendar, and feed my fish.
When Mom phoned me on Thursday night to remind me about the weekend, I had to check the calendar on my cell afterwards. How had three days passed so fast? Was I so wrapped in my own world, intent to forget the images of my dad in hell, that the hands of time had moved without me noticing? Deep down, I was grateful. The routines had been an unconscious relief. These last few days felt normal like it had before Dad died. Since I no longer lived at home, not seeing him every day didn’t constantly remind me of his passing. But going home this weekend would painfully break this cycle of my make believe respite. Absences, like the appropriate number of toothbrushes, Dad’s favourite foods in the refrigerator, and the sound of TSN constantly blaring would make sure of that.
To say I was dreading going home was putting it lightly.
“Nate?” I called out, closing the front door after waving to my mom backing away in her red Escalade.
No reply.
I dropped my bag in the living room and found my brother staring into the opened fridge in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I asked.
Nate leaned into the fridge, his hands reaching for a carton of eggs. “Nothing, mind your own business.”
“Good to see you too, Nate.” I pushed him aside so I could survey the fridge’s contents for myself. Orange juice, perfect. Filling a big glass to the top I took a sip and leaned against the counter.
Nate slammed the fridge and his eyes flashed with fury but he didn’t finish the thought. “You ruined everything already. Now you’re going to wreck my weekend too,” he scowled, trudging from the kitchen.
I heard footsteps on stairs and a door slamming a second later.
Wincing, I sighed. Ah, the joys of sibling bonding. I took my drink into the living room and flopped onto the brown leather sofa. Staring at the blank 42” inch plasma in front of me, I silently wondered if my nightmare wasn’t that far-fetched after all. Maybe Nate really did echo my own conclusion about Dad’s death. Our twenty-seven year-old brother Colbie didn’t. When I’d wept at the hospital, it was all my fault, he’d pushed me away and told me firmly, “Don’t ever say that again, Celeste.”
Pulling a throw pillow to my chest, I pictured Nate upstairs. Most likely he was seated at his computer with his headphones blaring heavy metal. Even before Dad died he’d been a trouble maker but in a prankish, harmless kind of way. These frequent suspensions and fighting at school, not to mention his anger, wasn’t the little brother I knew and loved.
I sucked in a deep breath as anxiety suddenly overcame me. Fear and pain united in the pit of my stomach. Just pretend he’s away at a meeting, Celeste. Don’t think about why Dad’s not here . . .
Like a robot, I stiffly walked over to my bag and pulled out my digital camera. Over the next fifteen minutes, I curled up on the couch and looked at happy snapshots of my family from the past months. They captured happy memories, before the accident. They mercifully provided an escape from the consuming anxiety.
I looked at one of me and Nate from Colbie’s wedding in October. We were both dressed up, me in my lavender bridesmaid dress and Nate looking spiffy in a tux. Dessert had just been served and Nate was holding his fork up to his mouth with his eyes humorously wide.
I clicked to the next picture. This time neither of us had made a goofy face but both had huge smiles. My heart lurched in pain when I realized I hadn’t seen Nate’s trademark grin for a long time. The only thing he ever wore these days was furrowed frowns and knitted brows.
Nate was a cute looking kid, strong eyebrows, great smile, clear skin and light brown bed hair that he wore effortlessly. But now, his brown eyes only looked hateful and cynical, his scowls making his features look unnaturally harsh. And yet, I know my fun loving brother is still in there somewhere. Hidden beneath his hard exterior and layers of anger, Nate—the family comedian and wonder-boy—is still alive.
The wailing of screamo music thundered down the stairs making pictures on the wall tremble. I plugged my ears and rounded myself into a ball on the couch. But the only recognizable words of the song still found my ears.
“I’m alive… . But only for now.”
I drummed my fingers on the sticky table and then suddenly stopped and asked, “You know what I hate?”
Sam looked up from his Orange Julius smoothie. “What?”
“Boys.” I spread my arms out, gesturing towards all the male gender dispersed around the food court. “Especially boys named Nate, whom my parents… .” I blinked at my blunder and hurried on, “I mean, boys who my mom repeatedly claims I’m related to.”
“I take it your weekend didn’t go well?”
“Hardly,” I said, not mentioning that I spent the majority of it alone. All that kept me company was reruns of the Bachelor and Survivor, my mom’s yoga DVDs and my stack of lecture notes. Nate spent the entire weekend in his room with his music blasting. But we did have supper together on Saturday night… sort of. As soon as the pizza guy left, Nate retreated back to his room.
Being alone had made it even harder to be home without Dad. I’d half expected Sebastian to show up but he never did. Pretending to be hunky dory with Sam today allowed me to sidestep the ache of the weekend. At least for a few precious hours. But I knew the masked pain could transfer into throbbing stings of remorse at any moment.
“What did Nate do this time to get suspended?”
I put my elbows on the table and immediately regretted it. Prying my exposed skin off the sticky surface, I wrinkled my nose. “Mom told me Nate was initially suspended for fighting in the cafeteria, over God-only-knows-what.”
Celeste . . .
Get out of my head Sebastian, this is a private conversation. “I mean, fighting over Buddha-only-knows-what.”
Sam snorted and I continued, “But then he called the principal a racist name when she informed him he wasn’t allowed to play in the basketball provincials. Now he’s got community service and janitor duties tacked onto his punishment.”
“Wow,” Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I can’t believe Nate would say something racist.”
“Neither could my mom. Earned himself a month of dishes and Saturday morning volunteer hours at the soup kitchen until summer,” I let out an evil laugh. “She confiscated the keys to his Eclipse, too.”
“Ouch,” Sam whistled low. “But, he deserves it.”
“Maybe, but I didn’t deserve to babysit a brat all weekend,” I added.
“What’d he do?”
I threw up my hands, the trivial complaints rolling off my tongue, a relief from my internal war. “He was just his annoying self, except amplified since mom wasn’t there. Like, I went to get some Mini-Wheats from the cupboard and it was empty.” I shook my head and then took a sip of my drink. “Is it so hard to throw out the box when you use the last of it?”
Sam leaned towards me. “Define empty,” he said.
I scowled at him. “Empty as in five squares and a handful of shreds at the bottom of the bag.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh, and all five squares were coincidentally frosting-free.”
Sam laughed. “Can’t get mad at him for that, technically the box wasn’t empty.”
Playing with the red straw of my strawberry-banana Orange Julius, I sighed. “He’s doing it just to annoy me.” I didn’t add that I suspected Nate’s actions had deeper roots than that.
“Seems to be working,” Sam noted.
“Oh, and you know what else he does?” I didn’t wait for Sam to guess, the negativity over Nate feeling like ecstasy compared to my usual finger pointing at myself. “He left one sheet of toilet paper on the roll. But I couldn’t snap at him for not changing the roll.”
“Yeah, he’s got you there,” said Sam, “again, the roll’s technically not empty.”
I was riding on a high, fluttering above the confining grasps of my depression. The yearning for the feeling to continue pressed me on to continue complaining, “And you know what else grates on me?”
“What?”
“When people sniffle in class, it’s so gross,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Stand up and get a Kleenex already! And make sure you borrow my hand sanitizer afterwards, I don’t want your disgusting snot germs contaminating everything around me.”
Sam chuckled but didn’t comment.
On a roll, I kept venting, refusing to dwell on how uptight I sounded. “And I hate it when all I can pick up are country stations when I’m at home. It almost makes me as mad as being around Nate.”
Beside me, an Asian boy sprouting a red mohawk spit out a piece of sushi onto the paper plate in front of him. “This is awful!” he said to the Asian girl next to him, “I want my money back.”
I scrunched my nose in disgust before turning back to Sam. “I hate it when people whine like that. Do they really think complaining is going to make anything better? Seriously, that guy should just grow up.”
“Uh, earth to Celeste,” Sam waved his palm in front of my face, making me blink. “Didn’t you just harp about your pet peeves for the last two minutes straight? Hypocrite much?”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly embarrassed by my rant. Sam’s interruption sent my high feeling into a downward spiral. The familiar suffocating pain of sorrow and guilt was quickly returning. I struggled to not let my fear show in my eyes. “I kind of got wound up, didn’t I?”
“S’okay,” Sam shrugged as he pushed his empty drink aside, oblivious to my internal struggle. “But if you have so many pet peeves, is there anything you actually do like?”
I leaned away from him, surrendering to the wave of guilt flowing around me. “I’m not some horrible complaint-sprouting machine, Sam.”
“So what do you like?” he asked again.
“You’ve known me for how long? Answer that question yourself, Sam,” I snapped. Instantly I regretted taking out my frustrations on Sam.