by K. Weikel
I sit down on the long bridge, my back up against the cement. Cars pass by, the people inside living their lives. Maybe they’re happy. Maybe they’re like me.
My spine scrapes the cement wall behind me as I cry, my body bouncing with each sob. My parents don’t know I left the hospital room. They’d have a fit when I got home.
If I came home...
I curl my body up in a tight ball, trying to get as small as I can. Maybe if I got small enough, I would disappear. I wouldn’t have to go through any of this anymore.
I sit like that until my muscles ache and the sun is hot on my body. I feel swear start to gather all over my body and the traffic increase.
What if I died today? Would it be easy to go, or would it be painful? Would I fight for my life like how Tobiah fought for mine? Or would I go as quickly as John?
I look up at the world around me. Everything has its own place in this world. Everything belongs where it is placed, and even if it doesn’t, it will get there some day.
But where am I?
Am I where I’m supposed to be? Have I finished what I need to do here? Or am I still making my way there?
I look up at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight. I’ve run out of tears and my body is torn between going back and staying here.
A car pulls over to the shoulder near me. Something inside of me prickles with fear, but the rest of me is just tired. I don’t move, but I keep my eyes on the car as the doors open.
Faces of people I know look at me, concerned. They walk to me and kneel down beside me. Can’t they just leave me alone? Can’t everyone just leave me alone? Can’t they see I don’t want any company right now?
“Amabel? Are you okay?” I hear Dahlia speak. I don’t look at her. I don’t respond. I just stare straight ahead blankly and refuse to move. I refuse to answer.
“Amabel, sweetie?” I hear. It’s her mom. “Amabel, hey, look at me please.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, giving in to what someone else wants me to do again. I become a doll again.
My eyes open slowly to look at her. Her eyebrows are pinched together and her face wears a mask of worry. I say mask like she’s trying to hide something, but I can’t find anything she hides. Anger bubbles up inside of me, sadness courses through me, jealously makes my blood tingle, and tears begin to fall again. I lurch forward and place my elbows on my knees, pressing the palms of my hands into my eyes. I can’t help it. This is all my fault.
I feel arms hold me tight and pull me into a warm body. How can people I’ve only met once comfort me better than my own flesh and blood can?
~
I sit in the back seat, staring out the window and trying not to break down again. They’ve already seen it once, and I don’t want them to have to deal with me.
Dahlia sits in the back with me. She had to move the shopping bags to the passenger seat in order to. I tried to help, but my injuries limited me.
The crutches lie on the bottom of the car, my feet sitting on top of them. For a moment, I move my feet away from it, feeling almost as if it can feel the pressure of them on it and that it doesn’t like it. And then I realize it’s not a real thing.
Like me…
I stifle another tear as we pass over a big bridge. The city looks strange from this angle. Had I really walked this far?
The feelings inside of me are numb now as I try to suppress them, as I always have. I’m sick of hiding, I’m sick of not feeling, I’m sick of being this way, numb… but it’s the only thing I know how to do.
Dahlia tries to talk to me, to make light conversation about school or about coming over one day and going shopping with them… but I don’t care about any of that, I don’t want to do it. I have more than I need. I have a life when two of the most important people died in place of me. I don’t tell her any of this, all of it stays in my brain. The only things that do come out are a couple grunts, a couple of ‘okays’, a couple of ‘maybes’…
My house comes into view and Dahlia’s mom pulls into the driveway. My mom’s car is gone. So is my dad’s. I just hope that they’re at the hospital, wondering about what’s going to happen now. Rethinking their divorce. Rethinking their addictions.
But I hope they don’t worry about me.
I’m nothing. I’m the reason why this has happened. I did this to them, whether it was directly or indirectly. My fault…
I step out to weather the weather that’s coming my way. The weather that’s already in my way. The weather that I’ve weathered that is coming back my way.
They drive off with a few words from Dahlia’s mom, who tries to make me feel better. I fake that it does. She doesn’t need to worry either.
The trudge to my front door seems too long and too tedious, but I do it anyway. I unlock the door and go inside. Haven’t eaten all day, but I pass by the kitchen. One flight of stairs, two… into my room. I lock the door that sits on my floor and open the window above my bed. It’s just big enough for me to fit through.
I sit on the tiny sill and try to stretch one of my legs across to the roof. I’m able to get it on, and I twist myself around, holding the frame of the window tightly with my hands. The boot on my other foot seems sort of slippery as I step with it onto the shingles. Pain makes its way through my body, but I don’t care. I want to be on the roof. I want to think. So that’s what I’m doing.
I crawl up and sit down on the point where the roof is the highest. I can see my entire street. I can see the birthday party going on a little ways down for the little boy named Thomas, and I can see my neighbors returning with groceries. Everything looks normal from up here. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s no adultery, no drugs, no alcohol… just me, the wind, and my street.
I look up at the clouds, wondering if Tobiah is staring down at me from heaven, wishing I would stop thinking the things I was thinking. Did he make it to heaven? Did he find his way to Jesus? Or back to Him, if he had been lost before?
What about me? I ask myself.
The shingles are rough against my palms as I look at my feet. So much has happened to me, and I sit here and ask God why they happened. I should know better, of course. There are two forces at work, after all, and God makes great things out of the bad things… but which one am I? The good or the bad?
I close my eyes and clasp my hands together. I need some comfort, some real comfort, and I know that God can give it to me. He can give me strength, and he can give me hope… I really need that right now.
“God,” I whisper, my eyes filling up with tears. “I know I sound selfish asking for you to give me the hope and strength I need to… to… be okay again… I know other people… they need it more than I do. But… God, I miss John… and I miss Tobiah… Whatever I did to… I’m sorry…” Tears start to fall, hot on my cheeks. “If they’re up there with you, God, tell them I love them… tell Tobiah I say thank you for saving my life, although I wish he… I wish he was still here… and, and… tell him I wish it was me…”
I look down at my driveway as my mother’s car pulls in. She opens the door and steps out, looking up at me, worry covering her face.
“Amabel?” She calls. “What are you doing up there? Come down!”
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. I shake my head slightly and move my eyes away from her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
“Amabel Doll!” She shouts again, and I’m forced to look at her. “Come down here this instant!”
She’s mad. Furious even. And later she’ll probably get drunk mourning over her sons death… and I’ll be upstairs alone, waiting for her to crash so I can clean up the mess before dad gets home…
She screams my name again and I feel frustration enter into me.
“Why?” I shout back, not making eye contact with her. My eyes stay on the rooftop across from me. For some reason, it seems so inviting. Does that even make sense?
“It�
��s dangerous up there, Am! Come here.”
I ignore her.
“Now.”
“Why?” I shrug and finally look down at her. “So you can go and get drunk and pretend like Tobiah didn’t just die?” The word sticks in my throat like a big wad of gum and tears shoot into my eyes. Admitting it out loud makes my heart hurt, and immediately I want to take the word back. I don’t want it to be true.
“Amabel Ray Doll,” She says in a low, threatening tone. “Get your butt down here. Now.”
I groan and stand up, my attitude reflecting through the actions.
And that’s when my foot slips out from under me.
12. Breathing
The next second, I see the gutter on the side of the house and I grab onto it, my weight making it bend. I hold on to it, hoping it won’t break. Praying it won’t.
I hear my mom start to panic.
“Hold on, honey!” She shouts and runs inside.
“Really?” I scream, the sarcasm thick with fear.
The gutter starts to move a bit. My breathing gets shallow. What if this is my time to go? What if I get what I’ve been wanting for the past week or so? What if this is it? If I end up just like John and Tobiah…
My fingers start to slip, wet with sweat.
The window by my feet opens and my mom pokes her head out.
“Give me your feet,” she calls.
Struggling, I try and swing them to her. The gutter bends a bit more. I look down at the ground that seems so far away…
I can hear my breath start to come out in wheezes.
Could I survive if I fell? Could I make it?
The gutter moves again and I try one more time to get my legs into my moms arms. I feel her fingers close around one of my ankles, and then the other one. She’s got me.
What now?
The gutter moves again, and I can feel sweat start to collect all over my body.
My mom starts to pull my legs toward her and I start to panic as the feeling of vertigo takes over me.
“Mom! Mom, I can’t do it,” I say, feeling a tear slip down my cheek.
“Yes you can, Amabel!”
“No I can’t!” A sob escapes my throat. Maybe I don’t really want to die. Maybe I do want to live.
“Honey, Amabel, sweetie, grab the top of the windowsill and pull yourself inside.”
“How?”
“One hand—one hand at a time. Go.”
I nod and reach with my right hand first. I can feel my fingers slipping of the metal gutter as I do.
I hold onto the windowsill tightly, my knuckles turning white. I nod to let her know I’m secure with my hold and try to bring my other hand to it as well.
I do it quickly, a brief sense of falling gushes through me, but it goes away as I slip into the room. My mom pulls me in and hugs me tightly, and I’m thankful she’s sober. If she was drunk… Who knows? I probably wouldn’t be breathing right now.
“Don’t you ever get up on that roof ever again, do you hear me Amabel Doll?” She says, pulling me away for a brief second to inspect me for any wounds.
I nod and she pulls me in for another hug. I return it, feeling like I need it, like we both need it.
We stand there for a good while, taking our time letting go. My mind drifts off to Tobiah. I wish he could see this. Wish he could be a part of it…
“Mom?” I ask quietly as I pull away.
“Yes dear?” She asks, wiping her eyes.
“Do you think Tobiah made it to heaven?”
She looks at me and I can see the debate in her eyes.
“Don’t sugar coat it. I want a real answer,” I say.
My mom sighs and looks around the room briefly. We’re on the second story that holds Tobiah’s room, every nook and cranny spotless and shining.
“I don’t know, Amabel,” She says sadly, her voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t think anyone knows, really. You just have to know where you stand with God and pray that you make it, I guess…”
She pulls me in for another hug and I find myself staring at his door, as if it would open at any moment now. Looking at it with the hope he’d come striding out, smiling, and start talking about football or weightlifting, or the girl he’s had a crush on since grade school… but I realize the false hope that I hold inside and look away, knowing that he’s gone. Forever.
~
I find myself in his room later that day, opening the door quietly, waiting for him to tell me to get out. But the threat never comes and my heart sinks.
I sit down on the chair by his desk, noticing the corner of it is chipped. It’s probably one of the things he had turned over when he went on his rampage after the accident on the stairs.
I touch it absentmindedly and look around the room. His bed sits on the back corner, the dark blue blanket neatly pressed against his mattress, waiting for him to return for a good night’s sleep. Everything is spotless and nothing is out of place.
It’s like he’s not gone at all.
I break down, sobs shaking my body. John and Tobiah… both gone because of me.
~
The funeral is the next weekend after the incident. Family members come for support and to see him off… They try to tell us that they’re sorry for our loss… How can they be sorry? Why do they have to pity us?
I try my hardest not to cry. I feel like he wouldn’t want me to. But I do, quietly, but barely. I try to hold it in. I try to stay strong. I try to put on the doll-face and try to slip into the Doll-Syndrome I’ve always seemed to have, but I think better of it, knowing it would get me no where.
So I cry.
John’s was last week’s. I went through all of this the first time there. Only it wasn’t as hard. I’m not saying it wasn’t as sad or I didn’t love John… I did. I really, really did. Do… But for that one, I knew I had to be strong for his family. They were worse off than I was, considering they’re his actual blood…
My family and I don’t say much for weeks. My parents seem to have forgotten about their decision to divorce for the time being, but that won’t last long.
And then the day comes where we have our family meeting in the living room…
13. This Is It
“Amabel, I know this has been hard for you to go through. It’s been hard for us too, but your father and I have decided... to make the divorce final.”
My mom’s voice breaks and so does my heart. They can’t do this to me, to us.
“But—you can’t...” I feel tears start to gather in my eyes. “But Tobiah...”
“I know, Amabel, I know... But we have to move on.”
“Move on?” I scream, a tear tumbling down my cheek. “It hasn’t even been that long—do you even freaking care about anything that has happened?”
“Of course we do, Amabel—”
“No!” I shout, not holding anything back any longer. “If you cared, you wouldn’t be tearing our family apart!”
“We think it’d be best for everyone—”
“Shut up,” I say, not caring who’s talking. “The only reason why you’re doing this is because you’re trying to make it look like none of what has happened is affecting you.”
“Am,” my dad says as he sits forward on the couch. “Your mom and I just aren’t happy anymore—”
“Oh, bull,” I spit. “You’ve been cheating on her for four months now, of course you’re unhappy with her, and she’s mad at you for doing what you’re doing, idiot.”
“Amabel!”
“No, dad. I’m tired of this. I’ve stood by too long, watching each of us fall apart and rip at the seams and I’m tired of doing it. I’m tired of being a stupid Barbie Doll and acting like we’re perfect.”
“Amabel, you were never expected to be perfect.”
“Really, mom? Really?” I exhale, anger boiling inside of me and bursting at the seams. This is it. This is where I explode. This is the moment that could either fix or break
everything in my life or that could shatter it forever. This is where I lift the curtain and make them see what’s going on around them.
This is it.
“Do you know how mom found out about you, dad? No, I guess you don’t, since you’ve continued to do it after she did find out. She was coming home in her car. I watched her from the attic. She slowed in front of our house and saw the woman’s car, the woman who sends you inappropriate pictures and calls for you to leave your house, and then she picked up speed and drove off. I’ve never seen her drive so fast.”
“Amabel, we don’t need to talk about this,” My mom says, her blue eyes watering.
“Oh, but we do mom, we really do, considering you never did. And instead of doing so, you ran to a liquid called alcohol. Shocker. And then you would beat me sometimes, you know. But you don’t remember it. You were too drunk to realize what you were doing, and in the morning when you would ask about a bruise or a cut, I’d lie, putting on a smile and laughing about it when it tore me apart inside.” I stand up, looking down at the two of them. “You two disgust me. I’m supposed to want to be like you, and you’re supposed to be my role model—you were supposed to be Tobiah’s role model. And look where that got him. Smoking pot and pushing me down stairs, and then, eventually, he died.”
“Amabel, sit down.”
“Dad—no. You don’t get it, do you?” I say, exasperated. “You don’t get what I’m saying.”
“Yes I do, Amabel, and I don’t appreciate how you’re talking to me.”
“You don’t appreciate—what?” I laugh hysterically through the anger streaming from me. “I’ve had this conversation with you before, remember? At the dinner table with Tobiah high as the clouds and you telling me that you were getting into a divorce? Obviously, you didn’t listen then, and I know you’re not listening now! I would think that you would, considering you only have one kid left!”
“Amabel, we are listening, and I know we’ve made mistakes, but—”
“But what?” I ask, looking at my dad expectantly, and then at my mom. She looks like she’s about to explode with tears at any second, but now is not the time to be soft and sensitive towards them. They need to see what they’re doing to me, to each other. They need to see, and this is the only way. “But what, dad, what? I’m not perfect either, I’ve made mistakes too? Of course I have, parents. But you’re supposed to be my example, you are what I’m supposed to be wanting to be. You’re supposed to be my biggest heroes, but right now, I don’t even know. Right now, I’m exactly like you—a hypocrite, a liar, and a cheat.”