Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  I was glad that she was addressing the crisis, and grateful for the respectful silence in the class. I didn’t want to talk about Lydia, but it was important that we acknowledge what had happened.

  Habib leaned against the desk. “Can anyone offer insights on why we have so many suicides here at Merriwether?”

  A girl in the front raised her hand. “The pressure. Our grading system is harsh.”

  Dr. Habib nodded and called on another student.

  “Merriwether attracts a lot of achievers,” said a kid in a black hoodie. “Perfectionists. When something goes wrong, they have no coping skills.”

  Other students mentioned depression, the competitive culture of college, the failure of society to recognize mental illness, and the alienation many students felt when they went away to college.

  “These are all potential factors, but what makes our campus different from others?” Habib asked.

  Although I had planned to keep quiet, I raised my hand. “It’s the gorge. The bridges.” I kept my eyes on the desk at the front of the room, knowing that emotion would surface too quickly if I looked directly at Dr. Habib’s sympathetic face. “They offer an easy means of death. Most people don’t realize that it’s not so easy to find a way to kill yourself. Drugs might be hard to find, and not so reliable. Using a gun or falling from a tall height, those methods are generally effective.”

  “Yes.”

  I could feel Dr. Habib’s approval.

  “The beautiful gorge that runs through our campus also offers a rather effective way for a person to kill himself,” she said. “And you may be surprised to learn that, in your age group, fifteen to thirty-four, suicide is the second leading cause of death for Americans.” Habib picked up her glasses from the desk and tapped them against one palm. “For people your age, guns are the weapon of choice for suicide. In the psychiatric community we believe that the availability of firearms makes them a popular method. And then there are older methods—hanging, drugs, fast cars. But here at Merriwether, we have the bridges. Fairly effective, and very public.”

  “So wait.” A tall, broad-shouldered guy in a team tracksuit raised his hand. “If suicide is so common for people our age, why don’t we hear about it happening at other colleges?”

  “It’s happening, but it’s behind closed doors, or off campus. And if you attended Harvard or the University of Chicago, I think we would be having a similar conversation. But I don’t mean to diminish the tragedy of suicide. For the people who are left behind, grief can be overwhelming. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to do an entire lesson on coping with suicide, but I prepared a handout for you to take home.”

  A few hands shot up as she started passing out stacks of the handout. “I see hands. The answer is no, this will not be on the test. But take the time to read through it. I think you’ll find it helpful. If not, come see me during office hours.”

  I took a sheet and passed the stack on. The handout focused on healing from suicide grief, and gave a list and explanations of the emotions triggered by suicide. Shock and anger. Guilt, confusion, and despair. And feelings of rejection.

  Yeah. This would probably be helpful after dark, when everyone was asleep and grim thoughts overwhelmed me. I tucked it into the back of my notebook and tried to let myself be distracted by Dr. Habib’s lecture.

  * * *

  When I left Psych I made a point of walking south, all the way down to the Main Street Bridge, a larger crossing that most people took when they were driving into town. With the fumes and periodic rumble of cars, very few students chose to walk this way, but I didn’t feel ready to cross the North Campus Bridge on my own. Not just yet.

  As cars roared past I kept to the far side of the walking path, took out my phone, and connected to social media, hungry to know more about what had happened to Lydia. The local news had a tiny blurb about a suicide, but I had an inside source. Rory MacFarlane, the Olympic snowboarder, had seen it happen. He wasn’t a personal friend, but I figured I could find him on Facebook.

  And there he was—green eyes, brown hair shaved close on the sides and piled thick on top, and a smile that suggested that everything would be totally fine. I dinged him a message, telling him that I was a friend of Lydia’s and hoped he would meet with me. I was working at the library that day from two to six.

  By the time I got back to Theta House lunch would be over, and although I was a little too sick to be hungry, I knew I would get sicker if I didn’t eat anything. I had passed the tall flower arrangement on the front table and the gallery of photos on the foyer wall and was heading toward the kitchen when I was summoned by a handful of girls in the parlor, huddled around someone’s laptop.

  “Emma! Oh my God, I can’t believe you went to class with all this happening.” Isabel Delgado, one of my suite mates, popped up and wrapped her arms around me.

  “You know me. Grade grubber.” I hugged her back, noticing the fine edges of her bones in my embrace. A petite girl, she struggled to keep food down and always worried about gaining too much weight. After a crisis last year she had gotten her eating disorder under control and finished the year with a healthy glow and a burst of energy. I hoped that she wasn’t slipping back into it again.

  “Come. Sit.” Isabel hustled me into her chair. “Suki found the TV news press conference about Lydia. I guess they did it later this morning. It’s short, but you have to see it.”

  “Hold on!” Suki held up a hand as she leaned over the computer, cueing it up. Meanwhile, the handful of Theta Pis slumped low in the furniture, each girl staring at the screen of her cell phone.

  “Are you guys skipping your classes today?” I asked.

  Two of the girls nodded morosely.

  “We’re too sick about Lydia,” Chloe said, nuzzling into the arm of the sofa.

  “I have Mondays off,” Jemma said, “but I feel awful, too.”

  I nodded, half wishing I could join them and lounge away my stress. But that was not me. Grades mattered; my future depended on my success here.

  “Here it is.” Suki clicked the video open and stepped away.

  A female reporter with short, spiky hair used a somber voice to announce that there had been a tragic death on the Merriwether campus, another apparent suicide.

  They cut to a press conference, on the steps of one of the campus buildings, where the police chief, Phil Blue, stood. A lot of students were anti-anything-authority, but most people liked Chief Blue, a tattooed descendant of the Chinook Indians. The guy was in a band in his spare time. Definitely cool.

  “At approximately two a.m. Merriwether student Lydia Drakos jumped from the North Campus Bridge. Ms. Drakos was twenty-one. She died from injuries sustained in the fall. At this time the incident is still under investigation. An autopsy is pending, but we believe it was a suicide, not a suspicious death.”

  My lips tensed when they cut from Chief Blue to Merriwether’s head of student health, Dean Sydney Cho. I despised everything about that woman, from her stylish asymmetrical A-line hairstyle to her soft, approachable demeanor. That voice could melt butter, but I knew better. Dean Cho was a monster. I wondered if she knew that, in a roundabout way, she was responsible for Lydia’s death. Not that it would matter to her.

  She made some watery statement about sorrow and sympathy and best efforts.

  “Whatever,” I said aloud as the segment ended.

  “It’s too awful,” Chloe moaned. “Poor Lydia.”

  Jemma patted her arm, though I wasn’t sure either girl had ever exchanged words with Lydia. Not that I had a right to question anyone’s grief, but I didn’t have much patience for anyone who sat around moaning.

  “I think I’m still in shock,” I said mildly, “but I need to keep on moving.” I turned to Isabel. “Did you get lunch?”

  “I can’t eat.”

  “Come to the kitchen with me. I need some yogurt or something.”

  With a toss of her hair she joined me, and I felt glad to get away from the slugs
in the parlor.

  In the kitchen I sliced up an apple and grabbed two yogurts from the fridge as Isabel told me how many of the sisters had been crying all morning. Glad I missed that. “Oh, and there’s an emergency house meeting this evening. It’s mandatory.”

  “I saw Mrs. J’s e-mail when I was walking back from class. Here.” I handed her a yogurt. “It’s fat free, sugar free, and sixteen grams of protein. We both need it now.”

  She frowned down at the cup, but I felt relief when she dipped the spoon in and took a bite. Protein and calcium. Yeah, baby.

  “Are you going to class tonight?” I asked.

  “I can’t miss the meeting here, and my head’s not in schoolwork now. I feel so bad for Lydia, the loneliness she must have felt. It makes me worry about the people I love. You never know what’s in someone’s head, Emma.”

  As we were talking the side door opened and Defiance, Isabel’s roommate, trudged up to the island and paused. “Do you feel that?”

  I squinted at her, not sure what she meant, though I admired her lace-up boots, obviously new. She wore them with tights, a pleated black-and-white miniskirt, and a black leather jacket with lots of zippers. Defiance had the ability to make combat boots look elegant, and guys loved her look. She spent a lot of time fending them off.

  “What are we supposed to feel?” Isabel asked as she scraped up another spoonful of yogurt.

  “Lydia’s spirit.” Defiance gripped the straps of her backpack and closed her eyes. “I feel her here, lingering. She’s not at rest.”

  “Seriously?” Isabel tossed her spoon into the sink, scowling as it clattered against the stainless steel. “That is too creepy, D. You just can’t say stuff like that without scaring the crap out of people.”

  “Please.” Defiance opened her eyes, black as coal and thickly outlined with smoky liner. She had a dark, exotic beauty, a rare black rose, a crown of black tourmaline. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I know is true. I’ve always been able to feel this stuff. Both my grandmothers say I have the gift.” Defiance credited her Roma background for making her an expert on all things supernatural, saying that psychic abilities ran in her family. I wasn’t into magical thinking, but I didn’t mind her stories and rituals, like when she poured salt and saffron into the four corners of our suite to absorb the negative energy of previous residents. The place felt cleansed when she vacuumed it all up two days later. Or when she warned us that storms—atmospheric and proverbial—were coming because there was a halo around the moon. Did I believe Lydia’s spirit was lurking in the walls? No. But the idea rattled Isabel, who was a much more sensitive, gentle soul.

  “The only spirit I believe in is the one in the Holy Trinity,” Isabel said. She had plucked the empty yogurt container from the sink and was now rinsing it thoroughly. “But you know how ghost stories and superstitions upset me.” We knew. And if she scrubbed that plastic any harder, the PCBs would be airborne.

  Defiance stared at Isabel. “If you don’t believe the spirits are there, then why do you fear them?”

  “Listen to yourself.” Isabel chucked the plastic container into the recycling bin and reached for a paper towel. “You have no idea how creepy you sound. If those sisters in the parlor get wind of this, they are going to drop a complaint into the chapter relations box.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Defiance folded her arms with a sigh. “I can defend myself from the snob contingent.”

  In my time as a sister of Theta Pi, no one had ever been brought before chapter relations, but in less than three months on campus Defiance had probably come close. As a transfer student, she had been guaranteed a spot in the sorority, even if it wasn’t the best cultural fit, and that didn’t make our executive board happy. After D’s first visit here at the end of last semester, Tori and Courtney had made some snide comments, calling her a gypsy and joking that she’d be skewering pigs in their suite if they roomed with her. I had told them to watch it and offered to have Defiance move into our suite. I knew that Angela and Isabel would be happy to have a fourth, and they were. At the time, I hadn’t realized how “in the box” our sorority was.

  “D, it is a little creepy,” I agreed.

  “Is it my fault that Lydia is stuck here? I’m sure she wants to go.” Defiance’s dark eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “Don’t you?”

  Isabel’s mouth dropped open and I had to bite back a smile. “Come on, Isabel,” I said, “try not to let it get under your skin. We’re all kind of freaked right now. Just take a deep breath.”

  “I can breathe just fine.” Hands on hips, Isabel faced Defiance. “But I don’t know how I’m going to sleep in the same room with you, if you’re conjuring spirits and talking to the dead.”

  “I don’t mean to frighten you,” Defiance said. “Would you rather I don’t tell you what I know? I’ll say nothing. Is that what you want?”

  “You put these images in my head. Sad ghosts, and poor Lydia stuck in limbo.” Tears sprang from Isabel’s eyes. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home and hide in my bed. And never come out.” She sobbed into her hands.

  I patted her shoulder as Defiance and I exchanged a look of concern. Defiance was stubborn, but she didn’t mean to be cruel, and we both knew that “home” might seem safe to Isabel, but after an initial welcome her mother would dissect her appearance and criticize her weight and send her back into an anorexic hibernation.

  “You know, I wish I had a home to go to,” I said in an attempt to distract her. “My father moved in with a friend in Portland, and there’s no room for me. He already told me he won’t be around for Thanksgiving.”

  Isabel swiped away her tears. “I’m sorry, Emma. What will you do? Will you go visit your brother?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re not close, and I barely know his wife.”

  “Then you need to come with me,” Defiance said. “If you don’t mind helping out in the restaurant on Thanksgiving. We always have a feast the day after.”

  “That sounds great.” A big, noisy family was my dream come true. “But you’d better check with your parents.”

  “They’ll say yes, of course. It’s no trouble.”

  I nodded, glad the diversion had worked and the conversation had shifted away from Isabel threatening to leave school. Now she was talking about the paper she had due right before Thanksgiving break, while Defiance rooted around in the fridge for sandwich fixings and I finished off the apple. On the surface, it was like any other day.

  Except that our Theta Pi sister had killed herself.

  As I rearranged my backpack and set out to the library, I went through the list of questions that swelled in my mind. Like Defiance, I was haunted by Lydia, only for me it wasn’t a spirit invasion but an obsession with how and why it had happened. I needed details, some clues, so that I could imagine the entire scenario and then let it rest.

  How had she gotten to the bridge?

  Had she been alone?

  Why didn’t she wake up one of the girls? In a house this size, there was usually someone around.

  Had she been in a panic, or in that calm trance that had overcome her recently?

  I hurried off to the library. As I passed a line of maple trees on fire with autumn reds and golds, my sick mind tried to reenact her death in my head. But some things didn’t make sense. Her first trip out of the house in a week or more, and she had traipsed to the bridge in her pajamas.

  It pissed me off that none of us knew how bad it was for her, but everyone gets trapped in their own body.

  Forty girls living in a house together, each one caught up with fending for herself.

  * * *

  I pushed a cart of books up the aisle and ducked into a shadowed corner, tracking down the exact number and letter to replace a copy of Guns, Germs, and Steel. It had been a quiet afternoon, allowing me time for schoolwork, but as my brain felt like putty I’d resorted to shelving books.

  “Are you Emma?”

 
; I turned toward the voice and took a breath. He was like a mirage of energy and straight, strong lines. A beanie sat on the back of his head—not my thing, but he wore it well—and the thick tufts of hair that framed his eyes looked wild and smooth at the same time. “Rory. Thanks for coming. I’ve got a million questions.”

  “I probably can’t answer them but, yeah.” His gaze fell. “I can’t get her out of my mind. It’s like the scene keeps replaying in my head.” He looked behind him to see if anyone was nearby, and then stepped into the shadows, closer to me. “I talked to the police for, like, hours, and they asked me the same questions over and over again. You’d think it would feel good to recount it all, like, to get it out of your system? But it doesn’t. Nothing about it feels good.”

  “Except that you were there.”

  “Didn’t make any difference.” He dug his fingers into the hair over his forehead, and then let his hand drop. “Adam and I spotted her on the bridge from the Top of the World. We saw her pacing, and then I think she climbed over the edge. I called to her, trying to get her attention as I ran toward the bridge, but I don’t think she heard us. It was like she was in her own world.”

  So he had tried to stop her. “Did you see anyone with her?” “I think she was alone. At first I thought someone was with her. She was yelling at someone, but there was no answer. Maybe she was on her phone.”

  “Yeah.” My lower lip puckered at the thought of the lone figure of Lydia standing on the cold, dark bridge in her pink robe. “So there was no one else around?”

  “There was one other person leaving the walkway.”

  My heart sank. He’d seen someone else?

  “I caught a quick glimpse of him disappearing down the far stairs as I raced onto the bridge.” He squinted as if trying to see the memory. “But it happened in a flash. All I saw was someone in a dark hoodie with Greek letters on the back. Two Greek letters, but I couldn’t see what they were. It happened so fast.”