by Claire Adams
It had always been strange to me that Sienna never recognized her own symptoms. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I pushed it away. There were certain topics that were never touched in our house.
"Did you tell Mother?" I asked.
My father finally turned away from the window. "No. She was not feeling well this morning. I told her you needed my help and that I would be back this afternoon."
My mother would never have believed it was Sienna that needed help.
The orderlies pulled the curtains on the small room. The coroner led my father to a counter to fill out the remaining paperwork. I sat on the bench and stared at the box of tissues left on the opposite end. It had barely been touched.
Did they replace it often or were most people that sat here like me? I wondered. The tears still would not come; they couldn't fight past the numbness. Somehow this was a joke, a prank. Sienna was not dead. She was going to burst through the door at any moment and make me admit I hated my major.
After all, nurses don't faint at the sight of dead bodies.
#
We did not say a word the nearly four-hour drive home. My parents lived about fifteen minutes away from the Las Vegas Strip in an affluent neighborhood called Summerlin. I felt the weight of exhaustion and grief the entire drive, but I could not take my eyes off the arid and flat landscape.
My father pulled into the driveway of our six-bedroom house. The Juliet balcony overlooked the driveway and behind the window, I saw the shadow of my mother. She disappeared back into her bedroom suite. I knew she would not meet us at the door, full of concern. If she was not feeling well it might be 24 hours before she appeared downstairs.
Once inside, I headed straight for my bedroom and curled up in the middle of my four poster bed. For a moment, I felt like the time in high school when I got sick at camp and had to get picked up early. Sienna was still there having fun, and I was stuck in our thick-carpeted, quiet house by myself. I clung to that bittersweet memory, the idea that Sienna would be home soon with fun summer stories to tell.
When I woke up, the light was a hot glow, but I could tell by the shadows that it was late afternoon. I lay still and wished the nightmare would end. Now, awake felt like the bad dream and asleep was my only relief.
I could not hide out forever, so I brushed my hair, tied it back in a loose ponytail, and headed downstairs. I reached the last step and heard my mother call from the kitchen.
"Darling, have you seen the Bloody Mary mix? Oh, never mind, I found it," she trilled.
I walked into the kitchen to find her dancing around the kitchen island, mixing a dark red Bloody Mary and filling it with an array of vegetables. "A light snack?" I asked.
"Oh, Quinn, dear, Daddy said you were home. He told me you've been skipping classes lately," my mother said.
I poured a hefty shot of vodka into a tall glass and mixed my own Bloody Mary. My mother stabbed radishes onto toothpicks and affixed them to a celery stalk, a makeshift rose garnish. She hesitated as she handed me one, forgetting for the moment that I was of drinking age.
"It’s your sister that doesn't like these," my mother said.
"She's not, I mean, she was not a big drinker," I observed. I held the glass to my lips, unable to drink for the lump in my throat.
"And yet she's forever going to parties. How does she manage it?" my mother asked. "I still don't understand how that girl can balance her surgical studies, a busy social life, and that boyfriend of hers."
"Maybe she couldn’t handle it," I said, my voice wavering. "Maybe it was too much for her and someone should have told her to slow down, take it easy, and not put so much pressure on herself."
"Please, I know you don't spend a lot of time with your sister, but you know what Sienna's like. She can handle anything." My mother brushed back her blonde hair and took a long, satisfied sip.
"Daddy said you weren't feeling well," I said.
Her eyes went dim, deflecting the question. "Oh, you know, I just felt a little out of sorts, but now I'm fine."
I eyed the drink in her hand. "Did you take something?"
"Quinn, please, what kind of question is that? I didn't need to take anything. I just feel better. Now, enough talk about me. When are you going to find yourself a boyfriend? I'm sure your sister's boyfriend knows lots of eligible guys," my mother said.
"It’s not like we can go on double dates," I said. The drink was suddenly too heavy. I set it down on the counter and slumped into one of the swiveling bar stools next to the kitchen island.
"Why not? I know Sienna's busy, but she can make time to set you up. You need someone. I'll give her a call," my mother said.
As she reached for her phone, the realization crashed over me: my father had not yet told her. I was so frozen with dread that I sat dumbfounded as she called Sienna's number.
"Hello, dear, I know you're busy, but take just a minute to listen to a message from your mommy. I've got Quinn here and she is moping around. Honestly, she looks as if someone's died. I'm hoping you have time for one of your wonderful sister make-overs. Maybe Owen could find her a date for this weekend? You could double for dinner and then split up? Think about it, darling. You know how she depends on you. Love! Kisses!"
I still could not move when my father walked into the kitchen. He was just as shocked as I was when my mother bounced over and kissed him on the cheek. "Barbara, I thought you were still upstairs. You're feeling better? Did you take something?"
"Why does everyone ask me that? So I slept in a little this morning and wasn't a ray of sunshine. I'm fine."
"Daddy?" I asked. The rest of the words stuck in my throat.
My father turned to me with a hard look. "Your mother's right, she's fine. Let her enjoy her drink."
"You can't, you can't make me be the one that does it," I said. "You have to tell her now."
"Tell me what?" my mother asked with a bright smile.
"You just want everyone to be as miserable as you, don't you, Quinn?" my father asked. "Ever since you were young, you did just as you pleased. Your sister was the one that knew how to take responsibility. She knew how to live up to expectations and be grateful for every opportunity she got."
"Tell her or I will!"
"Now, Barbara, why don't you sit down?" my father said in his best soothing voice. "There's some bad news about Sienna. I can hardly believe it myself. I didn't know how to tell you and I wanted to wait until you felt better."
"Sienna? Is she alright?" my mother shoved her empty glass onto the counter and hung on to the edge with both hands.
My father struggled to get his voice to work. "Sienna…Sienna committed suicide last night."
My mother sank to the floor as a keening wail rose from her lips. I jumped down from my stool and ran around the counter to sit with her on the floor. She bumped her head back against the cupboard, her eyes screwed shut tightly.
"I didn't believe it at first," my father said. "I still don't believe it. How could she do that? How could she throw away all her accomplishments, all her goals?"
"Oh, my sweet girl, oh, my sweet, sweet girl. I know. I know how it feels," my mother whispered to herself.
"Mommy?" I took her hand.
She yanked it away. "You don't understand, poor Quinn, you're like him. Sienna was always like me. She felt things the same way – felt the burning, felt the falling, felt the soaring."
"Can we talk about that?" I asked. "I think we need to talk about that."
My mother scrambled to her feet and flung herself at my father. "You promised she would be okay. You promised me she could handle it. Everything was fine, Sienna was always fine. Lies! Now, I know you lied. It's all my fault. My beautiful, sweet girl," my mother cried.
I stayed on the floor, cringing as my mother flailed her manicured fists at my father's chest.
"Barbara, you need to go lie down. You've had a shock."
"A shock? Why am I the only one that isn't shocked at all? You think people can just magica
lly brush themselves off and be just fine. Well, that might work for you and maybe for Quinn, but not everyone's as heartless as you two," my mother said.
"Everyone grieves in their own way," my father said. He caught hold of my mother's wrists and pulled her towards the door. "It’s no use falling to pieces, its already done and we can't do anything to change it."
"She's not dead, she can't be. You're just a cruel man playing a cruel joke," my mother said. She yanked her wrists free and spun away from my father. Then, she grabbed her phone and marched out the other kitchen door.
I sat on the floor listening to my father's angry breathing as we heard my mother leave another voicemail on Sienna's phone.
"Are you happy?" he finally said to me. He slammed a fist on the counter and walked out.
By the time I managed to stand up, the house was silent. My mother was back in her bedroom suite, my father was in his office, and I was alone in the rest of the stretching square footage.
My mother was not shocked that Sienna had taken her own life. That idea blinked in my brain like the starting cursor of a video game. Was there some sign I had missed? Was there something I could have done?
My legs were heavy as I dragged myself up the stairs to Sienna's room. It had to be my fault. We weren't close, but we were sisters and I should have known if she was feeling so desperate.
Her room was as neat and tidy as always. The Tiffany blue walls and white furniture glowed in the sunset light. Instead of an old-fashioned four poster bed like mine, Sienna had a queen-size bed with a white satin tufted headboard. The comforter was an intricate swirl of pastel paisley. I sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to crease it.
I needed her there. Sienna never sat around helpless. I could see her marching into her room and scolding me. She would have gone straight to her computer and researched the reasons, both psychological and physical, behind suicide.
I wondered if she had researched it before she did it. I should have looked on her computer in her dorm room. Sienna probably looked up a dozen case studies the moment the thought of suicide crossed her mind.
And still, she did it. The thought made me dizzy, and I let myself slip to the floor.
I leaned back against her bed and felt the sharp edge of something stick me in the back. Reaching under her bed, I pulled out a photograph album she had made her senior year of high school. I opened it up, welcoming the sweet relief that happy memories brought.
The first picture was Sienna leading the cheerleader charge onto the football field. Except it was not her red-lipped smile or glowing golden hair that caught my attention. In the far background was a tall blond boy leaning on the fence next to a gangly girl with long wavy hair.
Owen Redd liked to watch the football games from the sidelines instead of the stands. He liked chatting with people more than yelling silly epithets at the field. One time, Sienna had begged me to bring her a different pair of shoes, and I had bumped into Owen at the fence.
Instead of football scores and finals, we talked about Halo and Assassin's Creed. He didn't laugh when I asked questions about strategy. Instead, he explained in detail the successful maneuvers he had done.
Sienna laughed when she found us. "Aren't you two the perfect pair? Too bad Redd looks better on me."
She knew. Sienna knew that night at the football game that I had the most helpless crush on Owen. I could still feel the thrill of his hand accidentally brushing mine as he described good sequences.
I never understood why they were together. Sienna was more annoyed than enamored by most things that Owen loved. He mocked her cheerleading. And I remembered when she got him voted prom king, he was so irritated that he brought her home and left without saying goodbye.
At the thought of goodbye, I slammed the photograph album shut. How could I say goodbye to my sister?
#
It was easy to pretend I was still in high school. The house was quiet when I emerged from Sienna's room. It could have been any one of hundreds of nights when our mother had retreated to her room, my father had shut himself in his office, and Sienna was out. She was always busy, always doing something.
The only one that was ever around was our cook. I found her in the kitchen looking the same as she had for decades: a white shirt, black pants, and a red apron. Her riotous black curly hair was secured in a prim bun and blue eyes sparkled as she sang.
"No one told you," I said, the weight pushing me back onto a stool.
"I sing when I'm sad, too," the cook told me. "It helps. Wanna try?"
"You know I can't carry a tune. Sienna is – was the singer."
The cook put down her red spatula and propped her fists on her hips. "You know you never have to refer to her in the past tense, don't you? Sienna’s memory is just as alive as anyone else outside this room if we talk about her."
"I don't feel like talking, Charlotte," I said.
"And you don't feel like singing. How about baking?" Charlotte asked.
I smiled. I loved to bake. It did not hurt that it was the one thing I did better than Sienna.
Sienna had come home from a cheerleading meeting one year and announced an impressive list of things she was going to personally bake for their fundraiser. After two minutes of baking, in which flour got in her hair, she crushed a raw egg in her hands, and the top fell off the ground cinnamon, she declared that baking was a waste of time.
That night, Charlotte taught me to bake the easiest, silkiest, and best buttery sugar cookies. We decorated them with a light lemon frosting and glittery sprinkles. Of course, Sienna took all the credit and they sold out in minutes.
"We're going to need a good dessert table for the, ah, for the guests," Charlotte said.
I nodded, my voice gone again. She meant we needed desserts for the reception that would invariably follow the funeral. Still, Charlotte's practicality was comforting as I settled into the regular routine of the sugar cookie recipe.
"It doesn't feel real. She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first batch of cookies went in the oven.
"You'll look for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."
Her calm acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had ten minutes before the first batch was done.
"Have you seen my father?" I asked.
Charlotte shook her head. "He asked for chicken dumpling soup when I came in and then he disappeared."
I went to peer in the door of his office. The lights were off, but I could see his outline propped in a chair. He stared out the window, a glass of whiskey suspended in the air halfway to his mouth.
"Daddy?" I asked.
He jumped as if a gunshot had reported in the wood-paneled confines of his office. "Quinn, Jesus Christ, you scared me. What are you doing creeping around?"
"You're the one sitting in the dark."
He grumbled and turned on the lamp next to him. His eyes were red and puffy but dry as he scowled at me. "How's your mother?"
"I don't know, she's still upstairs," I said. "How are you?"
"Probably a good idea. She needs to rest. I'm tired. Exhausted. You might not think it’s a big deal to drive from Vegas to L.A. all the time for school, but it takes a toll," he said. Finally, he noticed the glass of whiskey and took a long sip.
"Speaking of L.A., I should call school," I said.
"Your advisor spoke to all your professors. The funeral is in two days. You can stay with us until it’s over," my father said.
"The funeral?" I asked. A sour taste filled my mouth at the word.
"Yes, I have a friend at the Walton's Funeral Home, he's the director. Making all the arrangements. Viewing, service, reception, it will all be here. Cook knows the rest."
"It just seems so, I don't know, so fast," I said.
My father snorted. "What did you expect, Quinn? Decisions had to be ma
de. Not everyone can go through life wavering like you do."
"Sienna was decisive. She kinda proved quick decisions aren't always the best, didn't she?" I could not take the angry words back.
He shifted in his leather chair and refused to look at me again. "Check on your mother before dinner," he said and turned the light off.
I retreated back to the kitchen, and Charlotte took one look at my face and folded me into a tight hug. "He's just grieving. Anything that comes out of his mouth the next few months is pure rubbish."
"I, I accused her of being rash. I actually joked about where her quick decision-making got her. It was awful," I said.
"No one can know what went through her head. Sienna always had her mind made up and wouldn't let anyone change it. A trait I'm happy you did not inherit from your mother."
Charlotte and my mother had a long-standing habit of arguing over recipes. Though my mother did not cook, she clung fast to a few beliefs of how things should be done and would not hear reason.
"Everyone always says Sienna is just like my mother."
"It never bothered you before," Charlotte said.
"What bothers me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.
"What's wrong with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell something burning?"
I ran for the oven and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is ever perfect and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over something they can never achieve."
"Your sister achieved plenty," my father said too loudly.
I could not take anymore. "And what about the mood swings? Are you going to tell me it’s perfectly healthy to be so depressed you stay in bed behind black-out curtains for a whole day only to emerge ready to go out for cocktails?"
"And now, we're talking about your mother," my father said. "Your arguments always segue, like your entire life is full of segues. Next you'll be telling me that you want to quit nursing and join the circus, right?"