Jane In Bloom

by Deborah Lytton

  The next three months pass in a blur. I don’t notice anything. I am a robot, going through the motions. Walk to class. Sit in my seat. Open the book. Answer questions. Walk to next class. Sit in seat. Lunchtime. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Soccer practice. Catch ball. Drop ball. Kick ball.

  Until Tuesday, June 6. I have a nightmare. I’m in a river, and Lizzie is trying to swim toward me, but the churning water keeps pulling her under. I can’t reach her. I try and try. And then she slips out of my hands. I dive underneath the surface, but I can’t see anything. Just like that, Lizzie disappears. And the water goes still. I wake up shaking. My clock reads 3:20 A.M. I lie there awake. Afraid to close my eyes.

  I hear the door from the bathroom open. Bare feet on the carpet. And then the cool air as my covers are pulled back. Lizzie slips into bed beside me. I roll over to face her. I can just barely see her face in the milky light.

  “I heard you call out,” Lizzie whispers. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  I nod.

  Lizzie reaches out her hand and gently strokes my cheek. “Do you want to talk about it, J?”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to share this nightmare with Lizzie. It might scare her.

  “Remember when we were little and had bad dreams, and Mom would sing to us?” she asks.

  Then she starts singing softly. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring . . .”

  I join in. “And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat.” We keep singing to the end of the song. And then we look at each other and laugh. Not for any reason. But just because we feel like it. Then I reach out and take Lizzie’s hand in mine. It feels so cold. So fragile. Like a baby bird. I hold it carefully. Gently. And we go to sleep.

  When I wake up in the morning, Lizzie is back in her room, scribbling away in one of her notebooks. I get dressed and go to school. All day long, I feel like I am swimming against the current. Just trying to stay afloat.

  Zoe’s mom drives me home after school. I am looking out the window, but not really paying attention to anything. We turn the corner, and instantly, everything comes into focus in Technicolor. I see the red lights flashing. My father’s blue Volvo home too early. The emerald-colored hose still running near the fuchsia petunias. My mother’s lemon gardening hat on the steps.

  By the time we get to the driveway, my mouth has gone totally dry. I fling open the door before the car is stopped. I run up the drive past the paramedics’ van. My mother stands in the doorway. Her face is frozen. Her mouth hangs open in an O shape. My father is speaking with two men in uniforms. I dash for the stairs, but a paramedic stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Sorry, miss,” he tells me, “but you can’t go up there just yet.”

  I look from my father to my mother. My mother to my father. What’s happening?Where’s Lizzie?

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” the paramedic in charge is saying to my father. I can’t take my eyes off this man’s mouth. It’s like he’s speaking in slow motion and I hear it on a loudspeaker. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  I still don’t understand what’s going on. I pull on my father’s suit jacket.

  “Daddy, where’s Lizzie? What’s wrong with Lizzie?” I ask in a panic.

  My father notices me for the first time. His eyes squint at me as though he doesn’t recognize me. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he begins.

  I dash for the front steps again. “Where’s Lizzie? I want to see Lizzie,” I scream. But the paramedic won’t let me through. He blocks my way. I try to push him aside. But he’s much bigger than I am. He doesn’t budge.

  “Let me see my sister!” I scream. My father wraps his arms around me from behind and lifts me up. He turns me around. I see my mother in the doorway, still wearing the O.

  “Honey, she’s gone.”

  And that’s the last thing I remember.

  Chapter 6

  We are the house of the living dead. Glassy-eyed, silent, invisible. We move through the rooms without looking at one another, as if somehow this will make it all hurt less. The last time we touched was when my father told me Lizzie was dead.

  In the twenty-four hours since then, the following things have happened:1. The autopsy confirmed that Lizzie died from ingesting too many laxatives and diuretics—both of which she got from my mother’s medicine cabinet.

  2. A funeral has been planned for Friday.

  3. I got to stay home from school for two days, which is a good thing since I can’t stop crying.

  4. My grandparents arrived, which isn’t really so bad. My mom’s mom is a little too type-A neurotic for me, but my grandpa (who isn’t really, because my grandpa died when I was three) just sits in a chair and he can’t hear anything at all since he refuses to wear his hearing aid. They’re sleeping in my room, which is okay because even though I am supposed to be sleeping in the den, I have been sleeping in Lizzie’s bed for the last two nights.

  I read through every one of Lizzie’s journals.Twice.Then I hid them in a pillowcase underneath my bed. Because I know Lizzie wouldn’t want my parents to read them. They’re filled with dark, angry feelings. It’s a side of Lizzie they should never know. But at the same time, I can’t bring myself to destroy them. Not when she poured herself into these notebooks. They’re the only piece of Lizzie I have.

  Right now I am sitting in the backyard on the old hammock. I am using one foot to push it back and forth, back and forth. It’s my favorite time of day, just before sunset, when the sky is all hazy and golden, and the air is still. I can smell jasmine.

  I feel so many things right now. Mad. Guilty. Frustrated. Scared. Sorry. But most of all—sad. I don’t know what to do with the large open space where my heart used to be. It seems like no matter how much I cry, I never run out of tears.

  My family is Presbyterian. Not super-religious Presbyterian. Just your average go-to-church-on-holidays and sometimes when Mom remembers that it’s Sunday morning. Not religious enough to give me answers to all this. Just enough to confuse me. Like what kind of God allows a beautiful teenager to die. And why her?

  I can’t stop remembering things about Lizzie.Things no one but me would know. I lie back and see Lizzie holding my hand, helping me to walk in high heels, both of us dressed in my mom’s evening gowns with rhinestone necklaces and elbow-length gloves. I remember how she would always let me wear the pink dress because pink was my favorite color—even though she loved it just as much. I remember her brushing my hair for hours after it would get all knotted at the beach. I remember the two of us lying on the floor in the den, watching our favorite movies and sharing a bowl of popcorn.

  Most of all, I remember her smile. She smiled at me in a way that only Lizzie could do. It began like a sunrise with the curling of her lips and spread over her face like the morning sun until the rays couldn’t stand to be contained any longer and had to spill out of her eyes. They would sparkle at me, and I felt like I was basking in her sunshine.

  I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without her.

  I feel so alone. I want to be with her. I leave the hammock and enter the house. I climb the staircase to her empty room. The door is open. I peek inside. My mother is sitting on the bed, a pile of Lizzie’s clothes next to her.

  She looks so thin. And even though her hair is perfectly combed and she’s dressed in a matchy-matchy outfit, she is a mess—lost and empty.

  “Mom?” I ask tentatively.

  She looks right at me, but it seems like she doesn’t see me.

  “It’s not the way it’s supposed to be,” she says flatly.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “A mother isn’t supposed to bury her child,” she explains. “I’ll never see her graduate high school, go to college, get married, have babies of her own.” She breaks down at this last part. She’s
sobbing so hard I think I should go get my dad. I’ve never seen her like this before. And it terrifies me.

  I put my arms gently around her and she leans into me. For a moment, I feel the weight of her grief. It’s overwhelming.

  “Should I get Dad?” I ask her quietly.

  She shakes her head no. Then she pulls back from me and wipes her tears away. She takes a couple of jagged breaths.

  “I’m all right now,” she tells me.

  “What are you doing with her clothes?” I ask. I realize that I am unable to say my sister’s name aloud.

  “Choosing a dress for her to wear.”

  Oh. A dress for Lizzie to wear. In her coffin. What does it matter! I want to scream. But it does matter—to Lizzie. She’s watching me right now. And it matters to her.

  I know exactly what dress she wants to wear. It’s short and tight and black and my parents forbid her to ever wear it out of the house. I know this is what Lizzie wants to wear for eternity.

  Wordlessly I hand the dress to my mother. I know she recognizes it—but she doesn’t say anything. I kiss her on the cheek and then leave the room. I can feel Lizzie smiling. And this makes me happy, just for a split second.

  The day of the funeral is the most gorgeous sunny day. June 9. Usually in Southern California, we get fog in June and we don’t see blue sky until at least 2 P.M., but today is special. The sun shines for Lizzie.

  I am wearing a black dress my mother bought me yesterday. I didn’t have anything suitable, she said. I didn’t go with her to buy it. She picked it out all by herself. I think it’s perfect to be in this stiff, new black dress that doesn’t feel like me. Because I don’t feel like me. I feel like someone else today. This is happening to someone else. Someone else is burying her big sister.

  I come down the stairs in a trance. I can feel how frozen my face is. I’ve never noticed that before—feelings in my face. Right now it’s the only thing I feel. My grandparents are ready. Seated on the couch side by side. They got dressed early so I could have my room. My grandma’s lily perfume mixes with grandpa’s aftershave.The smell makes my head spin and reminds me how empty my stomach is.

  I sit down in a wooden chair in the corner of the living room. I don’t think anyone has ever sat in it before.

  My mother comes downstairs in a black suit. I have to say she looks really beautiful, except for her eyes, which are all red and swollen.

  “Does anyone want breakfast?” she asks in her “company” voice.

  “Joseph and I already ate,” my grandma tells her.

  “Jane?” mother asks.

  Food? Not a chance. Not today. I shake my head. No.

  “Very well then. I’ll be outside,” she says.

  Having a cigarette, I finish in my head. But today, for some reason, I don’t feel angry about it. Today, I wish I had something to do that would make me feel better.Then suddenly I remember my birthday gift. The camera still upstairs in its box.

  “Be right back,” I tell them as I dash upstairs to my bedroom.

  I almost collide with my father, who has just come out of his room in a black suit and dark gray tie.

  “Sorry,” I say breathlessly. “Forgot something.”

  The boxes sit under my dressing table. I’m not even sure how to load the memory card. I take the camera out of the box and flip the on switch. Then I grab the instruction booklet and turn to the page labeled Getting Started. I find the tiny latch on the back and pop open the door. The SD card slides neatly onto the slot. Then I gently close the door. I line up the white dots and screw the lens on tight. I push open the battery slot and slide the rechargeable battery in. I hope it comes charged. Then I turn the switch to “on.” When I hear the soft whir of the camera motor, I know I have succeeded. I slip the camera into its case and sling the bag over my shoulder.

  Just as I reach the door, I turn back. I grab my favorite teddy bear, the one I have cherished my whole life—Tuffy. He was Lizzie’s present to me when my parents brought me home from the hospital. He means safety, warmth, love. I mush him on top of the camera and zip the bag closed.The top bulges, but no one will notice.Then I head downstairs to meet my parents.

  The funeral is at our church. Lizzie’s picture sits in a big gold frame at the entrance. She looks gorgeous in it. The church is dank and musty in the morning heat. The sickly sweet smell of too many roses hangs heavy in the still air. We’re really early, but some of my parents’ friends are already there. My dad’s mother, Grandma Tina, and some of her friends. People from Dad’s office. Kids from school. Friends of Lizzie’s. Teachers. I see Zoe and her mom as I pass down the aisle. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. I can’t squeeze back because I am numb.

  Ahead of me, I see Lizzie’s coffin. I step up to the platform and look inside the mahogany box. She doesn’t look like my Lizzie. She looks like a wax figure of Lizzie. She’s in the tight black dress, only it doesn’t seem so tight anymore. Her hair is long and smooth and golden. Her skin is too powdery. Her lips too red.

  How can this be my sister? I was just lying in bed with her, singing lullabies. I feel my throat suddenly start to clamp shut, and I force myself to breathe through my nose. Breathe in love, breathe out sadness. Breathe in Lizzie, breathe out pain. If I had known I wasn’t going to get to talk to her again, I would have said so much more. I would have told her all the things I loved about her. All the things I would never forget about her. Now all I can do is stare at this empty body where Lizzie used to be.

  She’s so alone. I’m suddenly afraid for her. Then I remember Tuffy. I unzip my bag and remove him. I give my bear a quick squeeze and then slide him next to Lizzie, just touching her left hand. “He’ll watch over you, Lizzie.” And then a piece of me will always be with you. As I begin to zip up my bag, I glance down and see the camera. Before I think about what I am doing, I whip it out and start shooting pictures of Lizzie.

  Dead Lizzie. Her face. Her crossed arms. Her delicate hands with nails painted pale pink. Her mouth sewn shut, the little threads like bugs crawling through her lips, like they will once her body is in the ground. I keep shooting. I am beyond all thought. Incapable of restraint.

  A hand clamps around my wrist. Tight.

  “Ouch!” I shout.

  “Put the camera away, Jane,” my father says in The Voice. “Now.”

  I obey. I always obey. Like a well-trained dog. Roll over, Jane. Sit, Jane. Stay, Jane. Be quiet, Jane. Disappear, Jane.

  Without letting go of my wrist, though loosening up a little, my father leads me to the first pew and sits me down next to my mother. She is a complete basket case. Now way beyond not letting anyone see her cry, she is all-out bawling.

  The minister says a few words and then some of Lizzie’s friends stand up to read poems they have written. One of her teachers talks about what a wonderful student Lizzie was. Some of the cheerleaders get up and tell anecdotes about Lizzie at football games.

  It’s a funeral for the Lizzie that the world knew, but not the real Lizzie. I know they are speaking, but I have tuned them out. Until Dad stands up and walks to the podium.

  As he begins to speak, I am suddenly more focused than I have ever been in my life.

  “Elizabeth was the perfect child,” he begins. I know this is about Lizzie. I know that she is dead, and that I shouldn’t be thinking about myself at a time like this. But I can’t help it. Because I know I am so not perfect.

  “She was always so good at everything. And it came so easy to her. We believed there was nothing she couldn’t do. I had such high . . .”

  He looks at my mother and suddenly he loses it. He chokes and sobs. We all sit silently, waiting for him to go on. But he can’t seem to continue. Finally, he manages to speak again.

  “I had such high hopes for her. Such dreams for her. She was so perfect, we just couldn’t believe anything could ever be wrong with her. And that was our biggest mistake. My biggest mistake.”

  He sobs again. “Because she needed my help. And I let he
r down.”

  Then he looks right at me. “I let us all down.”

  Now it is my turn. I have asked to read one of Lizzie’s poems. I don’t think I could have actually spoken out loud about how I feel or how much I will miss her. It’s too personal. I don’t want to share it with a roomful of people. But I want people to remember that Lizzie had feelings. That she was human. And her writing will do that.

  I copied the poem word for word out of one of Lizzie’s notebooks. Now I clutch that precious single sheet of paper in my hand as I take the podium.

  “This is a poem that Lizzie wrote,” I whisper. “It’s called ‘Imprisoned.’”

  I stare out at all the faces. Some people are weeping softly, others hug one another. My eyes drift over them, barely recognizing any of them. And then I spot Zoe. Zoe. Her amber eyes urge me on. I stay with her and begin to recite the poem.

  “Sometimes I can’t breathe for the pain

  boring like leeches into my heart

  The screaming voice of destruction

  silently assaults my ears

  Blocking out waterfalls,

  children’s laughter,

  the song of the lark

  And I am imprisoned

  “The sunlight dances across my nose

  But I am shrouded in darkness

  For every day I mourn my own demise

  And every day I will crawl

  from my shelter of blankets

  and do it all again

  For I am imprisoned

  “How I long to be free of this weight

  To have wings that I could fly into tomorrow

  Instead I dwell in a cave of impossibility

  Where dreams are dead but not forgotten

  and failure is the inevitable truth

  Always I am imprisoned.”

  I finish in a strong voice. Without crying. The room is still. Silent.

  I realize they are all staring at me. I instantly lose whatever poise I had. I look down at the crumpled paper in my hand and stumble off the podium. I slide back into my seat without looking at Mom or Dad. But Dad reaches for my hand. He grips it tightly and squeezes. I don’t let go.