Pictures of You

by Juliette Caron

  “Losing you,” she said without hesitation. She was gazing at the ceiling then, playing with the charm bracelet on her arm, the one I gave her on her twelfth birthday. She did that—looked away when things got too sentimental, too gushy.

  “You won’t lose me,” I said, but I knew it was a promise I couldn’t keep. Even then I knew life was unpredictable, like the weather on a spring afternoon. There were no guarantees. “What else are you afraid of? Besides spiders and country music,” I added, jokingly.

  “I don’t know…well actually…promise you won’t tell anyone?” she asked, her eyes cutting into mine.

  Surprised by her sudden intensity, I laughed. “Sure, I promise.”

  She hesitated before saying, “I’ve always been afraid of dying young. And…I’ve always thought that maybe—”

  “What?” Again, I laughed. “Of course you won’t die young. You’re not allowed to. We’re growing old together, remember? We’re going to be each other’s maid of honor and our kids are going to be best friends…You’re going to be a rock star, just like you imagined. And then someday we’re going to be the coolest old ladies around.”

  She tugged her brows together and bit her lower lip. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You’d better not die on me,” I threatened. “If you do, I’ll make you eternally miserable, I swear it. I’ll put spiders in your casket. Lots of spiders. And I’ll play country music at your funeral. I’m not kidding.”

  She raised her hands, stick-‘em-up style. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m not dying young.”

  “That’s right. And never forget it,” I said before throwing a Twinkie at her face.

  As I came back to the present, I was shocked to see half of the Twinkies gone. High on a sugar buzz, I took the remaining five and hid them under the bed. Maybe the cat would find them and finish them off. I stretched out on the bed, upside-down and hugged her pillow against my chest. I noted her scent of Jasmine and Suave shampoo and her natural Abby scent in her bedding. The smell filled my throat with cotton balls and caused my insides to ache. And then I felt a crushing feeling, like a brick wall fell over onto my chest.

  I sobbed fiercely, the kind of sobbing that causes your whole body to tremble. And then, without fully realizing it, I kicked Abby’s headboard. One swift blow punctured the flimsy wood. A strange noise escaped my throat. A sound so alien, it scared me. But seeing the hole somehow filled the void in my heart—just a little. I kicked some more and some more and laughed a bitter, angry laugh. The kicking /laughing/crying felt oddly therapeutic. Cleansing. I stopped kicking when a splinter pierced the sole of my shoe, the sharp edge poking through my sock. I only felt a tad guilty for ruining her bed frame—she told me once it had been her grandmother’s—but overall I felt relieved to have damaged something.

  So much for expressing anger in constructive ways. I rolled up into fetal position, smashing my face into the pillow.

  “Why did you leave me? Why?” I whispered.

  Despite my sugar high, grief yanked me down into a long but restless sleep.

  ***

  In the morning I had a throbbing headache. A Twinkie hangover. Realizing I should take some aspirin and go to work, I called in sick instead. On the phone Janice sounded unconvinced. I was lucky she didn’t fire me right then and there for lying. But I wasn’t being totally deceitful. I felt completely trashed—physically and emotionally. Hit and flattened by a steamroller.

  I tumbled out of bed and peeled off my strangling clothes. There were seam marks in my skin where my jeans had been. I raked through Abby’s drawers and pulled out a massive vintage Depeche Mode tee and a pair of plaid boxers and dressed myself. Her essence engulfed me, giving me the impression I was being hugged. My eyes got all leaky again.

  As if she had psychic abilities and sensed I was coveting Abby’s things, Hannah, her mom, called to say she was coming over tomorrow afternoon to collect Abby’s things and will I please leave a key under the doormat for her?

  Crap. The bed frame.

  “What are you going to do with her stuff?” I asked, an ice-cold panic washing over me. I picked up her favorite guitar, a Yamaha acoustic-electric and pressed it against my chest. She can’t take the guitar. That thing was a part of Abby. Like an appendage. It still had her fingerprints all over it. It was proof she was once here.

  “Keep a few things that are sentimental. Donate the rest to Goodwill,” Hannah said absently. I heard Abby’s brothers wrestle in the background.

  I wanted to say, “How can you get rid of her stuff like that? She died like three weeks ago. Are you really that anxious to put her behind you? Maybe you should scratch her face out of all the family photos while you’re at it. She was only your daughter. Shouldn’t we leave things be? Leave her stuff the way it is? Maybe even consider opening an Abby museum?” But instead I said, “I’ll be here. Come over whenever you’d like.”

  I looked around Abby’s room and suddenly felt like hoarding. My inner pack-rat began scheming. I wanted her stuff. All of it. I’d lusted after her music collection for half of my life. Although she was a size smaller, her clothes were baggy and I often borrowed them. And her scrapbooks. I could not let Hannah take those. They meant the universe to me. Untidy and swimming in graffiti, those scrapbooks sandwiched our dearest memories. Dozens of photos of us spanning eleven years of friendship. Her crazy poems and lyrics and memorabilia flat enough to stuff under a plastic sheet protector overflowed the binders. Not to mention the hundreds of concert ticket stubs. Like me, she kept each one.

  Like a winner of a thousand dollar mall shopping spree, I began grabbing fistfuls of stuff, shoving whatever I could into a Washington Apples cardboard box. First I snagged the scrapbooks, then some of my favorite clothes: her band tees, her punk-rock plaid pants with zippers, her military-style jacket with a Siouxsie and the Banshees patch sewn on the back. Next the CDs. I considered taking them all, but then realized Hannah would be suspicious. So I took the most coveted ones. The imports, the bootlegs. The rare ones: Cuddly Toys, Freur, Dali’s Car, Celebrate the Nun. The Top album signed by Robert Smith himself.

  I decided to keep her favorite guitar. I would let her family have the red and white Fender. I had no use for that one. After all, my only musical talent was appreciation. Plus Hannah would probably notice if that was missing. Her folks splurged and bought it for her for Christmas two years ago.

  I scanned her jewelry and grabbed a favorite turquoise ring and her sterling silver cat necklace. She loved cats. (Tiger was actually Abby’s cat.)

  I stopped cold. Would Hannah take Tiger? Definitely not. I would not allow that. As far as I was concerned Tiger was as much mine as she was Abby’s. I’d helped raise the silly cat since he was a clingy kitten, pawing my every body part, looking in all the wrong places for milk. We found him abandoned in a grocery cart at a Trader Joe’s parking lot three days into senior year. It was love at first sight. We knew we had to take him home.

  Another thought crossed my mind. Was I stealing? Technically this stuff belonged to Abby’s family now. Was I breaking some moral code? Robbing my dead best friend? Besides taking a gummy worm out of the bulk bin when I was six, I’d never stolen anything before. But she was my best friend. We were practically family. More than family. I deserved a few things for myself. I considered asking Hannah if she’d mind if I took a few things, but what if she insisted on keeping the scrapbooks for herself? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. I treasured them more than any of my own belongings. More than my beloved camera.

  6

  I didn’t get out of bed in the morning—Abby’s bed—until eleven. I’d stayed up late watching a Cosby Show marathon, wiping out an entire frozen pizza and the remaining five Twinkies. I sat up, gasping in pain. My head felt like it was being twisted by two ugly sumo wrestlers.

  Maybe I should kick the Twinkie habit now while I still have a chance.

  I noticed my diary, which I’d absentmindedly placed on the nightstand. It looked
so lonely there. Out of guilt, I picked it up and wrote:

  Abby,

  I miss you so much. You’ll never know how much I miss you. Why did you have to leave me????

  PS I’ve taken over your bedroom. Hope you don’t mind.

  I plucked up my bathrobe and headed for the bathroom to take a shower. I stood for a bit, opting to simply gawk at the shower instead. If I stared long enough, would it magically make my matted hair, my offensive garlic breath and oily skin just somehow disappear? Where was Mary Poppins when I needed her?

  Instead of showering, I melted into the couch and watched Dr. Brown’s lover wake up from a year-long coma on TV. Little did she know her ruggedly handsome boyfriend with the perfect length of stubble on his chin had an evil twin brother, also romancing her. Tiger curled up next to me, purring with contentment—as if his owner didn’t die three weeks ago. I shoved fistfuls of Cheerios into my mouth (I was out of milk) and washed it down with ginger ale. Abby loved ginger ale. Our fridge was still stocked with about a month’s supply.

  At three Hannah came over. She was armed with eight boxes and packing tape.

  “Oh, Tember,” she said through wet eyes, giving me a massive hug, the stud in her nose catching my hair. She looked around the front room. “Looks like you’re all settled in. I just love what you two have done with the place.”

  The entire apartment was slapped together with various creative finds. The purple couch had been snagged at a wealthy man’s estate sale for only $80. The coffee table was simply an old door placed on two cinder blocks. A wicker chair in the corner was found dumpster-diving. Our impressive vinyl and CD collection was neatly placed in stacked antique milk crates. The leaning tower of vintage board games was another yard sale find. My photos decorated the walls. Nag Champa incense burned eternally on the side table next to a monkey lamp.

  “Thanks. Um, Hannah, there’s something I should warn you about.” The headboard. I turned into a crazed lunatic and pulverized it.

  “Tember, are you okay? You don’t look too hot.” She eyed me up and down and frowned. Abby’s Depeche Mode tee and boxers were messy and wrinkled now. Last night’s dinner stuck to the lead singer’s face. It was something like three days since I’d showered. I didn’t even want to imagine how I must’ve smelled.

  “I’m…surviving.” I laughed a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I can’t imagine how it must be for you to lose your mother and a child in the same year. How are you holding up?”

  Hannah did look tired. Since the funeral she’d aged about ten years and for the first time ever she wasn’t wearing her signature Egyptian eyeliner.

  “We all miss Abs terribly. I still can’t believe she’s gone.” Everyone in her family called her that, everyone except her grandfather who insisted she be called Abigail. “But we know she’s with Jesus now.”

  I led her into the bedroom, dreading her reaction to the late grandma’s murdered headboard. Hannah was usually a cool, laid-back mom, but I’d annihilated a family heirloom.

  “Oh September. What happened here?” A heavily ringed hand covered a gaping mouth.

  I was going to tell the truth, I swear, but fear clung to me like a sticky shirt on a hot summer day. “Um, er, Abby did it.”

  Great. Blame it on the dead person. Who was I becoming? Lying to my friend’s mom, skipping showers and work, binging on pizza and sugar. I used to be so with it. What was wrong with me? Where was the honest, trustworthy September we knew and loved?

  “Abby what?”

  “Abby did it. She was having this terrible nightmare. A headboard monster was attacking her. She kicked the crap out of the poor thing.” Oh, that was horrible! If I was going tell a lie, it may as well have been a good one. A headboard monster?

  “That was my mother’s headboard. My great grandfather built it for her when she was eleven. That just breaks my heart.”

  I had to look away when Hannah’s eyes teared up again.

  It took two hours to box up all of her things. I helped Hannah haul the headboard to the dumpster and load her car with Abby’s stuff. It nearly killed me when she drove away with it. It was almost like losing my friend all over again.

  Much to my guilty relief, Hannah didn’t notice the missing CDs. She didn’t even ask about the scrapbooks and when I asked if I could keep Tiger, she shrugged and said, “Oh, of course.”

  We’d also managed to fill up an entire box of Mary’s things. Abby’s other best friend. Apparently they borrowed each other’s stuff as much as we did. I threw the box in the back of the closet, wondering if I’d ever get around to returning it.

  Hannah let me keep Abby’s posters up. After all, we adored most of the same bands. Aside from a few candy wrappers, eighty-seven cents and a moldy burrito (I found behind the hamper of all places), the room was empty.

  Suddenly a surge of energy shot through me. I vacuumed Abby’s floor, wiped down the dusty walls and gave the windows a Windex shine. Next I pushed and pulled and tugged my furniture into the empty room. Seeing it bare was too painful. I’d rather see my own room vacant. She had the better room anyway, with two windows and a bigger closet. We’d fought over the room when we’d first moved in but quickly resolved it with three rounds of Paper, Rock, Scissors.

  I worked up a sweat by the time I pulled my dresser in the room. When the last photo was hung—one of full-grown Abby riding one of those fifty cent kiddie rides—I collapsed, exhausted. Staring at the ceiling, I realized I had to rent out my room. I couldn’t afford this place otherwise. But who would even begin to compare to Abby? She was the perfect roommate. Aside from being a little messy, she never hogged the bathroom, stole my food, or borrowed my clothes without asking. When I thought about some stranger coming in and marking her territory, someone who’d listen to gross music, take over more than half of the fridge and bring creepy guys over, suddenly I craved Twinkies.

  ***

  On my way to the grocery store to buy frozen pizza and Twinkies, I happened to see John who also lived in East Williamsburg. (He actually encouraged me and Abby to find an apartment nearby so he could keep an eye on us. He was protective like that, which I thought was sweet.) Crossing paths with John wasn’t the worse part. Neither was being dressed in a dirty tee, boxers, with grungy hair and no makeup. Never mind my I-haven’t-showered-in-three-days stench or my unbrushed teeth. It was where I saw John. John was at Edward Marcus Jewelers, looking at rings of all things. When he saw me watching him through the pristine glass storefront, he ducked behind the earrings like he was dodging a bullet. It was all very James Bond. I must’ve lost it because rather than listen to my inner voice telling me to mind my own business and avoid entering a fancy establishment in a ratty rock shirt and men’s undergarments, I went in.

  “Oh, September. What are you doing here?” John said, straightening up, pushing gorgeous hair out of his gorgeous face, looking anxious, guilty and perplexed all at once.

  An older man standing behind the display case with a nice suit and a comb-over eyed me with disdain.

  “No, the question is, what are you doing here?” I said, ignoring the snobby man’s glare.

  “I’m, um, buying earrings for my mom.” He looked over to the left and rubbed his nose like he always did when he lied.

  “You and I both know that your mom only wears native stuff. I saw you looking at rings. Why were you looking at rings?” I knew I was being demanding, unreasonable, obnoxious, but I’d suspected something wasn’t right with us weeks before he dumped me.

  John’s arms fell to his sides, his face divulged defeat. “You win. You want to know what I’m doing here, September? You’re going to find out soon enough.”

  I nodded, folded my arms. His cringe made me think maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe ignorance was bliss.

  He sighed. Cringed again. Sighed again. Wow, this was painful for him. Whatever it was. Suddenly I was feeling sympathy pains. I would take them back if I’d known what he was about to tell me.

  He let
the words tumble out. “I’m buying your sister an engagement ring.”

  He may as well have kicked me in the stomach.

  “What? April?” I said, as if I had more than one sister. I started laughing. He’s kidding, I thought. He has to be kidding. And anyway, they’re only a year older than me. Waaaay too young for something as grown up and stuffy as marriage.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry, September. We’re both sorry to hurt you like this.”

  “What?” I said, stunned. When did this happen?

  “I’ve always had a thing for your sister.”

  Ouch. I couldn’t believe he’d just said that. “You what?”

  “When her boyfriend broke up with her, she was lonely and well…”

  The more things sunk in, the more breathing became a struggle. His words were like an anvil on my chest. “You’re with my sister? You’re proposing to April? Abby died like three weeks ago and now you’re telling me this?”

  “I know the timing’s rotten. April and I weren’t going to tell you for awhile.” April and I. April and I. When did this April and I crap start? I must be a total idiot to have missed this. Oblivious. And then I remembered the funeral. John and April showing up at the same time, sitting together. I should’ve known.

  “Why April? She’s nothing like me.”

  “She’s pretty great…I mean, you’re great, too. That came out all wrong. April’s…driven. She has a ten year plan. She’s going to be a lawyer. She wants to do something with her life.”

  “I’m driven, too. I’m a photographer. That’s something.”

  “You’re an artist. You work at a craft store, for heaven’s sake.” He said craft store like it was a red light district or a co-op for cannibals.

  “Art supplies store,” I corrected.

  But he was right. John and April were more alike when it came to future aspirations. John planned on attending dental school. It was law school for April. (I know—dental school. Could you be any more boring?) They both wanted a cushy suburban life with two point five children, a Labrador Retriever and a cookie-cutter home. Like me, John came from an upper-middle class upbringing, but unlike me, he wanted our parents’ lives. Nice, conservative neighbors in khakis and polo shirts to invite over for barbeques. A boat, a sports car, a minivan. I wanted to take photos and see the world. Maybe I was too bohemian for him.