by Stacie Ramey
“It was weird,” I say. “It felt like everyone was staring at me.”
“That made you uncomfortable?”
I hate this crap. Of course it made me uncomfortable. She’s using these questions to settle me down, to lull me. I know this trick. I can’t let Dr. Applegate get to me. I can’t let her break into the vault. I can’t tell her that I’m seeing Leah and hearing her, not just in my memories but as if she’s alive. With me. Now.
“We talked about how it was going to be hard to go back. You said you were ready.”
“I am ready. It was just hard.”
Dr. Applegate lasers her attention on me. “Let’s talk about the medication. I’m going to ask you again, are you taking the meds?”
I consider lying. But right now, that’s not the secret I need to keep. “No. I’m not.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“Because I’m not depressed. No matter what you guys think. I’m the one who didn’t do it. Remember?”
Dr. Applegate leans forward. We’ve danced around this point for weeks. I know she thinks it’s time for her to make progress on this. I brace myself for her next question. “Do you think Leah was depressed?”
“I guess so. I mean, obviously, she must have been. Right?”
“You and Leah were close, weren’t you?”
I nod. She knows we were.
“She called you her ‘bunker buddy.’ Do you know what that means?”
Leah told Dr. Gates. I can’t believe it.
“She said it was like a war with your mom and dad always fighting. How was it like a war?”
“They were always so mad at each other. They were ruthless. Horrible.” The tears are building up. I almost don’t even care. My mouth feels weird, as if my tongue is swollen. I take a drink of Gatorade and choke on it. “They acted like they wanted to kill each other.”
Dr. Applegate’s voice softens. “Like they hated each other?”
I nod. “They acted like they’d never even cared. Like everything that happened between them was a mistake. Even though it wasn’t always like that.”
Dr. Applegate shoulders relax and she clasps her hands in front of her like Mr. Hicks did in our meeting. Like she didn’t hear my screwup referring to Leah and I as we still. “So you devised a battle plan, right?”
“Leah did.”
“Just Leah?”
I nod. It’s not quite true, but it’s mostly on target.
Dr. Applegate gets up, goes to her desk, and brings back a chart with Leah’s name on it. “Dr. Gates gave this to me to help you.” She makes this big pretense like she’s flipping through the pages, trying to find the right words, even though I know she’s already read the chart, that she already knows what she’s looking for, maybe has the passage highlighted. “She decided because she was the ‘general,’ you were the ‘foot soldier’?”
My face heats. I feel the rage build. Why would Leah tell them these things and give them ammunition against me? Why did she always break team? I’m not going to answer Dr. Applegate’s insulting questions. I shouldn’t have to.
“Was Leah the general?”
I shake my head. Not always. She wasn’t always in charge.
“Did Leah take her meds? The ones you don’t want to take?”
I stand and turn away from her. “I don’t know. You have the chart. What did Dr. Gates say?”
“I thought you and Leah were close.”
“No, she didn’t take the meds. She didn’t want to.”
“Was that a good decision? Not taking her meds?”
I bat at a tear that’s gone rogue. “No. I guess not. But we don’t know exactly why she did what she did. She might have had other reasons.”
Dr. Applegate nods. “She might have. But what’s a good enough reason to kill yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have reasons to kill yourself?”
“No.”
Dr. Applegate pauses as if she’s considering my response. Then before I can tell myself this portion of the session is officially over and we’re changing topics, Dr. Applegate says, “If Leah made all your decisions before, who decides now?”
Anger wells inside me. I feel it build, and I can’t stop it. Leah said I was stupid about people. She was right. I was stupid to trust Dr. Applegate when this whole time she was ready to pounce on me, using our secret code against me. That was our language. Mine and Leah’s—until Leah gave it up to the enemy. She may as well have painted a big bull’s-eye on my chest.
“Allie? Who makes the decisions now?”
“I do.”
“You do? You are deciding not to take your meds. Just you? Not Leah’s voice in your head telling you not to?”
The room spins with her allegation, but I steel myself. “No. Of course not.”
“Sometimes when people lose someone they love, they continue to see them, hear them, feel them long after that person’s gone. It’s completely normal.”
I breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in again. I need to stay calm. Not get rattled.
“I think it’s important that you see the difference between you and Leah. Even if you were ‘bunker buddies,’ you were also different. She danced; you paint.”
She died. I didn’t.
“She was depressed; you say you’re not.”
“I’m not. I’m just sad. My sister killed herself. Aren’t I allowed to be sad?”
“You certainly are, Allie. But what I want to know is why you agreed to the pact to begin with.”
I press my hands into my head.
“Are you getting a headache?”
“Yes.”
“You need to take something?”
“No. It’s not bad.”
“Your mother said you need to take your pills when you get headaches.”
I push in harder. As much as I want the headache to stop, I might need it. I might be able to use it to get to Leah. Because I feel her there, behind the headache, like she’s backstage waiting for her cue. “No. Don’t need them.”
“So why does your mom think you do?”
“Because that’s what she does. Whenever anything hurts or is hard, she takes a pill or gives us one. You think that worked for my sister? Is that what you want for me? Because I’m not okay with that. I saw what my parents did and didn’t do with Leah. They gave her pills. Like Mom takes. And now she’s dead.”
I collapse back into my chair, stunned by the words that came out of me, worried that the firestorm that runs through my veins when I think about Mom and Dad will consume me. And then there is Leah. My hands go to my face, which is hot with shame on top of the huge pile of mad. I should be stronger than this. Leah was.
Until she killed herself.
“I know that was hard, Allie. But it’s important to talk about what happened and how you are feeling. That’s why we have to find ways to help you cope.”
I nod and I’m not even faking it. Coping would be good. I’m all in for coping. Now that I’ve been stripped raw and beaten bloody with my own admissions, a little coping might be in order. Suddenly, coping sounds fun.
“Let’s try some relaxation exercises. They can help. Go ahead and lean back.” Her voice shifts to a lower register.
I don’t think it’s going to work, but there’s no arguing. After all, she did go to a recent workshop on the subject, the certificate of attendance already proudly displayed in a jet-black frame. Her wall is like her Girl Scout vest with her merit badges, all lined up. Dr. Applegate loves her some workshops. And credentials. She’s a freak show of cred, my psychiatrist. Lucky me.
“Let your shoulders relax.” Dr. Applegate’s voice is low and steady.
Despite my reservations, I feel myself sink into the leather. It’s cool and envelopes me. My body’s already on board with he
r agenda. The cough medicine has made me obedient. They should list that on the label as a side effect.
“Let your body go loose. Feel yourself floating.” Her voice soothes me, and my mind starts to unwind.
My mind takes me straight to snapshots of Leah that pass one by one. I see her posing for me in my studio. Leah laying on her stomach on her bed, holding her new iPhone, the one Dad gave us on his way out the door to live with his girlfriend. The girlfriend he lied to us about. The girlfriend he lied to Mom about. The girlfriend he left us for.
“Let your mind completely relax and find a happy time. Go there.”
Leah looks up at me, her phone in her hand. She starts to talk, but the memory disintegrates till it becomes something else. Till I can’t see her anymore, but I can hear her. “I can come back,” her voice loops around me, making me happier than I’ve been since she did it. “Is that what you want?” she whispers.
She can come back? What does she mean? How?
“Will you do it? Will you bring me back?”
I want to ask her what she’s talking about, but I’m so distracted by the scent of mangoes and another smell layered underneath it. Cherry ChapStick. The kind Leah used.
I feel myself nodding.
“That’s it, Allie, stay with it,” Dr. Applegate coos.
Leah laughs. I hear her voice so clear and strong that it makes a vision form in my head, like in a movie or a dream. My feet follow a path that seems so real, I can feel the ground under me as I walk barefoot through the woods. Leah is just ahead of me. My mind paints a scene that my heart is happy to follow. I see gray, brown, blue, and green hues. A bird chirps in the distance. A twig underfoot bends and snaps, but I don’t care, because I know when I make it through the thicket, I’ll find her. I call to her with my mind. Wait for me.
“You have to find me,” Leah whispers.
This is some kind of game to her. My head starts to pound, and my heart matches the rhythm. I start to run, but no matter how fast I go, she’s faster.
“Okay, Allie, let’s wake up now.” Dr. Applegate’s voice leaks in.
I resist. I’m not ready to come back. I want to stay with Leah. I want to catch her, but Dr. Applegate’s voice destroys my trance and I have no choice.
“Find me. Any way you can.” It’s Leah’s voice saying pretty much the same thing Piper did earlier.
And then the spell is broken. Leah’s gone, and in her wake there’s just this huge hole inside me. And the questions. Always the questions. Why? Why did she leave me? Why didn’t she take me with her?
“You all right?” Dr. Applegate asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m sitting here totally broken, completely defeated. I concentrate on breathing. Just breathing.
“You went very deep.” She sits ramrod and writes in my file. “Sometimes it’s hard to pull out of that.”
I barely register what she’s saying.
She leans forward, concern painted across her brow, deep lined and ugly. “Allie? Are you back?”
I sit up straighter and lick my lips. My mouth is so dry. I take a drink of Gatorade and try to clear my head. “Yes.”
“Okay, Allie, time’s almost up. You did really well today.”
I sit there, numbed and mute, wondering what the eff just happened and if any of it was real. Leah and her promises and her games. She’s still playing them even though she’s dead.
• • •
The minute we get home, I rush upstairs to my room. Sophie barks at my heels, and I pick her up. Together we lie on my bed. She kisses my face, which is in full migraine mode. I pet her so she’ll lie down and close my eyes to try to stop the pain.
Sometimes distracting myself helps. I send my mind back to the memory I saw in Dr. Applegate’s office. I’m careful not to read anything into it, but I let it play out as if it’s happening, buying time till the headache pill Mom gave me in the car starts working.
We were in Leah’s room that day. Mom had been crying in the bedroom; we could hear her all the way down the hall. Dad’s steps were confident, strong, unquestioning. Leah was painting her nails I’m Not Really a Waitress red. I was sitting on her window seat. She let me stay in her room that day. She always did when it was bad.
Dad’s footsteps stopped at the doorway. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. “Here,” he said, slipping in the room just enough to put an Apple bag on the bed for Leah and one on the floor for me. “Take care of your mom,” he said. Then he was gone.
We listened to him walk down the stairs and out the door. I remember how heavy the air felt as I tried to wrap my head around the fact that this time, it was really it. This time he was gone for good. He chose her over us. Not just Mom. Us too. I started to cry.
“You have to accept it,” Leah said as she began unwrapping her new phone. “It’s not going to change. May as well benefit.” She showed me the shiny new case Dad included with the phone. “Can’t say as I blame him anyway.”
I sat there, floored. Leah always did that, surprised me. I stood up and opened the window seat, grabbed our battle plan book. I flipped through it, looking at all the entries we’d made over the years. The skirmishes fought in our family war documented by me, the foot soldier. I looked up at Leah. “How’s our arsenal doing?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of scrapping the mission,” she said, still working on her phone.
Just like that. But I guessed that was the prerogative of the general.
“I’m serious.” She nodded to the book in my hand. “We don’t need that anymore. Things are going to get better now. With Dad gone, things will get better.”
“How can you say that?”
She sat up and looked me in the eye. “Promise me you won’t think about it. It was a stupid idea. We were stupid. Promise me.” As a foot soldier, she didn’t want my opinion, only my obedience. Then she pushed herself so her legs draped over the bed. “Hey, after we get these set up, I’m gonna go shopping. You can come with. Want a new dress for Brady’s July Fourth party? It’s gonna be killer.”
I believed her. At the time I believed her. And looking back, I think I still do. Three weeks before she killed herself, she didn’t want to. Things were going to get better.
I crawl out of bed, to my desk, open my backpack, and take out the bottle of NyQuil. I know it’s not smart to mix these, I get that, but the pain is unbearable. I take a small sip and then a bigger one. I roll over, push my hand under my mattress, and pull out the notebook I hid after that conversation. I didn’t want her to throw it out, even if she was canceling the combat. I wanted proof that we had been in the trenches together. Our war diary.
I lie back down and close my eyes. Like in Dr. Applegate’s office, I try to find me some happiness. A sound comes to me, lingers on the edge of my consciousness. Whatever it is, it’s coming from Leah’s room. I walk out into the hall. My head is foggy and my eyes burn, but my ears zoom in. I know this sound. I’ve heard it a hundred times. A thousand. A million. In real life when Leah was alive. Then in my head after she died.
But these sounds are real. They are happening now. I can tell they are not happening in my head. I can hear them come from the other room, where my head is not.
I step into her room. The sunlight pours through the window, creating a sunburst that hurts to look at. I shield my eyes. She’s standing in the light. I blink away the brightness, expecting her to disappear, but she doesn’t. Leah is standing at her bar, wearing a black leotard and pink tights. She has on her ballet slippers, the pink ones, worn and cracked.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” She looks at her arms, more outline than substance. “I’m back.”
She lifts her arms above her head and then sweeps them down in front of her again. She looks at her hand, the silver ring solid compared to her body. But still, even partially inked, she is flawless, just like when she was alive.
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She turns to look at me, standing tall, as if she’s ready to perform. Her arms glide over her head. Mom always said Leah had the perfect dancer’s body. And she’s right. Even dead, she is taller and straighter than me. Even dead, she wins.
I try to think about how much cough medicine I took. In Dr. Applegate’s office. Then again in my room. I don’t think it was much, but maybe it’s like a cumulative effect. Maybe I’m killing my brain one dose at a time.
Leah laughs as she twirls in place. “You could never hold your drugs.” Her arms are held in a circle as she spins, her ballet skirt floating away from her legs. Leah is half-in, half-out of this world. And I summoned her here. I get excited. I can ask her all the things I want to know. I can find out if I let her down or if it was the other way around.
She finishes her pirouette and stares me, arms crossed in front of her. “You’re crazy, definitely. You’re totally crazy if you think you can grill me like some stupid bitch on Pretty Little Liars.”
She fouettés in front of me, turning and spinning till I’m sure she’ll take off like a top. I can’t stop watching her until I’m so dizzy, I feel as if I’m going to puke. Leah laughs, and I start to get a little mad. I’m sitting here dazed, confused, dizzy, drunk, sorry, and Leah’s laughing and dancing. Just like when she was alive.
“You worry too much,” Leah says. “It’s not good for you.”
I find myself nodding. Obviously this isn’t normal. Even a little groggy from cold medicine, I can tell that. Even completely fucked up, this isn’t normal. You don’t just go around willing your dead sister back into this world. And then watch her dance.
“Leah?” I ask when she stops to sit on her window seat and adjust her tights. This time, she’s more than outline, as if she’s getting better at it. “Can other people see you?”