Sister Pact

by Stacie Ramey

  “So what…”

  He reaches under the seat of his Jeep and hands me a small wooden box. It’s red with blue-and-pink flowers carved into it. It seems familiar. Like I saw it a really long time ago. But I can’t place it.

  “It was hers. Leah’s.”

  I’m suddenly transported back in time. My mind reaches for the memory, and it comes slowly, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together. She got it at one of the souvenir shops on the Cape when we were really little. It used to sit above her bed. One time when I was seven, I tried to look in it. And Leah grabbed it from me, protectively.

  “Don’t ever touch this. Ever.”

  “But what’s in it?”

  “My heart.”

  I pulled back.

  “I could show you, but it’s all bloody and still beating. Wanna see?” She chased me all over the house with it. I remember screaming the whole time. I didn’t really believe her heart was in there. Not really. But now maybe I do.

  My hands close around it.

  “It’s all I have left of her.” He doesn’t let go yet.

  “I can’t—”

  “No. You should have it. Just, when you’re done with it, if there’s anything you don’t want, can you give those things back?”

  “You sure?”

  “You answered something for me the other day—something that’s been bothering me since she died. I needed to know if she took my pills. I’m glad she didn’t.” He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers in my ear. I feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against my face. He releases the box and then leans back in his seat, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I knew she was unhappy. I thought I was enough to help her.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

  He brushes the hair off his face. “She gave me her phone.” His voice is now choked up. “It’s in the box.”

  “What?”

  “Her phone. She gave it to me. Said I needed to keep it safe for her. That she didn’t want to be tempted to answer Brittney or Sean’s calls. She said she’d be back to get it the next day. But then…”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “I should have known. She would have never given up her phone. I should have seen through what she was planning.”

  I look at him; his jaw is braced, misery on his face.

  “It wasn’t you. I…I was right next door. One room away… And…and I heard her. I heard her up but didn’t do anything…”

  He reaches out for me and holds me. “I wanted us to be together. I didn’t want to be without her. I was better when she was with me.”

  I know exactly how he feels.

  “We have to stop.” I wipe my face. “We can’t keep doing this. Leah did this. Not you. Not me.”

  “I know. I just miss her.”

  “Yeah.”

  We drive the three blocks to my house in silence. He parks out front.

  “You’re a sweetheart. I want you to know that,” he says.

  “Thanks for this.” I show him the box. “Really.”

  “Some of it might be hard for you to see. I almost didn’t give it to you because of that. But you have a right to know.”

  I reach forward and kiss him on the cheek, then rush out of the car to my front door. I turn and wave to him again. I want to be nice to him. He didn’t have to give this to me. I know I should be grateful. Truthfully, I am. But more than that, I’m skating between scared to know and dying to find out.

  • • •

  Mom’s on the phone when I come inside. I wonder to whom. She gives me a nod, then goes into her bedroom and shuts the door. I pick up Sophie and race up the stairs.

  “Come here, girl. I could use a little company.”

  Once in my room, I lock the door and put on my music. Medium loud. Don’t want Mom to come in to ask me to turn it down but loud enough that the rest of the house fades away. My hands shake.

  I hold my breath and open the box and empty its contents till I’m covered in Leah’s secrets. In addition to her cell, there are piles of pictures. And sticky notes and cards. The sticky notes are all different colors and sizes. One has a picture of a hand with the middle finger extended on it with the words haha written on it. Another says Sorry I made you mad. His writing. You make me smile. Hers. Breaking up with U with a tiny heart drawn next to it. Little bits of my sister and John Strickland. I pore over each one, trying to reconstruct the ghost of their relationship, one I didn’t even know existed until after they were no longer a couple. I open the first card. It has two tiny hearts on the front.

  You and Me written in her scrawly handwriting. Xoxo, Leah.

  Another has a picture of a moose on the front. Inside, the card read, Moose be love. And he wrote under it. You know I do. Xoxo, 5gradecrush. Glimpses of this boy who held my sister’s heart are caught in these. I wonder if John Strickland put these in here to prove that Leah did love him. That he didn’t make it up.

  I leaf through the pictures. One of her posing in his bedroom. Sitting on his bed. Smiling. A totally free and easy and happy smile.

  A picture of her from her fifth-grade class trip. She was standing in a group of girls. John on the sideline, looking over. On the back he wrote, I’ve been into you for a long time. Another one from that same trip. Leah on a tire swing. Posing for him.

  There are a bunch of pressed and dried red and purple flowers, with leaves falling off them. A mate to the silver hoop earring he wears. A picture of Leah pointing to the silver ring on her finger and smiling broadly. The one she always wore. Was that ring from John?

  He said he was her in-between guy. But looking at this, he was much more. I could see she felt safe with him. And I’m pretty sure that was not a feeling my sister experienced often.

  My hand closes around her phone. John said he thought about not giving it to me.

  I try to turn it on and it’s dead. I climb off my bed and grab my charger. Plugged in, I power it up. The wallpaper picture of me and Leah takes my breath away. I keep going. I need to do this. The last text messages she exchanged were with Dad. My stomach drops. I get dizzy. I don’t want to see those yet.

  I can almost hear Leah’s singsong voice, “Save the best for last.”

  I scroll down.

  She texted 5grcrsh. I’m guessing John Strickland. Need u.

  Him back to her: Where r u?

  Her: Ill come to u.

  Party going on. Come around back.

  The next series of texts are from Brittney. After the party.

  Tlk to me.

  Please

  Pick up

  Before the party.

  Whatcha wearing?

  My hair sux

  Mine 2

  Urs never does

  xoxoxo

  I look at these texts, and something suddenly makes sense to me. Brittney wasn’t her bestie. John was. Brittney was her cover. And I feel like laughing. Leah did have taste. Secretly. Scrolling down, I find another series of texts from an “unknown number.”

  Unknown: There’s nothing I can do.

  She wants me off the team.

  I can’t help you. Drugs mean automatic dismissal. Zero tolerance. But I won’t send your file to anyone. I won’t stop you from transferring.

  That’s the end of that conversation. But I picture Vanessa at the party taunting me. “Ask your sister why she isn’t on the team anymore. Ask her.”

  She meant because Leah was caught with drugs. I look at Brittney’s texts, and I remember her saying that Leah reset her password to keep her out. But I remember that day that Leah set our passwords on our phones. Dad had just left. I was destroyed, and Leah wanted to help me. She was always doing that.

  “IMSS,” Leah had said, grabbing my phone.

  “Stop
, Leah. Give it to me,” I said. “You are so messed up.”

  I grabbed hers. “Okay, then yours will be”—I laughed as I typed—“IMWF.”

  “What does that mean? I am white female? Dork!”

  “No.” I imitated her sharklike smile. “I am worst first.”

  I expected for her to be mad at me, but she just laughed. I remember I’d made her laugh.

  “Okay, that fits. I am the worst.”

  I’d handed hers back to her and tried to take mine. She’d held on for an extra second.

  “Promise not to change it though, Allie. Because that would be cheap.” She’d looked right into me. “It’ll be our thing. Between us. And I love you, even if you’re sloppy.”

  “I love you, even though you’re the worst.” I nodded solemnly, despite having to work hard not to smile.

  Her eyes teared up, and she hugged me hard for just a second. Then she pushed me away and got off my bed. “You should totally take my bed when I’m gone.”

  I thought she had meant when she went to college.

  I scroll to the texts from John Strickland, one of their conversations a few days before she died.

  Her: Lets really do it. Run away.

  Him: I’m in. When?

  Her: Im Srs.

  Him: No ur not. What’s wrong?

  Her: Nothing.

  Him: Tell me.

  Her: I’ve messed everything up. I don’t know that I can fix it.

  Him: Then I will. Come over. Now.

  Her: K.

  I stand up. And pace. I piece together the puzzle of Leah’s last few days. And it’s pretty grim. So far, I’ve got that she wasn’t going to be on the dance team anymore because of drugs and Vanessa. As horrible as that is, then she found out Sean was cheating on her with Brittney. And then the texts with Dad. Was he the last straw? And what exactly did he do that made her feel so hopeless?

  John Strickland warned me that some of it would be hard to take. The being kicked off the dance team thing sucked. But I’m betting the Dad stuff is worse. Should I look? I sit back on my bed and chew my nail. I have to know. I open up her conversation with Dad.

  I scroll to the begging of their conversation. The first message she sent him.

  Dad? I need to talk.

  What’s up?

  Can u talk?

  Can’t. In a meeting.

  Please. I need to talk.

  Text me what’s wrong.

  I need to get away. I need to start over.

  Are you taking your meds?

  It’s not about the meds.

  If you take your meds things will seem better. Take them. Then we’ll talk. That’s final.

  The rage boils up inside me. Too much to contain. One of Dad’s get-tough campaigns. Wow. How could he take a chance like that? What kind of father doesn’t listen when he’s previously suicidal daughter asks for help? Who puts conditions on helping her?

  Almost an hour later.

  Leah: I’ll take my meds. Okay? Then can I come live with you?

  I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Y not? Please.

  He never answered her. I wonder why. I think back to that night in my bedroom. She said she found out that Dad was living with Danielle just before. So what’s missing? My head spins. I have some guesses, but I have to know the whole picture.

  I pull out my phone and dial John Strickland’s number. Not the one he gave me. His personal line. The one he only gave to Leah.

  He answers on the second ring. “Figured you’d call.”

  “Hate being predictable,” I manage.

  He laughs. “What’s up?”

  “You know why I’m calling.”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “Please.”

  “She went over to face him. To force her to deal with him. And found Danielle and him together.”

  “I figured. After she found them, did Dad talk with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell her?”

  “He told her he was sorry, but Danielle said she couldn’t live with them. In a year, she’d be leaving to go to college anyway. He’d help her in any other way possible. She should take her meds and go home and things would look better.”

  “God, I hate him.”

  “Get in line.”

  “You think he gets, for one second, what he did?”

  “I don’t care about your dad. I’m sorry. I don’t care about him at all. I could have taken care of her. I would have. But for some reason, she wanted him to. Or she believed he should want to. And if he didn’t want to, it was just more proof she wasn’t worth it. How fucked up is that? It’s like she had to pass all these tests…”

  The tests. It takes me a second to catch my breath enough to say, “I’ve gotta go.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing bad.”

  “If you need to talk, call me. I’ll keep my phone on.”

  “Thanks.”

  My head’s swimming with too much pain and rage and information. I go into Leah’s room. Her sacred space. All the sparkle was a show. The biggest role Leah played was herself.

  Leah lied to me. All the times she said she was fine, she lied. All the nights she acted like she was okay, lies. She wasn’t okay. She was losing herself. Bit by bit. And I didn’t know. She kept me away from her on purpose so she could do what she had to do. She should have come to me instead of Dad. I would have helped her. I would have. But she didn’t want my help. I was always just her backup plan.

  I take the picture of us skiing and throw the frame as hard as I can. Sea glass explodes against the wall. I’m glad. I took something of hers and broke it. Like Dad broke her. And like she’s breaking me now.

  I pick up the picture of Leah and Brittney and launch it against the other wall. Shattering Leah’s image feels great. She was never as perfect as I painted her.

  I think about Dad. He chose Danielle over us. Not just over Mom. Over us too. Like we were a mistake he couldn’t get away from.

  “I hate how you treated us!” I scream at Dad. And to Leah, “I was never good enough for you. I hate you for leaving me!”

  I throw more picture frames, relishing the sound they make as they break. I hate Leah. Lie.

  My heart beat slows, and I start to wind down, collapsing next to the heap I’ve made. I push the debris away and pull out the picture of Leah and me on the ski trip.

  “Let’s pretend we’re in college,” she had said as we got on the ski lift. Her voice reaches across time and echoes in my ears. I cut my finger on the fractured glass. The blood leaks out of me and onto the picture.

  “Shit!” I say to the empty room. I try to get a grip. “Did you think I wasn’t strong enough to kill myself? You think I would have chickened out? You don’t know me. You don’t know.”

  For the first time in a long time, I think about my emergency stash of pills. The one Leah collected for us to use if we needed. Our arsenal.

  My whole body is screaming with pain. Not just my heart or my head. I am a mess of heartbreak. Raw and raging and out of control. I need a getting-over-Max Help. I need a forgiving-Mom Help. I need a missing-Leah Help. I need something. Anything.

  I stand, grab my phone and Leah’s, and head downstairs.

  I take Gatorade from the fridge. Anger pours from me in waves. I put on my boots and my jacket. Sophie follows me. “You stay here this time.”

  She puts her head on her paws and whines. I can’t have her see me like this.

  I grab my studio key and go out the door. I pull my hood up and brace against the rain. The twenty seconds it takes to make it to my studio leave my face feeling pinpricked. The path is slick, but I keep going. I need to get this out of me.

  I jam my key in the lock
and push open the door with my hip. I open the first cabinet and stick my arm all the way back until I find the baggie I’m looking for. A stash she made me promise not to ever take without her. Some of Mom’s pills but also John Strickland’s gifts. The ones she didn’t take that night. Maybe because they weren’t enough. Maybe because she didn’t want John to feel guilty that she killed herself with his stuff.

  I spill the contents into my hand. Twelve pills. But is this what I want? My hand shakes. I think about the choices in front of me. Pills or pain? Art or life?

  I look at the empty easels, waiting for my decision. What’s it going to be? I take my phone out and almost will it to jump to life. Play the game again. If someone calls, I won’t do this. If anyone texts, I won’t. But the phone stays silent. I’ve got to decide this for myself.

  “Oh, fuck!” I say to no one in particular. So I change the game. If there are canvases in the other cabinets, I’ll paint it out. My hand shakes as I check the first one. Empty. Shit. The next one is the same. Last door. Please be there. Please. I close my eyes and open it. I’m shaking and sweating. Please. When I open my eyes, I can’t believe it. Four empty canvases are there, waiting. Four. Thank God. I shove the pills in my pocket and take two of the canvases out and throw them on the easels. I have art to make.

  I open the drawers and grab a handful of paints and brushes. I start to mix. This one’s going to be Dad’s painting. As I paint, the pain seeps out of me and onto the canvas. Every stroke of the brush, every decision, takes some pain away.

  Dad’s palette starts with the camouflage colors—army green, gray, khaki, and black. I grab a size-twelve brush and paint a rose opening. The camo colors spill from the flower and across the painting from the top-left corner through the middle of the painting. I dribble bloodred throughout. In the bottom-right corner of the canvas, I paint robin’s-egg blue ovals. Some complete, some distorted. To the left of the blue ovals is a pool of burgundy. Around the top border and wrapping around the right side, I write I don’t think that’s a good idea in charcoal and ebony.

  I pull out another canvas and put it on the easel—another round in the chamber. I paint tiny strokes of Leah’s colors: purple, powder blue, canary yellow, silver, gold. Then I add Dad’s colors—charcoal, ebony, army green, gray, khaki—in lines. Leah’s reasons. Each stroke an accusation. War games. Death. Betrayal. Each one displayed for the world to see. How Dad ran out on us, how he broke Leah. And Mom. But how he didn’t break me. In the corner of this one, in tiny baby blue letters, I paint That’s not a good idea.