by Stacie Ramey
“I went to find Sean while you were with Jason. He was…he was with Brittney. I caught them.”
I lean forward. “I’m so sorry, Leah.”
“She always wanted him. And she was jealous of me. So I decided. I wasn’t going to let Dad sleaze out of this. I needed to get away. He owed me. I went to see him.” She stops. Her face filled with a combination of hate and agony. “You know how that went.”
“You could have told me. You should have told me.”
Leah brushes the hair away from her face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You were in the other room. Just down the hall from mine. Right down the hall. Do you know how many times I’ve wished I’d gone in to see you that night? That I’d been able to stop you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know how many times John has wished he could have figured out what you were going to do?”
“I wasn’t entirely sure.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know I was going to do it. I was still deciding. John made me feel better. He said he’d take me away somewhere. He had plenty of money saved. He’d go clean. He’d go to college if I wanted that. Did you know he’s really smart? He could do it too. He had enough money saved to do that. We’d have been fine.”
“So why didn’t you? Why did you do it?”
“It’s so stupid really. It’s all mixed up. He was walking me to my car. I was going back to the party to get you when I saw them.”
“Who?”
“Max and Em. Together.”
It’s like being punched in the stomach. She saw them. She knew. I want to cry. “It was bad enough that Brittney betrayed me. She was never that deep or loyal to begin with. But Max. And Em. It shook me. I’d talked you into getting with Jason…to grow up for Max. It was as if the rest of the world fell away…and I thought about John, really thought about him. I didn’t want that life with him. I know that sounds awful. I loved him. But I knew one day, I’d hurt him the way Max hurt you. And the way Dad hurt Mom. And how Dad hurt me. And I couldn’t do that. Not to him.”
“Don’t you think killing yourself hurt him? Don’t you think it hurt me too?”
“The thing is, at that time, nothing seemed real. It was like being Alice in Wonderland. Or performing on stage. Everything seemed distorted. When I got home, I just said to myself, ‘Maybe I’ll do this.’ I never fully decided. I thought, If I don’t get caught picking up the pills at the pharmacy, maybe I’ll do it. And I thought, If I don’t get caught getting the wine, I’ll do it. And if Sean doesn’t come find me, I’ll do it. It was like a series of tests I kept failing. And when I finally took all the tests, when I’d used up all my chances, I sat at my computer and made it all look like it was okay.”
“I heard you that night. I thought I heard you moving around, but I didn’t get up. I was mad at you. You left me and didn’t tell me where you went, and I had been humiliated.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And then when I found you…it was the worst thing because I saw the label was peeled, and I knew that whole time you sat there peeling the label, you were thinking about it. And if I hadn’t been mad at you, I’d have gotten up and found you…and stopped you. It’s like I killed you. Like I’m responsible too.”
She puts her hands on me. “No. I did it. I killed myself.”
“But I should have known. I’m such a bad sister.”
“No.” She pulls me to her, her arms wrapping around my neck. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I should have asked you… I should have taken care of you.”
Leah hugs me hard and then looks straight into my eyes, hers blazing. “Listen to me. I’m the big sister. Not you. I didn’t tell you, end of story.”
“How can you say that? After everything?”
“Because I love you, Allie. You’re my little sister, and I love you. And sometimes the truth is the thing you don’t say, even if you want to.”
“But—”
“If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have done it. I would have been stronger. I would have turned Vanessa in for the conniving little bitch she was. I would have switched schools. I would have told Brittney what a freak she was. I would have broken up with Sean, and I would have dated John Strickland publicly. Because part of the space between us was how secretive we were. I would have told Dad I was pissed at him and made Mom wake up. I would have ruled the world. I should have. But I was never as strong as you are.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” I say, my voice salty.
“I’m not. You always had your own sense about you. You were an original. I envied you.”
I look at Leah’s eyes and see her browns mix with my blues, like the reflections we are.
“I left you a present.” She looks at her ring finger now empty. “You have to find it. Like you found me here.”
“Are you leaving? Now?”
“I have to. But I love the new paintings,” she whispers in my ear. “They’re about me, right?”
I nod.
“Is that how you see me?”
The question from months ago becomes tangled with the now and I wonder for the umpteenth time if I’m crazy. Isn’t it crazy to still think she’s with me? After all that’s happened? Is it insane to believe she’s real?
She reaches her hand out to touch my cheek. “What if you made it about you? The Cape Cod paintings?”
The words swirl together in my mind, like tubes of paint being squeezed onto the same palette. I hear her soft laugh, and I realize that no matter who I have in my life, no matter how close, they will never be as close as Leah and me. Evil Leah, harsh Leah, funny Leah, perfect Leah, the one I never knew—all those Leahs were connected to me and my life, my history, my family. Only Leah knew what it was like to survive our mess of a family. Only she didn’t. I did. Maybe that means something.
“Okay, Allie, it’s time to come back,” Dr. Applegate says.
“Don’t go. I’m not ready…” I say.
Leah comes closer to me, one hand on either side of my face. She kisses my cheek and then she’s gone, leaving behind the slightest scent of mango. I put my hands over my face, trying to capture her essence, but I know that when I open my eyes, she’ll be gone.
“Okay, Allie?” Dr. Applegate’s voice forces my attention back to the room.
I nod. Open my eyes.
“I want you to think about how you see yourself this weekend. Because if you only see yourself in relation to Leah, you’re going to be lost. You have to see yourself as your own person or it’s going to make it harder for you to let her go.”
I can’t talk. Leah’s gone. Again. And Dr. Applegate’s talking to me like everything’s cool. How can she not know that I’m still that foot soldier, marching to everyone else’s orders?
“If you had to describe yourself in one word, one that did not involve Leah, what would it be?”
I shake my head.
“You don’t have to answer. Just think to yourself.”
I almost laugh. Almost. I don’t even know how to think for myself. I realize I’ve only been the negative space in Leah’s life this whole time. I have to stop. My life deserves a canvas, and I get to paint it.
• • •
We drive to school, quiet. Mom drops me off in the front. “Have a good day,” she says as I put my hand on the door handle.
I’m grateful she didn’t decide to walk me in this time. I need a little space. I look at my cell as her car pulls away.
We’re still in second period. I can’t deal with U.S. history. Good thing it’s not AP, even though I’m pretty sure I’ll be failing it this semester anyway. I bypass the front of the building, loop around the side, and make my way to the bleachers behind the school. I try not to think about the last time John Strickland found me here. That seems like
so long ago. So many things have changed since then.
My phone rings. Dad’s number. My heart speeds up. I shouldn’t have sent him that picture last night. I let it go to voice mail. It rings again. Him again. I hit ignore again. Another voice mail.
I take a few deep breaths, then put the phone on speaker and listen to him yell at me. “I know what you think. I know you blame me. I didn’t know. Don’t be like this.”
My hands shake, and I hit delete. In the next message, he’s calmer. “I’m so sorry. You can’t know how sorry. I would do anything to bring her back. Anything. I love you both so much. I know I’ve screwed it up, but I didn’t realize.” Pause. “I should have. Maybe we can go to breakfast this weekend. Just you and me. Call me back.”
I stare at the phone. I believe he regrets not being there for Leah. I’m sure he does. I believe he didn’t realize how precarious she was. I don’t want to speak with him now but maybe later. I stretch out in the sun and let it bake me. The warmth feels good, and I’m at peace for the first time in months.
I reach into my backpack and pull out my sketchbook and pastels. I start experimenting with the colors, trying to find what’s missing in my Cape Cod painting, when Piper and Nick approach. His confident walk, rust-colored hair, and sweet smile warm me, like the sun is. I feel myself lighten.
“You guys skipping?” I ask.
“I was in the art room and saw you out here. Met this guy in the hall and dragged him with.”
Nick smiles. “Didn’t take much dragging.”
I look at Nick and wonder if I’m changing him. Clean-cut doesn’t usually go with cutting class.
“Maybe we should go in,” I say.
Piper looks at my paintings. “When did you do these?”
“Last night.”
Nick squats next to them and studies them before saying, “Wow. Just, wow.”
Piper leans forward. Her tiny features arrange themselves into pure admiration. “This is your best work, Allie, for sure.”
Nick stands and then reaches his hand down for me. “Let’s go in so you can dazzle Mr. Kispert.”
Nick hoists me to my feet. The sureness of his movements make me want to want him even more. He’s solid. First-baseman solid. Nick is attentive, patient. He works the stats, he romances the score. I wish I could be more like him.
“Man, we rock,” Piper says, making me feel incredible that she’s including Nick and me. That she didn’t leave him out. It’s a surprise to me that I’m worrying about his feelings, like I used to with Max.
I hope one day I’ll want to be more than friends with Nick. That my heart will heal, and I’ll choose him. Because if I were able to paint Happy right now, I’m thinking it would look a lot like a small-stat-chasing first baseman with artist hands.
Chapter 27
When I get home, Sophie’s at the door, her tail wagging like crazy and her paws climbing me. I pick her up and kiss her face.
“Come to Mommy,” Leah said on the way back from the breeder. I remember like it was yesterday. Her laughter fills my ears, and it feels good to have her so near to me. Just one memory and Leah is with me again. Without the drugs or the inventions, Leah can be here.
Walking up the stairs, I hope the mess I made is not as bad as I remember, that I didn’t do as much damage as I thought. But it’s awful. I decimated her shrine. I retreat to the kitchen and get Ziploc bags, a box from the recycling bin, and a dustpan and brush. Sophie follows me, but I say, “Not this time, girl.”
In Leah’s room I fall to my knees and start cleaning. I pick up all the big pieces of glass. They flash and sparkle in the light. My eyes try to focus with all the reflections of color. And suddenly, I have to paint. Right now. I shut the door tightly behind me and race down the stairs.
But downstairs, I notice something’s changed. The house feels cold, as if a breeze is running through it. The door to the backyard is flung open. I run to my studio.
I can’t believe what I see. My paintings are all back. Mom’s paintings are there too.
“I hope you don’t mind; it’s just for now.” She steps from behind a group of canvases propped on easels.
“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s good.” I look at my paintings and compare them to hers. She painted landscapes and still lifes. But she made them feel so vibrant, like they weren’t just scenes. She breathed life into the trees and the flowers. I look at her paintings, and I feel as if I could step into them and become part of each one. She removed the barrier between the viewer and the scene. You have to really understand art to do that.
“Really? I won’t come down here when you’re with your friends…and…”
“It’s fine, Mom. I don’t mind sharing. I like it.”
“I might even get a job at the community college. They’re looking for a drawing and painting teacher, and one of my old friends is working there, so…”
“That would be great.”
“Yeah. It would.” Mom looks around the studio, a satisfied smile on her face. It’s nice to see her so pleased. “You really captured her,” Mom says, her fingers brush the edge of the canvas that depicts Leah in her dance uniform.
“She was easy to paint.”
“She was larger than life.”
We both smile, and it’s the first time since Leah died that we’ve been able to talk about her without fighting or crying. And at this moment, I want to tell Mom how I really feel about Leah. How I always sort of felt.
“Sometimes I think I didn’t really know her…” I look at my paintings of Leah and wonder how I made her feel. I made her pose for me. Was I part of the problem? Did I feed her addiction? Did I make her feel like she wasn’t good enough unless she was perfect? I don’t want to have been part of her disease.
“I don’t think Leah let many people in.” Mom moves to the picture of her in Sean’s jersey. “I think she gave everyone a small piece of who she was. So if any one of them left, no one would have taken all of her, she wouldn’t be completely broken.”
“Maybe.” It feels a little wrong to talk about Leah without her here to defend herself, but she’s never going to be here and it feels good to talk about her with someone who also loved her.
“I’ll let you work,” Mom says as she walks out the door, leaving me with Leah—my paintings of her at least.
Dr. Applegate said my work got deeper when I stopped caring about what others thought and just tapped into my feelings. Can I do that now? I put an empty canvas on the easel and sit, looking at it. I take the Cape pictures out of my purse and try to remember what it felt like that day.
I was happy.
It was before Max. Before Max and Emery got together. It was before Mom and Dad were fighting. It was when my palette was pure. When I cared as much about what I thought as other people’s expectations. The Cape Cod picture is about finding my colors again. The ones I’ve lost along the way.
I pull out the picture of Leah and me on our ski trip. For some reason, this one really speaks to me. So I give up the Cape and start on the ski slope.
I paint snow white against cobalt blue. Fir green dots the landscape. I paint eggplant purple. Royal blue snowsuit with a hot-pink stripe for Leah. I remember feeling so powerful. Sad, because of Mom and Dad, but so glad to be with Leah. We were pretending we were in college. We were unstoppable. I paint silver glimmer on the snow to make it shine, but it’s missing something. I go back and grab arctic white. I layer in light pink and sweetheart-rose pink and crimson. I reach inside for the colors that are really me. The colors of sea glass, the ocean, of freedom and beauty. It’s better but not perfect. Something’s still missing. I get frustrated. I stand up. Why can’t I do this? What’s blocking me?
I close my eyes and think about Leah. She used to say she’d come to me when I called for her. Would that work now? Even without the drugs? I open my eyes and stare at the paintings.
I take them all in. Every painting. Every feeling. Every color.
“Please, Leah. Please come to me.”
I hold my breath and wait. Nothing. My head starts pounding, a steady drumbeat that takes up all the empty space inside me till I can’t take it anymore. My hand falls to the chair next to me. I think about the broken glass and its different colors. And I get an idea.
I head to the garage. Where is it? I search the high shelves. Low ones. Middle ones. I can’t find it anywhere. I push bike tools and brooms out of the way. Finally. I see it. A sledgehammer.
I pass Mom on the way through the house and back to my studio.
“You okay, Allie?” she asks.
“I will be.” I don’t stop to explain.
“Be careful with that thing,” she calls.
I race upstairs and grab the Ziploc with the smashed frames and take them back to my studio. The glass doesn’t stand a chance. Each hit is delivered carefully so as not to tear the bag but forcefully enough to grind down the glass. I take a palette knife and a spoon, and I carefully sift out the fine powder, which is all glittery and sparkly. I mix it with my whites and pinks and then apply it to the painting. When I’m done with each detail, I take a step back and look at the canvas to make sure the effect is exactly as I want it to be. Satisfied, I sit down on the cold floor.
It’s only when I’m done with my painting that I realize Leah’s not coming to see it. But maybe that’s the way it should be. Like Dr. Applegate said, I paint better when I’m not worried about what Leah or Mr. Kispert or Nick or anyone else will think of my work.
But even with all the colors I love and the shimmer from the broken glass powder, it’s not enough. I need more light because all of a sudden, I feel like that’s the thing I want to show about myself; how after all this has happened, I’m still here. I take some of the pieces of the broken glass and affix them on the painting. I layer in pieces of sea glass flanked by pieces of the mirrored frames on top of the circles of color.
I build it out so the colors change in the light and the perspective you take. It’s me when I’m happy. It’s Leah when she dances. It’s John Strickland when he talks about Leah. It’s Nick when he’s found himself in his painting. When I’m done, I look at what I’ve created, and I feel good because I’ve made my world clean and pure and with no lies to mess it up. Dr. Ziggler and Dr. Applegate were right. Lies are ugly. They have no place in art. Or life.