In memory of
Nicole Lewanski
May your love of books
live on in others.
PART ONE
The Girl Who Cried Wolf
But you can’t make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up around them.
—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down—all the way back—until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separated by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the bath is drawn and the hand is reaching for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.
One
I was three weeks shy of turning eighteen when I was struck with the cruel affliction of anxiety. It came in the form of a panic attack, seemingly from nowhere—a bolt from the blue. Like a thunderclap in my chest, an icy river down the length of my spine. Terror and confusion clawed at the edges of my brain as I clutched fistfuls of the sweat-soaked bedsheets I had slept fitfully in, just moments before. As my mind struggled to comprehend this new and frightful development, there was a dim thought that echoed through the midst of my blind panic. It told me, with a chilling certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again.
I have no doubt that the sudden onset of my anxiety had everything to do with the lie. To this day, I do not know why that terrible untruth spilled from my lips. But as soon as it did, the lie formed a life of its own. It became an evil presence, a curse. I told this wicked lie one ill-fated night to my two best friends, Lucy and Candela, who were sworn to secrecy on the lives of their loved ones. Lucy offered up her mother, and Candela, her sister Eve.
Perhaps I had wanted to create some kind of commotion, something to break the monotony. Like the boy who cried wolf, tricking the nearby villagers for his own amusement. Whatever the reason, the lie caused a chain of events that I did not foresee. The culmination of which still haunts me to this very day. For I have no doubt that my life and the lives of my two best friends would have been different if that night had never happened. If the lie that left my lips had only slipped away without the opportunity to persist, like a brewing storm, pushed out to sea, to dissipate over the restless waves. Like the night I absentmindedly boarded the wrong bus, carrying bits of change in my pocket and a phone with a dead battery, only to realize I was being driven farther and farther into a bad part of town. And my dilemma was whether I should trust the bus driver to take me back to the depot where I could call my parents to collect me or whether I should alight at the next stop and try to find my way back to familiar territory.
I chose the latter, and it just so happened that my father, on his way home from a late meeting, had turned the corner just as I was getting off the bus. If I had stayed on the bus, perhaps the man who reeked of gin, who had looked at me sideways once too often, had become aware of my predicament. How many stories do we hear about young girls who find themselves in the wrong part of town and are never found again? I could have become another statistic, but, instead, I was safe, riding shotgun with my dad, stopping by our local supermarket to pick up groceries on our way home.
The situation I was in led me to think of all the possible outcomes where I could have been abducted, raped, or murdered. At times, the scenarios I pictured were so graphic they left me wondering whether, perhaps, there is another version of me somewhere that has lived it. Maybe we slip in and out of alternate worlds through our minds and our imaginations, picking up scar tissue from other dimensions.
My recollection of the night I told that lie is just as vivid as if it were yesterday. I remember how the words tumbled from my mouth, my mind unsure of how the story was being formed, like a spider that spins its first web without any comprehension of where the ability was acquired.
I can recall the looks on the faces of my two best friends, their eyes wide with horror and disgust. “I saw them through the window,” I had said earnestly, “when I was collecting for the Red Cross.” I was known to be an honest person, and unless it was completely outrageous, my word was as good as any. The window I was referring to belonged to a house I walked by every day on my way to school, and it was easy to furnish it with my half-truths and utter fabrications. Shortly after the establishment of the lie, a fight broke out between me and Candela, who cried tears of disbelief and wanted to confront the protagonist of my carefully crafted narrative. Realizing this would implicate me, I did my best to dissuade her from doing so—a decision I now deeply regret.
Indeed, if the lie had been kept contained among the three of us, it would have ended there. If it were to come up in conversation years later, I would have admitted it was purely fictional and that I had no idea what drove me to create such a story. However, without our knowledge, Eve, Candela’s kid sister, had her ear pressed against the other side of the door, and she later relayed our conversation to Candela’s mother. It was the opening the lie had been waiting for. Through this channel, it slipped beyond my reach and spread through our small town of Three Oaks like wildfire.
All at once, everyone knew the sordid details of the lie I had fabricated; it was blindly accepted as truth. It was apparent that Candela’s mother had not given away any specifics of how she came by the rumor, as no one seemed to know its true origin. In the dying embers and blackened twigs of a ravaged forest, who could distinguish where the first spark was lit? Only the arsonist knows the exact location where that match was struck.
Days later, the victim of my deceit—seventeen-year-old Ana—was found in her family’s white porcelain bathtub, with blood gushing and bubbling from her two delicate wrists. It was on the same night that I suffered my first panic attack.
Two
Ana was the original sad girl. She held the unofficial title long before her death. We all became sad girls after that. At her funeral, everyone wore black because it was customary and because it was the color that best defined Ana.
We learned in art class that, technically, black is not a color but, rather, the absence of it. Black is a shade—one that holds its presence in every gradation of gray, departing only with its transition into white. I have always thought of white as a clean slate, an unwritten page. A snow-covered field or a wedding dress. White is starting over, an absolution from your sins. That day, I was the furthest away from white that I could possibly be.
Ana’s funeral service was held at Holy Trinity, our local church. I sat in the back pew with my mother, who was staring straight ahead, her mouth set in a hard, firm line. The Peter Pan collar of my dress felt constrictive around my neck, and when I pulled at it with my forefinger, she shot me a look of annoyance. “Stop fidgeting, Audrey,” she muttered under her breath. I let my hand fall into my lap.
Earlier that morning, I had stood in front of the large mirror above my dresser. As I stared at my reflection, I felt the oddest sensation that it was someone else staring back. The girl in the mirror had the same auburn hair that hung straight and low past her shoulders. Her eyes, gazing fixedly into mine, were an identical shade of forget-me-not blue. Like me, she was cursed with a smattering of freckles across her nose, courtesy of the hot Australian sun. But she was someone I didn’t recognize, like an imposter who had stepped into my body and was acting of her own accord.
The black dress my mother had purchased specifically for this occasion was made from a rough woolen fabric that rubbed unpleasantly against my skin. It felt almost like a punishment, like so many of the decisions my mother made on my behalf.
I spotted Lucy sitting a few pews up between her doting parents, her forefinger twisting absentmindedly throug
h her honey-blonde hair. For as long as I had known her, Lucy had a habit of playing with her hair. She did it unconsciously whenever she was thinking hard about something. Autumn was Lucy’s favorite season, and I couldn’t think of a more befitting way to describe her. She had eyes that were the color of burnt amber and a dewy peaches and cream complexion. She radiated a soft, mellow warmth reminiscent of fall—an old soul in a young girl’s body. Two weeks before, she’d had her braces removed, and her smile was like a burst of sunlight piercing through a raincloud.
On Lucy’s right sat Candela, who was with her mother and her sister, Eve. Where Lucy was soft, like a watercolor, Candela was bold and headstrong. She carried herself like a storm or a melodrama. She could walk into a room and instantly change the atmosphere. Her beautiful olive skin (an ode to her Indian heritage) and sultry bee-stung lips were the envy of every girl at school. She had emerald-green eyes that could turn from warm to icy within the space of a millisecond.
When Ana’s father stood up to speak at the podium, I watched as Lucy glanced over at Candela and the two exchanged a knowing look. Then Candela turned her head around and caught my eye, sending a wry smile in my direction. She began to mouth something to me when her mother tugged sharply at the sleeve of her dress and she abruptly swung her head back around, her raven-black hair sweeping across her slender neck.
After Ana’s eulogy was read, we were each given a white rose (passed down the wooden pews in cane wicker baskets), and the minister instructed us to place them inside the open casket. I was last in line, so by the time I saw her, Ana’s frail body was already covered in flowers. She was even more beautiful in death than when she was alive—if that were possible. She looked like an angel in her white satin dress; her pink glossy lips were set in an expression of peaceful serenity. The locks of tawny-gold hair that framed her perfect heart-shaped face were immaculately brushed and shone like a halo. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, placing my rose somewhere among the other apologies.
At the post-funeral reception, the mood was just as somber. There were no philosophical musings or fond recollections. Ana had left the world too early. As I passed the buffet, the sight and smell of food made my stomach turn. But not so much as the murmurings that caught my ear. “. . . mother didn’t turn up to her own daughter’s funeral . . .”
“. . . brought in for questioning but no charges laid . . .”
“. . . can’t be true.”
“. . . why else would she kill herself?”
“So tragic. Poor girl.”
“. . . disgusting . . .”
It was my moment, then, to clear it all up. To stand on one of the many folding chairs scattered across the room and tell everyone the truth. To say out loud what my mind was screaming in my guilt-ridden silence. That it was my fault Ana was dead.
I was sitting by the window, on a smoky gray chaise lounge, when Candela came to join me.
“Hey, Audrey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied.
“Where’s Duck?” she asked.
“He’s sick with the flu.”
My boyfriend, Brian Duckman (whom we all called Duck), was the proverbial boy next door. He lived only a few houses away from me, and we could wave at each other if we stood out on the respective decks of our suburban bungalows. We had been friends for as far back as I could remember. One summer, I went away with his family to their lake house up north. At the tail end of our trip, Duck and I were hanging out with some kids down by the lake. We were taking turns running down the length of the jetty and hurling ourselves in the water. When it was my turn, I tripped just as I was about to launch myself into the air, hitting my head on the edge of the decking and tumbling into the lake. Everything went black. When I came to, I was sputtering water freshly pumped from my chest. Murmurs from the crowd around me washed over my ears like a radio signal; the sun blazing overhead seeped into my shut eyelids. Duck had found me at the bottom of the lake. He had to dive twice before he was able to locate my limp body and carry me back to the surface. That night, with my near-death experience on my mind, I snuck into his room, slipped into his bed, and our friendship turned into something more. It was my first time and his as well. For a while, we kept it to ourselves, but eventually it became apparent that we were more than friends. Our mothers had always been close, and it was no secret that they had long since held the romantic notion of Duck and I living happily ever after.
Across the room, Lucy was standing next to her boyfriend, Freddy, and they were in mid-conversation with a boy I didn’t recognize. Lucy had begun dating Freddy only a year ago, but they reminded everyone of an old married couple.
“Who’s that guy Lucy and Freddy are talking to?” I asked Candela.
“That’s Rad—Ana’s boyfriend,” Candela said, and I felt a lurch in my stomach. “He was at St. John’s with Freddy when they graduated last year.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know Ana had a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, they’ve been together for ages. Kind of like you and Duck.”
All of a sudden, a memory I had forgotten came back to me, sharp and piercing. It must have been about a year ago. I was standing in line behind Ana at the library. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but when she went to remove her borrowing card, I caught sight of a photo behind the plastic film of her wallet. “Who’s that?” I had asked casually. “Just my boyfriend, Rad,” she had shrugged, removing the photograph and handing it to me. “Isn’t he dreamy?” My eyes had fallen on the monochromatic portrait of a boy standing against a seaside setting, with dark windswept hair and brows softly knitted as though the camera had caught him by surprise. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was the same boy who was now speaking to Lucy and Freddy across the room.
As though sensing he was being watched, Rad looked over, and for one brief moment, our eyes locked. He attempted a half smile—it looked more like a grimace—before turning his attention back to Lucy, who reached out and put her hand on his arm. A few moments later, Freddy and Lucy made their way over to us as Rad strode out of the room.
“How is he?” asked Candela.
“Not good,” said Freddy, with a shake of his head. It was weird seeing Freddy in a suit. He was always in some quirky getup—checked shirts and contrasting ties, Vans with bold floral patterns. He wore black Buddy Holly glasses that teetered at the edge of his nose, and he was always pushing them up again.
“Poor thing,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “He must be going through hell.”
The air seemed to grow thicker all of a sudden, and I stood up quickly. Candela’s eyes darted upward.
“Are you okay, Audrey?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “I just need some air.”
I stumbled out onto the back porch a little unsteadily and clung to the wrought iron balustrade, my breathing quick and ragged.
“Are you all right?” came a voice from behind me. I looked back, startled. Rad was sitting on a swinging chair that creaked softly as it swung gently back and forth. He dug his shoes into the ground and walked toward me, a look of concern crossing his face.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Ana is dead because of me. The words flashed unbidden through my mind, and my body gave an involuntary shudder. Rad stood there for a minute or so, his gaze fixed steadily on me. It was the first time we had ever stood face-to-face, and I noticed that the color of his eyes didn’t quite match. One was a stormy gray, the other a summer blue.
“Do you want a glass of water?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, and the sharp pain gave my mind a much-needed diversion. We stood like that for a while, until my breathing began to steady. Rad looked relieved.
“Did you go to school with Ana?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Were you close to her?”
“No,” I said. “Not re
ally.”
He turned away from me, looking skyward and sighing deeply.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Do you believe in heaven?”
I looked at him, a little taken aback.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, with a small shake of my head. “I believe there is something, though.”
“How do you know for sure?” he asked.
“It’s a feeling, I suppose.”
“A feeling?”
“Yeah, kind of like . . .” I paused, searching for the right word. “Like intuition,” I said finally.
He nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
He was quiet for a few moments, and then he turned to look at me, his eyes level with mine.
“What about hell?”
I felt my heart seize in my chest. For one irrational moment, I thought, He knows about the lie. But then I realized it was just my own paranoia.
“Yes,” I said, thinking back to my panic attack the other night. “I believe there’s a hell.”
There was a loud crash that came from inside the house, and we turned our heads in unison.
“What was that?” asked Rad.
“I don’t know. We should go back inside.”
The living room was a mess. The table was overturned, and there were plates of food scattered across the floor. Ana’s dad was standing amidst the chaos, one hand cradled protectively over his left cheek, a trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth. Everyone watched in stunned silence as Ana’s uncle stood with his fist partly raised, his face twisted with rage.
“You sick fuck!” he snarled. “She was a child, for Chrissake!” He was about to throw another punch when Ana’s mother pulled him back.
“Stop it!” she screamed, stepping between them.
“Why didn’t you stop him, Mia?” he said spinning around to face her. “You must have known what was going on.”