Under Cheyenne's Skies

TW: Themes of death and dying, bullying, sensitive language

Cheyenne Blackburn deserved more than this world gave her. She was one of the first friends I made when my mom and I immigrated from Toronto, Canada to Catskill, New York. We were both certified Horse Girls, and so we met at summer day camp at Catskill Equestrian Center when we were just 7 years old.

Cheyanne had long thin legs like winter tree branches, hair as light as melted butter, and striking caramel-colored brown eyes. Her hair was so thin you almost thought it might melt away if the sun was bearing down on it too intensely. She towered over me by at least 6 inches.

I liked her better than the other girls at camp because she didn’t care what anyone thought. She had such a wild imagination that made everything more interesting. And she was bold and brave; she was the first to ride her horse, Shadow, a dark brown silky thoroughbred, in front of the whole group. I remember watching in awe as they raced away from our small group. Soft, lukewarm raindrops fell from the tree branches above us as we watched Shadow and Cheyenne become one amorphous figure, doll-sized in front of the beautiful mountains. Her hair splayed out like strands of gold in the early morning light, and Shadow was suddenly much more than just a horse suburban kids rode for fun.

“Cheyenne!” the instructor yelled. “You can’t go that far!”

Even when summer was over, our mothers continued to bring us to the Catskill Equestrian Center twice a week for horseback riding lessons. Though the games continued, as I got to know Cheyenne, I came to learn that she was a little bit hard to be around sometimes because she got upset so easily. You had to just let her cool down by herself when it happened. Sometimes she’d even throw somewhat of a true tantrum, giving me second-hand embarrassment. And it was true that she had a strange accent, something that reminded me of a cross between British and that of a very young child.

If it weren’t for the horses and our mothers’ friendship, I don’t think we would have continued to see each other after middle school. My mother is the kind of woman who will be friends with anyone, no matter how strange or even how hateful they may be. Perhaps it was because she grew up as a child of South African immigrants of Indian descent, something that perplexed most Americans. Maybe it was because she came of age in three entirely different countries and never felt quite at home in any of them. For whatever reason, my mother identified with Cheyenne and Lorelei. It was true that they were the odd ones out at horse camp, even more unusual than us. Everyone in Catskill wore fairly conservative, plain clothes, but Cheyenne and Lorelei always looked as stunning and bold as Britney Spears herself. Lorelei had neck and face tattoos and a few teeth that looked like they’d seen better days, which took the Catskill soccer moms aback. The other mothers often gossiped that Lorelei was a prostitute or a stripper because she dressed so “provocatively.”

But that was the best part about going to Cheyenne’s house — which was really an RV on a rented plot of land rather than a house. She had the best clothes to play dress-up in. We’d put on mini skirts, deep v-neck tops, 6-inch heels, and even Victoria’s Secret lingerie sets complete with corsets and padded bras, laughing hysterically as Lorelei pretended to be in shock when she saw us. But that was elementary school, back when our lives were more in sync.

Though Cheyenne and I shared a 2nd and 3rd grade homeroom, she fell behind in the 3rd grade and ended up having to repeat it. That was tough on her.

“Just because I have to repeat 3rd grade doesn’t mean I’m slow,” she told me one day while we were feeding and brushing our horses. She leaned her head on Shadow, staring out at the distant mountain peaks and the multicolored autumn trees that seemed to snuggle into one another like puzzle pieces. This place was her sanctuary.

When we were in 8th grade, it got harder to be her friend because she still wanted to play the same games we’d been playing since we were 7. I guess that was when I really noticed a difference between us. But what happened in 9th grade was what really took the cake. I overheard Lorelei talking with my mom in the parking lot of the equestrian center one day after school. I inched closer so that I was able to peep around the corner of the building.

“They want to put her in special ed classes. Said she’s too “reactive” and “doesn’t know boundaries” and is “delayed.” They already made her repeat a grade. What the fuck do they have against her?” Lorelei said to my mom, furious. She threw her cigarette on the ground and stomped on it with her narrow heel.

“I am so sorry, Lorelei,” my mom said. “We all love Cheyenne and want to see her succeed.”

“Thank you,” Lorelei uttered quietly. “Thank you.” She kicked the still-lit cigarette around in the parking lot while fumbling to light another one, hands shaking. “I’m gonna fuckin' home-school her myself. I’m taking her out of that fuckin' place.”

My mom just put an arm on Lorelei’s bony shoulder and sat with her, enduring the cloud of cigarette smoke that formed around them.

Lorelei did end up un-enrolling Cheyenne that year. Throughout high school, I still saw Cheyenne at the equestrian center, but my life became consumed by my new friend group and the allied health classes I was taking to try to get into nursing school in the city. About halfway through sophomore year, she started showing up in the usual casual hangout spots: the old ShopRite parking lot and the lake. I recognized some of the outfits she wore as belonging to her mom. Though she was still thin, she had more of a body to show off now. She wore strappy sequined tops and leather skirts, heeled boots and lace dresses. They were beautiful. She was beautiful and stunning, but people were talking about her. And boys - and men- were talking to her. I started getting anxious that she would be taken advantage of.

“Cheyenne, you have to be careful around these guys… they’re just being nice to you because they want something from you,” I warned her one day.

Her reaction wasn’t one of gratitude, as I’d expected.

“So, what? Because I’m slow that means I can’t have boyfriends?” She glared at me.

“I never said that about you,” I defended myself, skirting around the word slow. But maybe she had a point - was my concern related to the way I perceived her intelligence?

Everyone I knew tip-toed around the subject. When talking about her, people nodded with subtle understanding or released an open-mouthed and exaggerated “ohh.” It angered me to see people look down on her.

I realized that Cheyenne was only going to be Cheyenne, and if I wanted her in my life, I was going to have to deal with her quirks and shortcomings. So I started making more of an effort to interact with her when visiting my horse each week. I stopped talking and started listening.

I began to look forward to Cheyenne’s stories because they were so much more exciting than memorizing where boron was on the periodic table and finding the slope of a line. Each week, she had a new guy to talk about and a new, adventurous story that kept me on the edge of my seat. They were occasionally dangerous, often risky, and always so incredibly graphic and experimental that I sometimes felt embarrassed hearing such detail.

She always seemed like she understood that these escapades were fleeting and surface-level, at best. From what I could tell, she liked it that way. But one day, things took a turn.

“I met someone new,” she told me, smiling. “He’s different, though. He’s from Los Angeles, California and really cares about me as a person. He has someone for my mom, too. We’re moving out there to be with them and start over, my mom says.”

“How long have you known him?” I questioned.

“Long enough,” she snapped. “Don’t worry about me. I told you this because I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am, I am!” I protested.

We had a goodbye party for Lorelei and Cheyenne at Pizza Hut a few weeks later, after they’d packed up their belongings and sold their RV. Looking back now, I wonder if my mom played into their delusions a little bit too much. But that’s my mom for you – she’s a peacemaker. She seeks to develop a radical understanding of human desires. When we waved goodbye to them at that crusty, run-down Pizza Hut, we didn’t know that we wouldn’t see them again. At least, not in the same way. They both stopped responding to our texts.

I didn’t know what happened to Cheyenne, but I was always afraid she had been sex-trafficked, a thought that made me shudder. I’d been in some of those sketchy gas station bathrooms with holes in the ceiling, stalls without locks, and ominous, fading signs about where to call for help.

But life continued after Cheyenne left. I graduated high school, got into nursing school at SUNY Downstate, and made my first major move from Catskill. Brooklyn was a whole different world. I could barely believe that these two places were in the same state. But I grew into my own skin during this time. I graduated cum laude with my BSN. I made friends who I pulled 24-hour study sessions and grabbed late-night pizza slices with. I met my future husband. For 8 years after graduating, I worked in a huge ICU in the city.

But eventually, my husband and I moved back Upstate, back to Catskill, where I worked in a small ICU in the community hospital. I wanted my kids to explore farmland and ride horses like I did. And that’s what we did: we had three children, and they grew up picking apples and berries, riding horses, and watching the sun set behind the Catskill mountains. I thought of Cheyenne occasionally and felt a pang in my chest. But I had too much to worry about to dwell on it much. Until that December.

“Okay, quiet down, you guys,” our charge nurse bellowed. “I have your assignments.” We all turned around from the snack station to look at her.

“Sahana, you have Blackburn, Canelli, and Yen,” she said to me.

The name Blackburn echoed in my ears like last names belonging to people I have known well often do. When I opened the chart, I nearly gasped when I saw the first name: Cheyenne. What was she doing in the ICU? There were bags of masks, gowns, and gloves on her room door, indicating that she had something infectious, but I could not seem to find an explanation in the chart. She was admitted for respiratory failure.

“Excuse me - do you know why this patient has precautions on their door?” I asked the Dr. Suares, who was walking in.

“We have to keep precautions until we rule out tuberculosis,” he replied. “This patient has AIDS.”

“She’s young,” he added, nodding and acknowledging my shock. “Only 35. She must not have been taking any medications at all for years.”

I gasped audibly this time. I scavenged the chart for a contact number. There it was: Lorelei Blackburn. No. This couldn’t be Cheyenne Blackburn. I double-checked the birthday: it was the same. I triple-checked the ID cards the paramedics had brought with her. It was her. It was Cheyenne Blackburn. She ended up being diagnosed with a type of pneumonia that patients with HIV are more susceptible to.

Looking at Cheyenne’s pale, skeletal body attached to the ventilator, I was frozen. The slow hum of the machine brought an ironic peace to the room while her chemically paralyzed body was swallowed by the comparatively large bed. I put on my gown, gloves, and N95 mask and slowly opened the door.

I knew I was probably too emotionally attached to take care of her like this. But Lorelei’s phone number seemed to be disconnected, and Cheyenne had nobody. Social work couldn’t identify any family members, children, or even friends.

She fought for nearly a week; we loaded her with the strongest antibiotics and vasopressors that her body could endure. I held her hand and spoke to her. I told her about my children and the way they loved the horses at the center. I told her about how comfortable Shadow was when he died a few years ago.

But there was no family to have a conversation with, so the ultimate decision was left up to the medical team.

“What would Cheyenne have wanted?” Dr. Suares asked me quietly on day 7. “You knew this patient. Right?”

Nobody knew Cheyenne like I did. They hadn’t seen her break down in tears when she was underestimated or because she truly believed she’d never find a man to love her. Countless times, I sat next to her and offered a silent, supporting presence while she crumpled up into a ball on the floor of Lorelei’s RV and cried hysterically about yet another broken heart. I don’t know if she ever had more in this world than Lorelei and Shadow, but I had a pretty strong feeling it was only me now.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and choked back tears. “I don’t… I don’t think she would have wanted to suffer. Not alone like this.”

Dr. Suares nodded and patted my shoulder. We stood there and gazed at her for a moment. Cheyenne Blackburn died at age 35. At 5’9”, she was a ghastly 90 pounds. Outside the window near the ICU bed, I saw a dark horse nearly identical to Shadow running toward the mountains.

“You can keep running this time,” I whispered, tears running down my face.

I still don’t know if I believe in a heaven or an afterlife. But if there is one, I hope she’s wild and free, at last. Cheyenne Blackburn deserved more than this world gave her.