The Elephant in the Room is Blue

The Elephant in the Room is Blue

Cassi Stilianessis

Writing as: R. W. Pierette

Content Advisory: mental illness, attempted suicide

When they take you away, I think for sure I will never see you again. They come in hot, barreling up the driveway at warp speed. Five of them spill from the ambulance; two rush to the door I’m holding open while mom waits with you, your head in her lap.

I hear them call your name, the EMTs dressed in blue coveralls. The questions they ask are distant. Too far away for me to hear even though they are in the bathroom with you. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and I pretend it’s yours, too.

Three EMTs roll in the stretcher. They work together to lift you onto it. Your body looks empty. Your lips are blue. Remember that concert we went to last summer? You wore that lapis lazuli lipstick; I chose vermillion. Dark eyeliner, thick with cattails in the corners. We were happy, weren’t we?

Mom cries when the EMT calls out that your heartbeat is going down. I envision the sun falling below the horizon at the end of the day. Mom throws her hands to her face; her palms are a terrible dam against the river she unleashes. All I can do is watch. My heart has stopped beating so yours can continue. I haven't moved from the door, a quick exit for the five people trying to save you from yourself.

When they leave with you, the blaring siren and flashing lights go with them. Mom goes too. I have to wait here. I have to clean the mess you left behind. The empty bottle has rolled behind the toilet. I leave it there. Everything else goes back the way it was. I take the dirty towels from the floor and put them in the wash. One cup of detergent will do. The rush of water fills the void in the house now. I wipe the sink where you hit your head. I take those towels to the trash outside. I turn off the lights, head for the living room and sit on the couch where we watched cartoons this morning. I turn on the T.V. before I lay down. I’m there for hours, shows I used to know playing one after the other. I hear nothing except the whir of the washing machine removing the traces of your mistake.

When the house phone rings, the Powerpuff Girls are going to bed. I have fallen asleep at some point when I can’t keep my eyes open. The girls are tucked in safe and sound by Professor Utonium. I tucked myself in earlier with the crocheted blanket Nana made for us that hangs on the back of the couch. It isn’t long enough to cover my shoulders and my toes. But I have grown roots into the couch. The bedroom we share is too far away for me to go to.

Someone answers the phone for me. From the kitchen I can hear mom’s friend Denise talking in a hushed tone. Her voice chokes. I stay where I am. If Denise believes I’m still asleep, maybe she’ll go away. I can’t have other people walking through our house. Not when you’re not here. If you were here, you would ask Denise for a pop-tart. You’d split it in half with me because she only gives us one.

“Too much sugar,” Denise always says as she tucks the second pop-tart back in the box.

Who will I share pop-tarts with if you're not here?

Denise whispers to the person on the other side of the phone. On the T.V., another episode of Powerpuff Girls plays. It must be a marathon. Denise tip-toes past the couch. The bathroom door closes; a minute later the toilet flushes, the sink goes on and then off. Denise comes to where I’m pretending to be asleep. She lays a warm, damp hand on my shoulder. Whispers my name.

“Your mom asked for a couple of things. Can you give me a hand?”

I have to be awake now. No more pretending. I mumble an affirmation, and follow her to mom’s bedroom. I pull a duffel bag from the closet while Denise gets a change of clothes from the dresser. I unzip the bag but stand aside while Denise does the work. As she packs the bag, she tells me things I know she thinks I want to hear. Tells me I can come with her to the hospital if I want to.

I don’t want to. I want to go back to this morning. Back to the moments before you squeezed my hand and said you had a headache. Denise heads for our room, but why? You don’t need anything. You’ll be back soon. You have to be back soon. I push past her. Stand in the way. I can’t let Denise in our room. That’s our space. Yours and mine. As long as that door stays closed, you can still be in there. In bed. Waiting with tired eyes for me to get you out of the dark. We’ll pour Fruity Pebbles into bowls, and I’ll eat the cereal quickly so the milk won’t have time to change colours. It will still be full of sugar, though.

You barely touch your cereal this morning. I throw out the soggy mess; I don’t want mom to see it has been wasted.

Denise puts her foot down. Says it’s important to get you clean clothes. That you won’t be at the hospital forever. That you were sick; the doctors made you better. Can someone get better when they don’t know they’re sick? I tell Denise you're not sick, you’re fine. This was an accident. She tries to hold me but I don’t want to be held. She goes back to the bathroom instead, walks out with all of our toothbrushes because she doesn’t know whose is whose.

As Denise disturbs the dust that belongs to us, little pieces of you begin to vanish. I go into the kitchen, pull the Fruity Pebbles box from the cupboard. Throw the whole thing in the trash. Empty the bin. Now, no one else can have it. I write your name in permanent marker on the whiteboard where mom assigns us chores. Denise can take whatever she wants. I’ll find other ways to keep you here.

I hide your sneakers, the All-Stars converse with the rainbow laces. They go in the front closet under the reusable bags mom brings to the grocery store when she can remember them. Your favourite sweatshirt is hanging in there. I take it from the hanger, slip my arms into the sleeves, zip the front. It’s baggy on my smaller frame, and reeks of perfume samples from the mall. We were there last weekend. In the food court, you picked at the crispy french fries saturated with vinegar, coated with coarse salt. I ate a hot dog, ketchup only, and used the dry bun to sop up any of the condiment that dripped onto the paper plate. You asked if I wanted your Nancy Drew collection. Said you were too old for them now. I didn’t care that you were giving things away. I wanted what you had. Those books are in our room, under my bed.

It takes a long time for me to open our door. The curtains are pushed to the side. Mom makes me open them, otherwise you’ll sleep all day. I tip-toe to my bed as though you are still under the covers. Take the Nancy Drew books and slide them under your bed instead. If I give them back, will you come home?

Denise leaves with the duffel bag but without me. She adds a few things from the pantry before she leaves—crackers, granola bars, a bag of chips. When she isn’t looking, I put in your favourites—a bag of Welch’s fruit gummies, a beef jerky stick, a handful of maple creme cookies in a ziploc bag. Morsels to guide you back like breadcrumbs in the forest.

With Denise gone, the house goes back to its normal quiet. I switch the laundry over to the dryer. The rhythmic thrum as the towels turn over each other is a lullaby in the empty space. I draw your sweater closer to my chest. On the refrigerator is a polaroid of the two of us. We were eating creamees in the park. The first ice cream of the season, years ago; maple-vanilla for you, black raspberry for me. The magnet that keeps the picture secure is the one with the dried daisy preserved in a dome of resin. You picked it out at the craft fair during Christmas break. I slide the magnet over, and carry the picture to our room where I draw the dark curtains closed. They are purple like the pansies Nana plants in her window boxes in August. It’s the only colour you and I could compromise on.

I crawl beneath your blankets, curl into your pillows. The scent of the honey shampoo you use to wash your hair fills my nose. I press our picture to my chest, my heartbeat drums under my fingers. Remember when I used to climb into your bed late at night? When I had a bad dream?

You let me get in close to you, tuck me under your arm where your own heart beats in harmony with mine. Your song is music I will never tire of. Here, in the space you take up, I hear it still. I whispered a wish through the tether from me to you that it never stops playing.