Allana

After

I remember watching from my bedroom window as she walked away. I remember she was angry. I remember she wasn’t planning on coming back. 

She got her wish. 

Now I’m getting ready for her funeral. I’m wearing a black dress, black tights, black socks and shoes, black black black. Allana hated black, so I don’t know why we’re wearing it. It seems disrespectful that we aren’t wearing yellow or hot pink, or some other outrageous color she loves. Loved. 

“Mina, are you ready?” Mom calls up the stairs. 

“Just a minute!” I reply, but of course I’m lying. I’ll never be ready for this. Still, I drag myself away from my very welcoming bed, downstairs, and out the door. Mom makes me drive. 

“I’m just too sad right now,” she says with a frown. “I don’t think it would be safe for me to drive.” 

“Whatever,” I say. “I’ll drive if you want me to.” 

That’s the thing about mom. She’s always me me me, and I want I need I know. She doesn’t care about anyone, and it’s why Allana left. 

Before

I remember the day I first noticed something was wrong. It was a day when Allana and I went to the beach. It was nothing special, but we had a nice picnic. The beach was close, so it was a good place to go when we needed a break from Mom. We could never really speak freely around Mom because she was so judgy, and if she thought we were doing anything “sinful” we’d be grounded for a week. She was the kind of mom who would get angry at the school for teaching sex education. 

The whole day, Allana was exhausted, and not all like her usual, excited self. She barely ate a bite, and didn’t even touch the devilled eggs, but she loved devilled eggs. I’d made them just for her.

 It was such a tell, I should have figured it out sooner. If I had, maybe I could have helped her more. 

After

The car ride is silent. Neither Mom nor I want to listen to music; it would feel wrong. I want to say something, share memories, but there aren’t any memories to share. All my memories are with just Allana, no Mom. By the time we get to the church, it’s gotten awkward.

Everyone is kind. Too kind. It feels so fake, all the sympathetic smiles and gentle hugs. I know what they think of me. I know what they think (thought) of Allana. I haven’t been here in years, and they think I’m some sinful nobody sleeping with a different guy every night. That’s what Mom told them, at least. They don’t care about me or my grief. 

By the time I sit down, I’m crying again, but it’s not because I’m sad. Now, I’m angry at my mom, at her stupid church, at everyone in the room, because they pretend to understand, but they don’t. They never will. 

Before

I remember the day after I found out about the truth, I found Allana crying. She was sitting out back, behind the tree where Mom wouldn’t be able to see her through the window. Her face was bright red, and her sleeve was wet because she didn’t have any tissues. I sat down next to her, and after a long time of waiting, I talked first. 

“I don’t judge you for what happened, you know,” I say as I look at her. Allana turns away from me and stares at the fence. 

“I d-don’t believe you. I know you judge me. How c-could you not think what I d-did was wrong?” Her voice was thick with tears, and she brushed some of her tears away from her eyes. “All the time I spent in that stupid church with Mom, there was all this shame around it. Now it’s happened to me, and even though I don’t care about that stuff anymore, I still feel like I did something wrong. Not by doing- what I did, but I feel like the result is the problem.” 

“No, Allana, stop,” I said. “Don’t talk like that. No matter what, being pregnant is not a reason to be ashamed. Whatever you decide, whether you think this is a blessing or a curse, don’t let those dumbasses tell you how to feel,” I say. She looks at me for a second, and her eyes are so full of despair. I lean over and pull her into a hug. “Why don’t we go see a movie or something. Maybe get ice cream. You need to do something that makes you happy right now, okay?”

Allana turns towards the fence again to wipe her eyes, pulling away from me, but after a moment she mutters, “Okay.” 

After

The service is terrible. It’s a bunch of crap about how Allana was a good soul who’s time came too soon, and how she’s going to a better place where she can be God. The four issues with that: 

1. They all think Allana was a terrible person. 
2. They didn’t care if she died because they thought she was going to hell. 
3. She didn’t believe in God, and hadn’t for years. 
4. Her place isn’t with God, it’s with me. Alive. 

It sets my blood boiling, all these people acting like they cared, saying they loved her as a daughter, as a sister, as a friend. Talking about how they remember she was in ballet with their daughter when she was three, and in soccer with their niece when she was four. Saying she loved art and music. 

Well no shit. She liked art and music, like everyone else in the world. But can they tell you she loved to paint birds, specifically parrots? Could they tell you her favorite genre was folk rock, and her favorite artist was Don McLean? No, they can’t. 

I’m not even allowed to speak. At my mom’s church, they believe children should be seen, not heard, and even though I’m 18, they don’t count me yet. Instead I sit there, counting the seconds, until it’s over. 

A few more people talk.

A couple hymns are sung. 

Then it’s Mom’s turn to speak.

Before

I remember when she came home one night, and she seemed relieved, but sad at the same time. I immediately asked her to come talk in my room. I shut the door, and turned around. 

“What happened? Is this mood change good, or bad?” I asked in a whisper. She shrugged noncommittally. 

“I don’t know, but it’s over now.” she said. When the tears started to fall, I immediately went to hug her. “I didn’t even know if it was a girl or a boy,” she said. 

At the same moment I started to say, “It’ll be okay,” Mom walked in. 

“What’s going on?” she snapped. “Don’t expect me to miss when something’s gone wrong with one of my daughters. Which one of you ruined herself?” She immediately looked at me, of course. “Did you do it Mina?” When I didn’t say anything, her face turned to stone. “You are my greatest disappointment,” she said, and then she turned to leave. And then Allana spoke up. 

“Wait, Mom, it wasn’t Mina, i-it was me.” When Mom turned around again, her face was drained of color. Allana took a visible deep breath before continuing. “I made a really big mistake, and I’m so, so sorry, but it’s over now. I fixed it.” By then, Allana was crying for real, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. Instead, with a voice like solid nitrogen, she asked, 

“What do you mean, you fixed it?” 

Allana swallowed hard, pushing down a sob, and said, “The baby’s gone.” That’s when Mom walked out of the room, and she didn’t say a word to either of us for days. 

After

The moment Mom turns around to face the chairs, she finds my eyes, and I know this is going to be horrible. Her face is red and swollen with tears, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly a show. She doesn’t care enough to be this upset. 

Mom clears her throat, and starts to talk.

 “I remember there was one time, when Allana was maybe six, she came with me to help out at the homeless shelter. She was always such a good child, helping out whenever she saw the chance.” (I can already tell it’s all going to be nonsense.) 

 “She loved drawing, and she would bring pictures to all the elderly people in the shelter. I remember they used to light up when she walked over with her sheets of paper. She kept drawing up until the day she left us. She always loved drawing. And she loved pop, too. I used to get so sick of Taylor Swift, I would pretend I’d forgotten the disc at home.” Mom pauses, and looks around for a moment, her lip trembling. 

“I. I just know I’d give anything, everything, to listen to one of those songs with her again.” And at that point, she was so overcome by emotion that she had to be led back to her seat next to me. 

I’m angry again. All of that was crap. Allana hated pop when she was older. She never volunteered at homeless shelters with my mom, only on her own, through school. She loved painting, not drawing, and the story about the Taylor Swift CD is made-up. 

Before

I remember Mom didn’t talk to me for a week, and for the month after that, it was only in short, rude sentences, like “clean the dishes,” or “go to bed,” that kind of thing. The whole time she was like that with me, she didn’t look at, speak to, or acknowledge Allana once from what I saw, until about six weeks after Mom found out about the abortion. 

Allana and I were in my room, doing homework together, when she walked in. “What are you doing?” she said very abruptly. “I need help with something.” 

I looked up and said, “What do you need help with?” 

“I’m moving the china cabinet. It’s too heavy.” I look at her for another second, then put down my pencil and get up. Allana doesn’t move. 

“What is your sister doing?” Mom asked. “Why isn’t she getting up?” I shrug. 

“I don’t know.” I turn around and raise a half-amused, half-worried eyebrow. She shrugs, and I think that’s what set Mom off.

“Get up, now!” she said. 

It was the first thing she’d said to Allana in weeks, but without looking up, Allana said, “No.” 

I don’t know if I was more amazed or worried for Allana’s life, but I definitely felt a mixture of the two. No one, no one ever, said no to our mom. It was unprecedented, and Mom was mad. 

In a tone so low and cold it makes you shiver just hearing it, Mom said, “What did you just say to me? I let you live in my house, eat my food, share my faith, and this is how you talk to me? After everything you’ve done? You should be grateful I didn’t throw you out when you first got knocked up!” 

If Mom had said that to me, I would have wanted to hide under my bed, but in that moment, Allana was fearless. “I don’t care what you think anymore, Mom,” She said. “I’m not ashamed of what happened to me, and you should stop trying to force me to feel otherwise. The first thing you said after weeks of silence was asking me for help.” She took a deep breath, as if she was bracing herself for something. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Of how you treat your daughters.” 

Allana was right to brace herself, because Mom slapped her so hard she fell over, with half a handprint on her face. With a murderous glare, Mom looked down on her youngest daughter. “You are no longer welcome in this household. You are not my daughter anymore. Grab a coat and leave.” 

After

And she left. She grabbed her coat, her backpack, and a sock full of hidden cash, and stayed at a friend's house. After that, I don’t know what happened. Mom cut me off. I couldn’t see her, I could talk to her over the phone, our only contact was through notes carried by a mutual friend. I didn’t know she was dead until a week later, when the police figured out who she was. I went in to confirm the identity of the body. 

Now I’m home. From my window, I can see the old tree we used to sit under together. I can see the road she walked away on. What I can’t see is her. 

I sit, looking through blurry eyes, and wonder what I’ll do without Allana.