I think Evie’s Lost Something

The door slammed, shaking the house – or at least it seemed to. I threw my bag down on the couch, pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

My hands were shaking, my head was about to spin itself right off my neck, and it didn’t help that lightning was electrifying the air.

I could feel Blake standing behind the couch, staring at me, watching my every damn move like a psychopath. Except he wasn’t a psychopath, was he? He was Blake.

‘Eve…’ his voice was hoarse. ‘Talk to me.’

I shook my head. I think I was crying. In all honesty I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

‘Evie-‘

‘No. Blake…I don’t want to fucking talk.’

‘Don’t swear. God will hear you.’

I think I could have killed him there and then. Throw a knife at him or wrap my hands around his neck, because in that minute, as much as I loved him, I hated him more.

‘I will swear if I fucking want to.’

I could tell he was hurt. His eyes did that thing where they sort of sprung back in surprise and then submitted to the familiarity of dejection. I hated myself for being the one to hurt him, but sometimes personal pride seems a lot bigger and lot more ominous than caring about somebody else. As the saying goes, pride comes before the big fall. Except I happened to be lucky enough for them to happen in tandem.

I paced a little more - a little harder - before eventually slumping onto the couch with my face in my hands, my arms holding my hands, my elbows supporting my arms, and my elbows on my knees, and my knees somehow – impossibly so – attached to the solid ground. Thunder cracked like bombs above our head. Now I was definitely crying.

And like always, I felt his warm hand on my shoulder, his soft calming whisper. Usually, he would tell me that everything would be alright, that he loved me, and that God had me. But he didn’t this time – he couldn’t, he just hushed me, cooing me like I was a child. And like a child I leaned my head against his shoulder and sobbed harder than I have ever sobbed in my entire life.

‘She’s gone,’ I cried. ‘She’s not – not, going to b-breath again, or see-see again, she’s…she doesn’t exist anymore.’

The sky cried with me, and for that I think I will be eternally grateful.

I think an hour, or something passed – time is relative when one cries. I’d gone through two boxes of tissues, and Blake brought two glasses of water.

‘Blake?’ my voice was groggy and heavy.

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t think it was an accident.’

The silence that followed was heavy. Heavy, and scary, and completely and utterly empty.

The next morning was silent – eerily so. The sun was shining, but dim. The Birds chirped slowly.

I had asked Blake to stay the night. I was afraid of being alone. We’d fallen asleep amid another session of tears.

When I woke up, my head felt like it bore the weight of the world. He was already sitting outside on the veranda with a cup of coffee. I poured myself a mug and sat beside him in a garden chair.

I remembered sitting like this with Lo, except she hated coffee, she only drank lavender tea. I used to find that annoying, but I didn’t anymore.

We would sit together every morning. Sometimes saying nothing, sometimes saying everything. It had been one of those times when I’d told her about Blake.

‘What does he look like?’ she’d asked.

‘Oh my gosh you’re so superficial. It’s not about what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s on the inside,’ I had said sarcastically.

She had nodded. ‘Mhm, yes. I completely agree with you.’

I had shaken my head chastening her.

‘He has dark hair,’ I eventually whispered.

‘Oh?’ she had beamed. ‘And a moustache?’

‘Ewe, no.’

‘What? Moustaches are cute!’

‘Oh, my goodness, Lo. Find me a man that looks cute with a moustache.’

‘Teddy Roosevelt.’

‘Teddy Roosevelt? He’s dead.’

‘So? He was cute when he was alive!’

‘No! He was like 50.’

‘No, he wasn’t!’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was. Look it up on Wikipedia.’

‘Girl,’ she’d held a hand to her head. ‘People aren’t just born 50. They lived as other ages too.’

‘Pretty sure he didn’t.’

I smiled, thinking about it all. I’d said that I’d never liked a guy more than I had liked Blake. How he was the kindest, most respectful and mature person I knew. How he made me laugh till my fake teeth would fall out – I didn’t actually have fake teeth, but you get the point.

However, my smile quickly vanished when I remembered last night. When I thought about the accident that wound my sister back in a ward. I tried to imagine what she looked like when they brought her in, an ugly mistake to make. I put my mug down on the side table and tried not to throw all the coffee back up.

Blake reached out to take my hand, twining our fingers together. His hands were rough and big; they were strong for the both of us.

I looked over at him, there with dark rings under his honey brown eyes, his curly hair messy and his face looking worn.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said softly. ‘About last night.’

He stared at me a moment, rubbing a finger over the back of my hand. ‘You don’t need to apologise, Evie.’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I was mean.’

‘Your sister just died.’

I swallowed hard.

Swallows flew overhead in various arcs. All happy, all chirpy. So, I thought the thought that possibly every person who has lost someone has thought: How does the world have the audacity to carry on?

‘I keep thinking it wasn’t an accident, Blake,’ I said, my voice sounding tattered. ‘What if…’

He took a shaky breath; I could feel him tensing up. ‘What if.’

Neither of us could finish the sentence. Rather, neither of us could finish the accusation. Because 21-year-old girls like Lo don’t just accidentally find themselves passed out at the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. Because 21-year-old girls like Lo don’t just accidentally blackout, accidentally cutting themselves with a knife that is oh so conveniently found in her hand. 21-year-old girls like Lo don’t just die. They are, however…something else.

A rupture of knocks exploded against the front door.

‘I’ll get it,’ Blake said his lips pursed. He stood up, giving me a kiss on my forehead before going inside.

I could hear a woman’s voice, and I could hear his.

‘Now’s not a good time,’ he said.

‘I understand that, Blake. But unfortunately, the police aren’t able to just cater to everybody’s schedules.’

‘Are you serious? Well look who decided to become a rancid witch.’

‘Stop it.’

‘No. I’m not really in the mood for playing games with you Eliya.’

‘My apologies Robinson, I didn’t actually come here to talk to you.’

‘Yeah, I know. You came to talk to my girlfriend, who surprisingly isn’t having the best time of her life right now.’

The woman sighed. ‘Just…tell her I was here. I want to speak with her at the station as soon as possible. And when I say as soon as possible - I mean it.’

The door closed. Blake released one of those sighs of extreme agitation.

He didn’t come back outside, going into the kitchen instead to make breakfast. I came in, sinking my hands into my hoodie.

‘Who was that?’ I asked.

‘Police.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, oh.’ He cracked some eggs, whisking them. ‘They’re a real pain in the backside, coming in like that after all you just went through. As if it wasn’t enough now you need to be grilled with questions in your own house?’

‘What did she say?’

‘She wants to talk to you. I don’t know about what, but clearly about something. She said you should go down to the station later.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

He looked at me, putting the bowl down as he crossed the kitchen to give me a hug. ‘It’s alright. I’ll come with you. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

But I was most assuredly sure that his contradiction meant that it was definitely something.

A little while later I decided to visit Mom, Dad, and Walker. Blake said he’d take me. I don’t think he trusted me with the wheel – or perhaps he was just being nice.

The driveway crunched beneath the tires as we drove up to the house, Coldplay playing on the car’s stereo because silence was scary now.

We let ourselves in through the back door. Walker was on the couch watching a movie with Dad. Mom was there too.

‘Hey guys.’

‘Hi.’

They carried on watching. They all had black circles under their eyes. I don’t think any of them had slept. I felt guilty that I had.

We sat on the floor, our backs leaning against the couch where Walker was lying. It was Good Will Hunting. It was one of our family movies, every family has them. The ones your family just decides to adopt for no apparent reason.

Will’s fist slams the window of the diner.

‘Do you like apples?’

‘Yeah,’ says the guy inside.

‘Yeah? Well, I got her number. How do you like them apples?’

His friends laugh, and they all walk down the street.

It cuts to the next scene where they all drive down a road melancholically, the early morning light purple, with that soft guitar music.

I started crying again. Walker too. He slid off the couch sitting beside me, and I put an arm around him, hugging him hard, my face in his curly hair.   

We stopped at one point, but I still held him, and he still leaned on me. He was only 16.

We left eventually. The denial in that house had begun to get suffocating, plus the pending interrogation had become too much – I just wanted to get it done and crawl into bed alone.

The room was cold – at least the walls were. I could hear the clock clicking away, my leg bouncing up and down, I think my hands were shaking too. They always shook when I was nervous. A woman with short, wavy blonde hair came in. Her lips were pressed in a sharp line, her eyes a glazy grey.

‘Hello Miss Rosenthal.’

‘Hello.’

I went down a spiral – and it was oh so very dark, painfully dark. Pictures of Lo, the sounds of her voice, the sound of my voice…and then simply sounds for the sake of sound. I was picturing blood then, seeping and thick.

I had never seen a dead body before. Fortunately, I had never had to. The idea of anyone, let alone someone I knew, lying there rigid and cold made me go rigid and cold myself. Thankfully Dad had gone to the morgue to identify her body. He had saved all the rest of us of the atrocity. I loved him for it. This, however, did not stop me from imagining what she must have looked like. These thoughts were only made worse by the sterile room.

‘Miss Rosenthal, I think you can imagine why I wish to speak with you.’

My eyes flicked to hers, which stared into me with the deepest suspicion. ‘No, I can’t actually.’

‘Your sister…’

‘Yes.’

‘We have reason to believe she was killed.’

Reason…

‘By you.’