If Abi hadn’t paused halfway down the sidewalk to tie her shoe that day, or if I hadn’t run ahead to peer through the windows at the stone-faced mannequins, if our mom hadn’t stopped to get us all Subway sandwiches for dinner before calling to bring us home, if the stars hadn’t aligned in the way they did on the day they did at the time they did and in the place they did, then Abi would still be here today.
But all that did happen, and now she’s gone.
The driver was this gawky young guy with a ski-slope shaped nose and lopsided glasses. He felt guilty and awful, so bad that he came to Abi’s funeral even though he had never met her and got all red eyed and sniffy. Even though I knew he must have hated himself, I couldn’t help but hate him just a little bit too. I never heard his side of the story, but I heard snippets of it from the news stories pouring out of our unwatched television screen or from my mom and dad’s whispery and choked-up voices over cooling coffee when they thought I had fallen asleep. Piecing it all together, I suppose he knocked over some scalding hot drink onto his lap and bent over to get some napkins out of the glove compartment. I guess by the time he saw Abi, he didn’t have any time to react. None of that really mattered now, though, I suppose, because here I am two years later and Abi’s gone, and the door to her room is still shut like it has been all this time, and I’m crossing off “Abi’s 14th birthday” on my calendar even though she never will be 14, and that’s just the way life is now.
“CT,” I heard my mom’s gentle voice calling to me from the hallway. A soft knock on my door, and my mom’s face appeared quietly. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
Everything about my mom became gentle after Abi. Her soft voice seemed permanently set at “medium” volume, her feather-like arms entwined me in such light hugs that I’m convinced she believes a gentle squeeze would shatter me, and when she walked alongside my dad on a windy day I expected her light body to fold like a plastic bag into the sky. After Abi, mom stopped eating for a real long time. Even now I catch her sometimes with a light salad or some crackers in her hands, but her body never did restore to the healthy weight she had before. Sometimes I wonder if she stopped eating to show the universe she’s still in control of something, or if the food just stopped tasting good. Whichever was the case, I felt the same way.
“Fine,” I answered. I lifted the bright pink “You’re the Birthday Girl!” bag off my meticulously made bed and turned to follow my mom out of my bedroom.
“Hey kiddo!” my dad said as I approached him, standing in the television room before the set like he used to do with Abi as they cheered on the Utah Jazz. Only this time, he didn’t cheer. He stared blankly at a news channel and waited for my mom and me so we could go to Abi’s favorite restaurant. The Birthday guy or gal always gets to pick the restaurant we go to. Since Abi grew old enough to talk she would get all giddy on her birthday and insist on El Habanero, which God knows why she liked the place so much because she had to be the pickiest eater on Earth and always got a plain old cheese quesadilla while everyone else feasted on intricate plates full of a variety of cheese, bean, chicken, and tortilla.
The hum of conversation in the car stayed careful and quiet as usual. Gentle words made the air in the car thick and heavy, hard to breathe through. I looked out the window at the piles of muddy snow that lined the streets, the black slush that driving cars left behind, the footprints in packed snow that led trails through front yards, the signs of life that inevitably sullied the fresh, pale beauty of a snowfall. Before we turned into the restaurant’s parking lot, we passed a couple in marshmallow coats holding hands and I could see the puff of warm breath rise from their mouths.
As I followed my mom and dad into the restaurant, I started thinking that maybe Abi didn’t like El Habanero because of the large plates of intricate Mexican dishes. Maybe she liked the warmth of the place. The walls had been painted with an orange and yellow color, kind of a mustard-like result, the welcome mat contained swirls of “Welcome!”, the tiles appeared clean and white, save for the few right past the welcome mat that had dirty-snow tracks, and in just about every corner of the whole restaurant there stood a healthy green plant—a real one, too, with cascades of leaves drooping to touch well-moistened soil. I carefully wiped my shoes off clean before following my family to be seated, saving the clean white tiles from my dirt-trodden Keds as best I could.
We used to do birthdays right, where the Birthday person would tear into the presents one by one and show everyone at the table what they got. After Abi, we realized that we couldn’t do that anymore, so now instead every person would open the gift that they brought. It felt weird trying to get used to the custom after sixteen birthdays of ripping open my own present, but we all agreed to do it on everyone’s birthday. It wouldn’t be fair to Abi if she was the only one who didn’t get to open her own presents. We used to invite friends to our dinner, too, if we wanted, but that changed after Abi too. Abi couldn’t invite her friends, so none of us did either. That was my idea. I loved having my best friends there with us for my birthday and it hurt to let that part of the tradition go, but it hurt even more to imagine keeping the tradition going, and I didn’t want to be unfair to Abi.
After the waitress took our order, my dad started us off with the presents. That’s the same that happened last year, our unspoken rule; my mom wasn’t strong enough to start and I could never find the right words to say. My dad, though, with his goofy grin that used to reach all the way up to his eyes and make them dance, would clear his throat obnoxiously loud as though he were gearing up to make a real big speech and would raise the wrapped present so we could all see it clearly. This year, it had a pale pink and glossy wrapping paper with a ballerina in a purple leotard amidst an intricate little spin. I felt an unexpected pulse of jealousy at how well my dad had managed to capture the essence of Abi. I could almost see her in the wrapping paper, her light pink jacket made of shiny polyester with sparkly, twirling gems of “JuliAnn’s Dance Company” across the lower back. My dad ripped at the beautiful wrapping paper, shattering the image and leaving behind a small, dark blue box. It looked like the kind of wrapping box that jewelry comes in, pretty and decorative, but when my dad opened it up there sat a cube of glass with a decorative mist inside; a glass block. I leaned in closer to see the image inside the glass. The swirling mist portrayed a ballerina, similar to the one on the wrapping paper but even more graceful and stunning, her back arched and trails of what reminded me of fairy dust surrounded her. It looked like she was dancing in the clouds.
Just like Abi.
Next, my mom lifted a small blue bag from out of her purse. The bag appeared plain, no writing or any sort of decoration on it. My mom reached inside the bag and lifted a silver heart-shaped necklace out of it. I didn’t understand why my mom would get her something so neutral, but I wondered if the present had more meaning to my mom than I could understand. I wanted to believe that I had the closest relationship with Abi out of anyone, but I had no way of knowing that for sure, and that’s one of the worst parts about Abi being gone.
Finally, I revealed my present to my mom and dad. A framed photograph of Abi and me together, my arm thrown around her tan shoulder, her wide smile easily outshining mine, both of our hair windblown and tied in ponytails. Over our shoulders, the crystal blue of Bear Lake and the hills of sandy beach take me back to three summers ago when the picture was taken. It used to be tradition to go to Bear Lake every summer. We haven’t been there since Abi and I took the picture.
After the present ceremony, I placed the picture carefully at the end of the table next to the ballerina and heart necklace. Happy birthday Abi, I thought as the waitress placed a plate of steaming food in front of me. We started to eat in silence, settling once again into the same uncomfortable lack of conversation that had filled the car, but this time the noise of clinking silverware and chatter from other guests filled the background.
Just as I take a sip of my root beer, though, I hear the sound of a crash followed by the chilling sound of breaking glass. In the moments that follow, I see my mom turn a horrified and apologetic face to me and tears form a puddle at the bottom of her eye lids. Her elbow nears dangerously close to the edge of the table, where my framed picture of Abi had sat only moments before.
I peered down to the white, shiny tiles. Abi’s present lay on the floor. It’s shiny, clean glass, well-manicured frame, Abi’s smiley and sweat-laden face, my arm slung tight around her. I bent down to pick it up. A spider web of cracked glass had spread across Abi’s chest, entangling her glorious grin into a trap of strands. Beside Abi, I remained untouched. The spider web didn’t dare to reach its grasp out to twine around me, save for one brave strand that stretched across Abi’s right shoulder and sliced through my upper arm. One scratch. One solitary scratch reached out and touched my unbroken wholeness.
I thought I could hear my mom apologizing and promising to help me pay for a new one. I thought I heard my dad saying words of comfort followed with “kiddo.” I thought I could even still hear the sounds of life going on all around me, relentless chatter and clinking silverware. But I stayed staring at that intricate twist of webs that so perfectly captured Abi and left me so nearly whole and untouched.
I carefully placed my thumb directly in the center of the spider web. Gently, I pressed down against the glass and watched the cracks slowly spread, reaching towards me and enclosing its intricate shape around me. I pushed harder against the broken glass. The crack that sliced through my arm reached up and sent a scratch across my face. Another crack grew across my chest. I moved my thumb to the cracks that have now grown inside my chest and press there until they distort my chest, my cheeks, my bright eyes. I kept pressing until I’m unrecognizable, entirely broken.
There’s no point, after all, in being whole on the outside. Not if you’re broken on the inside.
Before my mom and dad had the chance to say a word to me, I stood from the table and ran. Ran away from Abi’s smiling face behind cracked glass, ran away from my mom’s chilling apologies, ran away from my dad’s reassuring voice, ran away from my steaming plate of food, and ran away from the live plants in the corners of the restaurant and the warmth of the clean tiles and mustard walls. I ran into the brisk, winter night and the dark blue hue that had been created by the sun falling behind the trees and the mountains.
I dropped my body onto the snow-covered alley of grass beside El Habanero and, even though I normally bite tears back or lean back my head to prevent them from falling down my face, I burrowed my face into my hands and let myself cry. I could feel the snow soaking through my jeans and chilling my legs, but instead of moving myself to a dry place, I sunk my hands and face into the snow as well. Like a home video, memories replayed through my mind of Abi. The day she fell off her bike and scraped her knee and made me carry her all the way back to the house. The night we stayed up late and folded the blanket from her top bunk so it draped over my bottom bunk and had a “campout” in our “tent.” The week that Abi spent every moment of freedom she had practicing choreography for an auditioned Dance Company and had me videotape her over and over so she could see her progress for herself.
“CT?” my dad’s voice called from behind me. Before I realized what I was doing, I clutched snow into my fists and whirred it at my dad. I hit his shoulder, and the surprise and hurt expression that washed over his face made my heart twinge with guilt.
“I miss her,” I said, my voice cracking on the last word. It felt like someone was clutching my throat, and I had a hard time choking out the words. I knew I must have looked ridiculous, sitting outside a Mexican restaurant in a pile of snow with tears streaking my red cheeks.
“CT,” my dad said, his voice kind but quiet. “Come inside now, kiddo.”
For a moment, I felt disappointed. No words of encouragement, no wisdom or solace. Then I realized my dad didn’t have any of that to give. He was hurting inside, too, maybe even more than I was. All he could do was smile and pretend he was okay for me.
I wiped the tears off my cold face, pulled myself to my feet, and trekked the snow I had just thrashed through. Before I reentered the warm restaurant, I paused for a moment in the doorway and turned to face the snow I had just abandoned. The once clean, fresh, untouched mound of snow was now a cluttered mess. I could see an imprint of my body next to a jagged hole where my hands had grasped for snow. Uneven footprints led a path from the entrance to the mess I had left behind.
It was an ugly reminder of my pain. A messy souvenir of my frustration. A picture of my loss and brokenness. It was a memory that I had lived.
And it was beautiful.
But all that did happen, and now she’s gone.
The driver was this gawky young guy with a ski-slope shaped nose and lopsided glasses. He felt guilty and awful, so bad that he came to Abi’s funeral even though he had never met her and got all red eyed and sniffy. Even though I knew he must have hated himself, I couldn’t help but hate him just a little bit too. I never heard his side of the story, but I heard snippets of it from the news stories pouring out of our unwatched television screen or from my mom and dad’s whispery and choked-up voices over cooling coffee when they thought I had fallen asleep. Piecing it all together, I suppose he knocked over some scalding hot drink onto his lap and bent over to get some napkins out of the glove compartment. I guess by the time he saw Abi, he didn’t have any time to react. None of that really mattered now, though, I suppose, because here I am two years later and Abi’s gone, and the door to her room is still shut like it has been all this time, and I’m crossing off “Abi’s 14th birthday” on my calendar even though she never will be 14, and that’s just the way life is now.
“CT,” I heard my mom’s gentle voice calling to me from the hallway. A soft knock on my door, and my mom’s face appeared quietly. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
Everything about my mom became gentle after Abi. Her soft voice seemed permanently set at “medium” volume, her feather-like arms entwined me in such light hugs that I’m convinced she believes a gentle squeeze would shatter me, and when she walked alongside my dad on a windy day I expected her light body to fold like a plastic bag into the sky. After Abi, mom stopped eating for a real long time. Even now I catch her sometimes with a light salad or some crackers in her hands, but her body never did restore to the healthy weight she had before. Sometimes I wonder if she stopped eating to show the universe she’s still in control of something, or if the food just stopped tasting good. Whichever was the case, I felt the same way.
“Fine,” I answered. I lifted the bright pink “You’re the Birthday Girl!” bag off my meticulously made bed and turned to follow my mom out of my bedroom.
“Hey kiddo!” my dad said as I approached him, standing in the television room before the set like he used to do with Abi as they cheered on the Utah Jazz. Only this time, he didn’t cheer. He stared blankly at a news channel and waited for my mom and me so we could go to Abi’s favorite restaurant. The Birthday guy or gal always gets to pick the restaurant we go to. Since Abi grew old enough to talk she would get all giddy on her birthday and insist on El Habanero, which God knows why she liked the place so much because she had to be the pickiest eater on Earth and always got a plain old cheese quesadilla while everyone else feasted on intricate plates full of a variety of cheese, bean, chicken, and tortilla.
The hum of conversation in the car stayed careful and quiet as usual. Gentle words made the air in the car thick and heavy, hard to breathe through. I looked out the window at the piles of muddy snow that lined the streets, the black slush that driving cars left behind, the footprints in packed snow that led trails through front yards, the signs of life that inevitably sullied the fresh, pale beauty of a snowfall. Before we turned into the restaurant’s parking lot, we passed a couple in marshmallow coats holding hands and I could see the puff of warm breath rise from their mouths.
As I followed my mom and dad into the restaurant, I started thinking that maybe Abi didn’t like El Habanero because of the large plates of intricate Mexican dishes. Maybe she liked the warmth of the place. The walls had been painted with an orange and yellow color, kind of a mustard-like result, the welcome mat contained swirls of “Welcome!”, the tiles appeared clean and white, save for the few right past the welcome mat that had dirty-snow tracks, and in just about every corner of the whole restaurant there stood a healthy green plant—a real one, too, with cascades of leaves drooping to touch well-moistened soil. I carefully wiped my shoes off clean before following my family to be seated, saving the clean white tiles from my dirt-trodden Keds as best I could.
We used to do birthdays right, where the Birthday person would tear into the presents one by one and show everyone at the table what they got. After Abi, we realized that we couldn’t do that anymore, so now instead every person would open the gift that they brought. It felt weird trying to get used to the custom after sixteen birthdays of ripping open my own present, but we all agreed to do it on everyone’s birthday. It wouldn’t be fair to Abi if she was the only one who didn’t get to open her own presents. We used to invite friends to our dinner, too, if we wanted, but that changed after Abi too. Abi couldn’t invite her friends, so none of us did either. That was my idea. I loved having my best friends there with us for my birthday and it hurt to let that part of the tradition go, but it hurt even more to imagine keeping the tradition going, and I didn’t want to be unfair to Abi.
After the waitress took our order, my dad started us off with the presents. That’s the same that happened last year, our unspoken rule; my mom wasn’t strong enough to start and I could never find the right words to say. My dad, though, with his goofy grin that used to reach all the way up to his eyes and make them dance, would clear his throat obnoxiously loud as though he were gearing up to make a real big speech and would raise the wrapped present so we could all see it clearly. This year, it had a pale pink and glossy wrapping paper with a ballerina in a purple leotard amidst an intricate little spin. I felt an unexpected pulse of jealousy at how well my dad had managed to capture the essence of Abi. I could almost see her in the wrapping paper, her light pink jacket made of shiny polyester with sparkly, twirling gems of “JuliAnn’s Dance Company” across the lower back. My dad ripped at the beautiful wrapping paper, shattering the image and leaving behind a small, dark blue box. It looked like the kind of wrapping box that jewelry comes in, pretty and decorative, but when my dad opened it up there sat a cube of glass with a decorative mist inside; a glass block. I leaned in closer to see the image inside the glass. The swirling mist portrayed a ballerina, similar to the one on the wrapping paper but even more graceful and stunning, her back arched and trails of what reminded me of fairy dust surrounded her. It looked like she was dancing in the clouds.
Just like Abi.
Next, my mom lifted a small blue bag from out of her purse. The bag appeared plain, no writing or any sort of decoration on it. My mom reached inside the bag and lifted a silver heart-shaped necklace out of it. I didn’t understand why my mom would get her something so neutral, but I wondered if the present had more meaning to my mom than I could understand. I wanted to believe that I had the closest relationship with Abi out of anyone, but I had no way of knowing that for sure, and that’s one of the worst parts about Abi being gone.
Finally, I revealed my present to my mom and dad. A framed photograph of Abi and me together, my arm thrown around her tan shoulder, her wide smile easily outshining mine, both of our hair windblown and tied in ponytails. Over our shoulders, the crystal blue of Bear Lake and the hills of sandy beach take me back to three summers ago when the picture was taken. It used to be tradition to go to Bear Lake every summer. We haven’t been there since Abi and I took the picture.
After the present ceremony, I placed the picture carefully at the end of the table next to the ballerina and heart necklace. Happy birthday Abi, I thought as the waitress placed a plate of steaming food in front of me. We started to eat in silence, settling once again into the same uncomfortable lack of conversation that had filled the car, but this time the noise of clinking silverware and chatter from other guests filled the background.
Just as I take a sip of my root beer, though, I hear the sound of a crash followed by the chilling sound of breaking glass. In the moments that follow, I see my mom turn a horrified and apologetic face to me and tears form a puddle at the bottom of her eye lids. Her elbow nears dangerously close to the edge of the table, where my framed picture of Abi had sat only moments before.
I peered down to the white, shiny tiles. Abi’s present lay on the floor. It’s shiny, clean glass, well-manicured frame, Abi’s smiley and sweat-laden face, my arm slung tight around her. I bent down to pick it up. A spider web of cracked glass had spread across Abi’s chest, entangling her glorious grin into a trap of strands. Beside Abi, I remained untouched. The spider web didn’t dare to reach its grasp out to twine around me, save for one brave strand that stretched across Abi’s right shoulder and sliced through my upper arm. One scratch. One solitary scratch reached out and touched my unbroken wholeness.
I thought I could hear my mom apologizing and promising to help me pay for a new one. I thought I heard my dad saying words of comfort followed with “kiddo.” I thought I could even still hear the sounds of life going on all around me, relentless chatter and clinking silverware. But I stayed staring at that intricate twist of webs that so perfectly captured Abi and left me so nearly whole and untouched.
I carefully placed my thumb directly in the center of the spider web. Gently, I pressed down against the glass and watched the cracks slowly spread, reaching towards me and enclosing its intricate shape around me. I pushed harder against the broken glass. The crack that sliced through my arm reached up and sent a scratch across my face. Another crack grew across my chest. I moved my thumb to the cracks that have now grown inside my chest and press there until they distort my chest, my cheeks, my bright eyes. I kept pressing until I’m unrecognizable, entirely broken.
There’s no point, after all, in being whole on the outside. Not if you’re broken on the inside.
Before my mom and dad had the chance to say a word to me, I stood from the table and ran. Ran away from Abi’s smiling face behind cracked glass, ran away from my mom’s chilling apologies, ran away from my dad’s reassuring voice, ran away from my steaming plate of food, and ran away from the live plants in the corners of the restaurant and the warmth of the clean tiles and mustard walls. I ran into the brisk, winter night and the dark blue hue that had been created by the sun falling behind the trees and the mountains.
I dropped my body onto the snow-covered alley of grass beside El Habanero and, even though I normally bite tears back or lean back my head to prevent them from falling down my face, I burrowed my face into my hands and let myself cry. I could feel the snow soaking through my jeans and chilling my legs, but instead of moving myself to a dry place, I sunk my hands and face into the snow as well. Like a home video, memories replayed through my mind of Abi. The day she fell off her bike and scraped her knee and made me carry her all the way back to the house. The night we stayed up late and folded the blanket from her top bunk so it draped over my bottom bunk and had a “campout” in our “tent.” The week that Abi spent every moment of freedom she had practicing choreography for an auditioned Dance Company and had me videotape her over and over so she could see her progress for herself.
“CT?” my dad’s voice called from behind me. Before I realized what I was doing, I clutched snow into my fists and whirred it at my dad. I hit his shoulder, and the surprise and hurt expression that washed over his face made my heart twinge with guilt.
“I miss her,” I said, my voice cracking on the last word. It felt like someone was clutching my throat, and I had a hard time choking out the words. I knew I must have looked ridiculous, sitting outside a Mexican restaurant in a pile of snow with tears streaking my red cheeks.
“CT,” my dad said, his voice kind but quiet. “Come inside now, kiddo.”
For a moment, I felt disappointed. No words of encouragement, no wisdom or solace. Then I realized my dad didn’t have any of that to give. He was hurting inside, too, maybe even more than I was. All he could do was smile and pretend he was okay for me.
I wiped the tears off my cold face, pulled myself to my feet, and trekked the snow I had just thrashed through. Before I reentered the warm restaurant, I paused for a moment in the doorway and turned to face the snow I had just abandoned. The once clean, fresh, untouched mound of snow was now a cluttered mess. I could see an imprint of my body next to a jagged hole where my hands had grasped for snow. Uneven footprints led a path from the entrance to the mess I had left behind.
It was an ugly reminder of my pain. A messy souvenir of my frustration. A picture of my loss and brokenness. It was a memory that I had lived.
And it was beautiful.
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