November 24, 2006
Chapter 20
(Filed under: The Novel)Gym class the next day was interesting. Dominic was sullen and grumpy, sticking to the edge of the crowd and not acting his usual cocky, self-assured self. Anwyn felt bad. It was pure reaction.
Some of the other students avoided her, too. The rumor was circulating that her sister had killed herself, and now the obvious questions about Anwyn herself were buzzing about the school.
"It'll blow over," Lynn said, by way of comfort. "It always does. Pretty soon we'll be back to nothing to talk about except the weather."
"Yeah," Anwyn said. "How 'bout that weather?"
"Sure is some weather," Lynn said.
But amidst all the fuss Anwyn still had her central questions. Why did Isabelle kill herself?
On Wednesday Anwyn, Lynn and Oliver sat around outside after school. Anwyn's detention would be starting soon, and Lynn and Oliver were helping her kill time.
"So Mr. Graves wants me to join the track team," Anwyn said.
"You didn’t scare him away?" Oliver asked.
"Apparently not."
"He's a gym teacher," Lynn said. "He saw how fast you ran the mile and your—shall we say assertiveness—with Dominic. He knows a team player when he sees one."
"I'm not so sure Mr. Douglas knows a team player," Anwyn said.
"He just wants everything under control," Oliver said. "He's a principal. That's what he does."
"How was your chat with Chet Dahlman?" Lynn asked.
"Oh, it was all right," Anwyn said. "The guy is just so old. I'm not sure he has any idea what he's talking about."
"He kind of creeps me out," said Lynn. "They have too many after school specials featuring teachers just like Dahlman."
As they sat near the front entrance to the school the door opened and Dominic Warren walked out. Their conversation instantly stopped. He looked their direction, saw Anwyn and stopped. Then he looked down and started forward again, refusing to change his path for her. He already faced enough from the other students, he didn't need to be walking the long way around just because of her. He scowled as he walked past, more to the ground than anything as he didn't look up at the three.
Oliver and Lynn just watched him walk by, Lynn ready with some sharp verbal barbs and Oliver ready to just take the larger senior out. Anwyn was staring at the ground, the same bit of ground Dominic kept his eyes on.
"Well that was awkward," Lynn said when Dominic had passed.
"You should see my gym class," Anwyn said. What frustrated her the most about the whole thing was that she still didn't know anything. Perhaps she knew that her sister was strong enough to fight back, doing her own kneeing of a boy's crotch, but it didn't tell her a lot.
It did tell her that Isabelle may not have been the complete princess, flirt she thought she was. Perhaps Isabelle had a bit more strength. But that didn't provide any answers. If anything it made it harder to understand why such a strong person would kill themselves.
She remembered one summer in Kansas when they had done the tourist thing with their Grandpa and Grandma Miller. They piled into the Buick, the grandparents, Isabelle and Anwyn, and drove off to some 1800s historical site. It was an old fort, full of period characters in costumes, canons, blacksmiths and lots of historical accuracy.
They took a guided tour—Anwyn found it interesting and Isabelle tried to look as bored as possible. Their grandparents were rather oblivious, talking among themselves and not really focusing on their grandchildren. They were much the opposite of Grandpa Frank in so many ways.
It was when they were having lunch that Anwyn and Isabelle finally got a chance to wander off on their own. Though it was more Isabelle than Anwyn who yearned to get away and be on her own. Isabelle asked if she could wander around first, and the prospect of sitting alone with her grandparents prompted Anwyn to finish up her sandwich and ask if she could be excused as well. Their Grandma Miller said certainly and asked that they be back before too long. Their Grandpa Miller didn't say anything. He was never wild about the trip in the first place and just wanted to sit back and enjoy his lunch, now content to sit back and digest without the chatter of two young girls.
During this particular recollection Isabelle was perhaps 13 and Anwyn 9. The age difference was acute, with Isabelle yearning to be older and wiser and more mature, and of course she was much less mature than she wished to be. Anwyn was still a child and found her sister's attempts to be mature laughable at best.
Isabelle wandered off towards a playground, Anwyn following close behind. Anwyn played on the swings and met another young girl named Sara. They played on the swings and talked a little, both visiting with family and eager to get away from all the educational stuff for a moment and just play.
Isabelle joined a small crowd of other kids her age crowded around a picnic table. There were maybe three boys and a girl when Isabelle walked up. Anwyn couldn't hear what they were saying, but she watched as Isabelle joined them, walking up and talking easily and then quickly becoming a part of the group. She never understood how her sister could do that so easily. It always baffled her.
Whatever the group of teens had been doing before, now it was most assuredly flirting. Anwyn would hear Isabelle's voice, carrying on the wind, followed by the easy laughter of boys.
Their Grandma Miller collected them again and they continued the tour of the old historical fort. As they wandered around looking at displays another group or two seemed to move along with them, and one of the boys from the playground among them.
Anwyn noticed the boy, and of course Isabelle did, too, though she acted like she didn't. When she could avoid it no longer she looked right at the boy and gave him a warm smile. He practically waved back at her and she turned her attention back to the display showing techniques for making sod houses, acting as if it were the most interesting thing she had seen.
For the rest of their time there Isabelle stayed just far enough away from the boy to keep from talking, close enough to her grandparents to make it seem like that's where she had to be. Anwyn remembered watching the whole scene with confusion. If Isabelle liked the boy why didn't she just talk to him?
But now looking back, Anwyn wondered if that was part of it. Was it all just a game to Isabelle? She had been toying with that boy. She had no intention of talking to him again. She knew she would never see him again and so she just flirted with him, seeing how long she could make it last.
That poor boy probably thought of Isabelle the rest of his trip and most of the way home and probably came up with a few lame ideas for trying to figure out who she was so he could possibly see her again.
But none of it gave Anwyn any answers. It was time for detention now and she gathered up her stuff and Lynn and Oliver said bye and watched her go.
In detention it was just Anwyn today. She took a desk near the back, embracing her rebel status, and sat down to wile away her time.
She remembered Friday nights when she was in still in middle school, only a few years ago, and Isabelle was in high school. She poignantly remembered the feeling of watching Isabelle go off with her friends and Anwyn stayed home, on Friday night, with her parents, and didn't do much of anything.
She'd sit in her room and listen to Isabelle get ready all afternoon. It would start with calls to various friends, seeing who was free and who wasn't and who was in the mood for what and what they might possibly do. Anwyn could have done the same thing, but having her mom take her and friend to the mall or having her Dad drive her to a friend's house just didn't seem as exciting. One of Isabelle's friends would be driving and they were going out on the town. There was an appealing amount of freedom to that, even though Isabelle and her friends would just end up bouncing around from one friend's house to another to some restaurant to a quick, giggling stop at the store.
It was depressingly similar to what teens did in central Kansas.
Anwyn remembered sitting in her room and watching out the window as Isabelle's friends pulled up and honked. The car was already half-full, giggling high school girls not really sure what they were ready for. Jack would stop Isabelle before she raced out the door and go over a few of the usual ground rules, though Anwyn never paid much attention to the restrictions. It was the freedom that intrigued her.
That evening Anwyn opted to go for a run, bringing Charlie along as it was pushing into twilight and beginning to get dark. She ran along the road, soaking up the feeling and the air and the wide, wide horizon. She loved running at dawn and dusk because the endless sky stretched that much farther. The sun's rays would bend in the atmosphere, evoking emotional colors and sights.
She never much noticed the sun rise or set in St. Paul. It came and went everyday, but it was more felt in how light or dark it was outside. The event itself was secondary, inevitably blocked by buildings or trees or the curvature of rolling hills. Going for a run meant following whatever maze of sidewalk she wanted to, perhaps winding through a park. In Kansas it was something else entirely. It had always been an escape for Anwyn, but in Kansas it was something more. It was counter-cultural. It was unexpected. It was weird. And she liked it.
She liked the crunch of gravel under her feet, she liked the stretching sky overhead, and she liked—in an odd sort of way, because it also made her feel a little subconscious—the eyes that would watch her go past. There was Mabel in the post office, the gas station attendant, the old woman who lived next to the old Café and liked to sit on her porch. Mabel had been right, Anwyn had become known as the runner of Richmond.
She made her usual trek past the railroad tracks, down to the bridge and back. She paused as usual at the bridge and looked down at the water, at the sandbar where her and Oliver had watched Isabelle and Dominic kissing. She guessed correctly that this is where Isabelle had kneed Dominic in the groin, stopping him from going farther than she was willing to go. It just seemed unlikely that Isabelle had kneed him in his own house in an attempt to steal his underwear. It seemed more likely that she used some other ploy to get his underwear. Otherwise her attempt wouldn't have taken so long and wouldn't have been pulled off so calmly. You don't sneak into a boy's house after midnight and knee him in the groin and come out calmly. More than a simple injury, that would be breaking and entering and assault.
As she stood atop the bridge and watched the water flow beneath her Anwyn felt a familiar urge. She felt it often lately and couldn't quite explain it. She had the urge to climb up on top of the concrete railing and leap, sailing as far out from the bridge above the water as she could and then soar down, down, down to the water.
It was a suicidal thought and she hated it. She wasn't suicidal herself. She didn't actually want to do it. It was just a speculative thought: What would happen if I leaped to my death?
And she had a good idea what would happen. She would crash in to the water at surprising speed. She probably wasn't high enough to be killed on impact, but if the water was shallow enough or she landed just right, it certainly could kill her. No matter how she landed, it was definite that a fall from this height would be painful. The shock of it would likely knock her out, and her limp body would float down the river, maybe able to suck in oxygen and maybe not. Likely not, with the current flipping her around and maybe under. She'd flow past the bridge and to the southeast, carried with the water. She might wake up on a sandbar, but more likely she'd be found dead by some hunter, either washed up on a sandy shore or maybe stuck in a tree that once overhung the water but fell in and partially blocked the stream, acting as a filter and collecting various bits of river trash, like suicidal girls.
Her father would freak out. Losing two daughters in one year to suicide. It was enough to add a third family member to the statistic—why not. Though Jill would be the one more likely to do that. Jack would solider on. He would become a recluse, even more introverted and quiet than he already was. He wouldn't be able to move again and would content himself with just closing the door to Anwyn's room and never opening it again. Oliver would come over and get rid of any of Anywn's things that weren't in her room; her toothbrush, her jacket, her backpack, her stack of magazines next to the couch, her collection of teen dramedies. Jack wouldn't be able to do it himself.
Oliver. Anwyn smiled to herself, wondering how Oliver would react to her suicide. He'd be pissed. He'd curse, probably in Spanish. He'd chalk them up as suicide sisters and wonder what happened to Anwyn—she had been moving on. She'd be trying.
He'd wonder why she didn't ask for help. And the question would haunt him.
Grandpa Frank would find himself alone. He'd be angry that his body was so weak and tired, that he couldn't take Anwyn to the river himself and keep her out of trouble. He'd be even more distant with Jack, the quiet moments between them stretching into forever. He'd probably give up on his Spanish and as a result avoid Guadalupe.
Charlie whined next to her and she realized that her little scenario would leave Charlie behind on the bridge. She didn't know what Charlie would do. If he had grown attached enough to her he might leap in after her and face the same fate. Or perhaps he'd survive and pull her to shore and she'd face even more awkwardness for having attempted suicide and survived.
That was almost harder—to have tried and failed. To have announced to the world that you can't handle it, that you don't want to handle it and that you want out, but to be unable to finish the job. You'd be refusing to face consequences, but then you'd go right on living and have to face them anyway. You hadn't wanted to ask for help, and now you'd be getting help at every turn. Every comment, every question would be analyzed and no one would quite feel the same around you. You would be a mystery—not a potential mystery like any stranger on the street—but a known mystery, perhaps not solved, but studied and labeled and watched.
More likely, Charlie wouldn't jump after Anwyn, but he'd bark and go nuts and watch her fall in and then run down to the bridge to where he could safely leap to shore and then follow her body down the river, perhaps rushing into save her—or perhaps finding her already dead. At the least her body would be found faster.
Dominic would feel worse than he already did. He'd feel some what justified—the girl was crazy. But he'd also feel remorse for saying 'bitch' in the first place. He'd wonder what would have happened if he'd held his tongue and heard Anwyn out. Maybe she wouldn't have done it.
Lynn would say something sarcastic, full of piss and rage that Anwyn had done it and not confided in her, but it would also be hilarious.
The waves of pain would radiate out from Anwyn, haunting everyone who knew her. The town of Richmond itself would be haunted, suddenly given its own story of teen tragedy. The runner of Richmond would be a story for the ages. It'd be the campfire story for generations. If you listen closely you can hear her running in the night.
Anwyn wasn't suicidal. It was just a passing thought. A curiosity. She watched the river flow beneath her and scratched Charlie behind the ears while he licked her other hand. The curiosity disappeared as logic returned Anwyn knew it was just a thought.
She hoped that wasn't the explanation for Isabelle. What would happen if I took these pills? What would happen if I just took the whole bottle and laid down for a nap?
It seemed ridiculous. But for whatever reason it happened, and the waves of haunting echoed out from Isabelle. Her parents grew apart and divorced, her mom heading east to pursue her career and her father returning home to Kansas to try and regroup and make it through life. Her good friends were left scratching their heads, crying together and listening to old favorite songs, banding together to be there for each other and making lame promises into the night that they wouldn't go the way Isabelle had gone. The truth was it could happen to any of them. They realized, just like Anwyn, that they didn't know Isabelle at all.
And they also realized that they didn't know each other, that they could keep a portion of themselves—their true selves, and hide it away from everyone, like they all thought Isabelle had done. That true nature only came out when she made that final, fateful act. Or so they thought.
Grandpa Frank broke down crying when he heard the news. He sat in his chair and bawled like a baby, having just hung up the phone and hearing the news from Jack. He cried, burying his face in his hands and just cried. Tears, poured down his face and when the nurse came in she couldn't figure out what was wrong. She was getting ready to sedate him when he finally was able to wave a hand and mumble that was OK, that he just need to cry, damn it. Can't a man cry?
And the repercussions of Isabelle's actions were currently haunting Anwyn most of all. She wasn't heart broken like her father or grandfather, but it went to the depths of her soul. Partially because she wasn't close to her sister, and partially just because of what it was. Death does not come and go easily. It barges into lives and leaves great swaths of destruction in its wake, especially when it comes at one's own choosing and comes so very early.
But all of the thoughts and recollections and questions and possibilities didn't answer anything for Anwyn. Her sister was still dead and she still didn't know why.
As she ran back to town with Charlie she turned left down suddenly and jogged down a different street, still south of the railroad tracks. She slowed to a walk and then came up to a hedge separating two yards.
She had been here before, almost four years ago late at night with Catalina and Oliver as they waited for Isabelle to fulfill her dare. Anwyn watched Dominic's house with interest, wondering where he was and what he was doing. She could see lights on inside, and rather than add to the rumors and to Dominic's shame, she turned around and jogged back the way she had come.
Then she turned unexpectedly again and came to a familiar house. Oliver's truck sat in the driveway. She knocked on the door and could hear a chair being scooted back on the kitchen floor.
"Hola, chica," Oliver said with a surprised smile, opening the door wider and stepping back so Anwyn could come in.
"Hey cousin," Catalina said from the table. Mateo waved his arms, not necessarily at Anwyn but just because he could. He was sitting in a high chair, getting a late dinner before he went down for the night.
"Hi little guy," she said, ruffling the small amount of hair that had sprouted on his head.
Anwyn sat down at the table and just smiled for a minute. There was warmth in this house, in this odd assemblage of family. Nobody said anything for a moment and Anwyn just sat there, with Charlie lying on the floor next to her, his dog brain plotting how he could move closer to the high chair and catch any falling crumbs.
Posted by kevin at November 24, 2006 2:04 PM
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