In the eighteen years that led up to that day, not once had I even considered spending it in the Intensive Care Unit with my little sister. Now, three years later, I often dream of that day; the shadow of her memory lingers in my wake, never allowing me a spare second. I had always been told my eighteenth birthday would be memorable, but I never could have guessed the way in which that truth would reveal itself. Grace taught me to slow down and value life, but without my baby sister, our favorite show isn’t funny and our favorite band isn’t appealing. Every detail of my sister is etched into my brain, from her light freckles to her muddy-green eyes. Dying brought Grace peace, but it left me here, alone, missing.
***********************
I stand inside of a tiny elevator taking me to the correct floor. My view has changed with her accident; my world is no longer composed, but scattered. My best friend is in pain, in distress, in danger, but I am left to deal with the consequences. I have a feeling that my love for her will be the death of me.
The elevator moves annoyingly slow; I glance at the only other person stuck with me as the bell dings with each floor we pass. The man is short and fairly obese; he smells of smoke and, as I peak at him out of the corner of my eye, I see him blatantly staring at me. Pulling my furry coat closer to my body, I look down at my hands and anxiously pick at a hangnail.
I wonder why he’s here; did he, like me, get a call to hurry in? Was he staring at my panicked face, my red eyes; was he watching my accelerated breathing? Or did he not care at all? Surely he was not experiencing the unbearable suffering I was; his already overworked heart would unquestionably explode. I will myself not to cry, not yet.
On the fourth floor, the elevator bell rings once again, this time followed by the slow opening of the cold, silver metal doors. The thick smell of antiseptic and latex disperse into the small space attacking every pore of my shaking body. With my heart pounding and my stomach churning, I step into the hall and turn left, as my mother had instructed in her hysteric phone call. I pass a huge window that overlooks the falsely serene scene of the March night; lights from the adjacent and opposite buildings flash happily, inconceivably suggesting that this night is one of fun and excitement.
I continue down the hall, accompanied only by the sound of my boots hitting the white tile; I now feel out of place, dressed up for a night out in such a melancholy place. I pass three doors on my left and stop in front of the fourth to read the chart hanging next to it. Grace Crews, 16, car accident, followed by a plethora of medical jargon I can’t decipher.
I don’t need to; I know what the conclusion will be.
Taking a deep breath and exhaling as if blowing out the eighteen candles I should have had on a cake tonight, I wish silently that night does not end in the way everyone expects it to.
I push the door open; it’s dark. I walk down the tight hallway until it opens into a small room with only a bed, two chairs, and a TV hanging on the wall opposite this furniture. The TV is off and, at the sound of my entrance, my mother looks away from my sister. “Taylor,” she breathes as she vacates her post by Grace’s bed to envelope me in a tight embrace. My mother’s smell registers a feeling of homeliness and the scratch of her sweater reminds me of winter, but today I hardly notice these trivial matters.
I do not wrap my arms around her; they remain rooted at my sides as I stare at the sight in front of me. My baby sister: one fragile girl, two years my junior, three times better than I could dream to be, lies sleeping under the white sheet with gauze wrapped around her newly shaved head and her left arm in a plaster cast. I feel my legs go weak just as my mother releases me, wiping away stray tears, “She’s been asleep this whole time.”
I nod. Shock, complete and utter shock, courses through my veins; my thoughts too scattered to even interpret, much less voice. The white of the gauze, the floor, the sheets, the walls is contrasted violently with the blood that is dried on Grace’s face, her fingers, the discarded bandages on the bedside table. My mother keeps talking to me, but I have long stopped listening; then, suddenly, she is gone and I am left alone with the only girl who has ever truly understood me.
My legs, like jelly and completely detached from my brain, somehow lead me over to Grace’s bed. My hand reaches out of its own accord and my fingertips brush her jaw line gently. I lower myself into one of the half-plastic chairs next to her and stare at the seemingly numberless wires and IVs and tubes that trail from my sister’s arms, fingers, head into the high tech machines a foot away from us. I keep myself breathing by syncing my breaths with the sound of Grace’s heart monitor. In-beep, out-beep, in-beep: my hands are shaking so badly now that I sit on them in order to prevent any accidents.
“Hey, Grace,” my voice cracks; I don’t even know if she can hear me – probably not. “Always trying to steal the spotlight, eh?” I smile and taste salt; I hadn’t realized I was crying. I pull my right hand from under myself and hastily wipe away my tears; she didn’t need to see my crying, should she awaken. I concentrate on breathing again in order to calm myself.
“Mom told me you were speeding, trying to pick up my present in time,” I continue. “You should have been more careful, Grace! Did you really think I meant it when I yelled not to be late?” I don’t bother wiping my eyes this time and I’m sure my makeup is running down my face. I reach out and place my hand on her arm; it’s too cold.
Silent tears cascade onto the white sheets as I kick off my boots and crawl onto the small cot, careful to avoid the wires and IVs and tubes. “I’ll keep you warm,” I vow. “I didn’t care if you got to my dinner on time, Gracie. I just wanted you to get there.” I push my lips to her cheek very softly. “Don’t leave without me, Grace. I love you.” Resting my head on her shoulder, I again concentrate on breathing. My breaths grow slower and farther apart until I fall asleep to the dull tone of the long, solitary beep of the flat-line on the heart monitor.
[11.3.2009]
