Laura
by Stacy Hawkins, Sioux Falls Roosevelt High School
As I entered Laura’s apartment with an armful of empty boxes, an odor just bordering on foul greeted me. I quickly locked the door behind me and peered around the corner into the kitchen to search for the offensive culprit. A weak smile graced my lips as I observed the half-eaten soy patty collecting a week’s worth of growth on the counter next to the sink. Holding my breath, I shoved the soy patty down the garbage disposal and placed the dish in the dishwasher. Laura’s collection of refrigerator magnets caught my eye, and I left the door to the dishwasher open as I carefully smoothed out a clipping from the comics. Two women were staring at a dog’s water and food dishes on the floor. The blonde woman stated, “Shirley, I didn’t know you had a dog.” A spirited Shirley replied, “Oh, I don’t. Those are my boyfriend’s.” The magnet holding the clipping indignantly announced, “Who needs men when you have martinis?”
I chuckled grimly, grabbed the magnet and clipping, and placed them carefully in my purse. I took a deep breath and made my way to her bedroom, even though it was the last place in the world I wanted to go. Light poured in the window, struggling against the partially closed blinds.
You made your bed.
I traced the mauve, circular pattern on the quilt and breathed in the remaining smells of my best friend. A mixture of detergent, youthful exuberance, and that inexplicably spicy yet floral scent that always followed her covered me like warm embrace.
Fighting an urge to escape to my car, I willed myself to look at her favorite picture of us. It was a picture of us from my wedding a few years earlier. She looked so vibrant in the apple-colored bridesmaid dress, and I grudgingly admitted that I paled in comparison even in my immaculate white satin gown. I frowned as I noticed the gaping bodice of the dress that draped loosely from her brown skin. Only I knew about the hidden safety pin vainly trying to hold the folds of excess fabric to create a semblance of a fitted top.
Why didn’t she listen to me?
Shaking my head in an attempt at clarity, I grabbed the picture and placed it in one of the empty boxes. I scanned the room for more pictures and noticed a peculiar void. The only pictures prominently displayed were ones taken within the last two years. Reaching for Laura at last year’s New Year’s Eve party, I flipped the picture over and scraped at the stubborn prongs holding the back of the frame in place. Finally succeeding, I popped a photo out — Smiling Laura in her New Year’s dress had caused quite a stir at the party. Her angular shoulder blades looked ready to cut through the spaghetti straps of the dress she so proudly wore. Another photo, one placed carefully behind what Laura had become, fluttered halfheartedly to the floor. I picked up the photo, and with a turn of my wrist, came face to face with a more curvaceous Lisa holding out her high school diploma for the camera. A despondent grin tugged at her full lips, and I recall her reluctance to pose for the picture.
The camera adds ten pounds, you know.
I slumped to the floor with an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Lisa’s life swirled around me and enveloped my body with a nauseous cumbersome grief. I realized all too late that I couldn’t do this. I had been kidding myself with the notion I could pack up Lisa’s life in cardboard boxes and somehow bring her home again. Where could I begin when every photo, every bottle of perfume pointed an accusatory finger? I tried to help her. Was I supposed to watch her every minute of the day? I had a life, too.
Had a life.
A tentative knock at the door whipped me back to harsh reality. Taking a deep breath, I hoisted myself up to a standing position and tucked a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. In a daze, I numbly floated to the door. Unlock. Turn. Open.
An older vision of Lisa, eyes rimmed with an angry pink, stood like a lonely statue watching over a tomb. Her face bore a hardened resolve, one that had accepted a terrible truth about her daughter.
She cleared her throat. “I thought you might want some help.” She looked at my progress sympathetically. “This isn’t a job to do alone.”
Grateful, I looked at the ceiling to suppress my guilt and gnawing sorrow. I didn’t know what to say. I wondered if she hated herself as much as I hated my own role in this all too common modern tragedy. I ached to wake up from this hideous nightmare, but every new morning brought the same reality.
“I miss her so much,” I whispered.
“I miss her, too.”
