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Me: I like them both. Texting, you make me smile. Face to face, I get to see you smile. Both make my days better.
Elijah: And you say it’s me who has a way with words. Well, hopefully tomorrow I make your night better too.
Me: Hmm, that sounded a little risqué Elijah. I like it.
I stand from the carpet, straightening my uniform and grabbing my purse off of my nightstand. Luckily, my parents aren't in the living room when I reach it, and I leave without any further conversation with them. At a red light, I open the text I got while driving.
Elijah: We'll see how much you like risks tomorrow. And no, I'm not telling you where we're going. Where do you work?
Me: Playtime USA.
I put the phone down when I start driving again. There's another text from him when I get to my job. And although, every time my manager catches me on the phone, he gives me a dirty look, I can't help texting Elijah throughout my shift. I don't even mind for once that I come home smelling like fried foods and the copper from all the tokens I gave out to grabby handed kids. Falling onto my bed with a smile, it takes a few moments before I realize I passed Callie room just now without looking inside. I didn't feel that emptiness punch me in the gut. I didn't feel...anything. I look at the next text from Elijah like it's magic because, from the moment I found my sister in that bed, no one could have convinced me I could ever walk past her room again without remembering that. But Elijah made me forget to feel the pain.
Elijah: I'll let you go. I'm sure you're tired from work. I will text you tomorrow with the address to meet me at. And don't go googling what's there either. I can't wait to see you.
Me: The feeling is mutual. Goodnight.
Elijah: Goodnight.
It has to be because I was texting Elijah that I missed it. Missed the sound of my mother's feet walking from her bedroom to Callie's. But I know she's there now because I hear something that I have heard far too many times. The muffled cries through the paper-thin wall that separates Callie's room from mine.
I clench the phone in my balled up hand, squeezing my eyes tight, trying to drown out the sound with the sound of my heartbeat now thumping in my ears. I've heard my mother do this at least once a week since Callie died. Go into the room of the daughter that no longer exists and cry for hours, while I lay in my bed, having no choice but to listen.
But that's not the worst part. No. The worst part is remembering all the other times I heard such a familiar sound. But then it was Callie. Even after a day spent watching her favorite movies, eating chocolate until our stomachs ached, dancing around her bedroom, I would hear the cries come at night. I could always tell she was trying her best to silence them, hide them, but it never worked.
When it was Callie instead of my mother, I would leave my room and go to hers. I would climb under the blanket and wrap my arms around Callie. I would hold her close while sobs rocked her body, and she clutched me like I was the only thing keeping her from fading away. I would tell her it would all be okay someday. That if she just held on, if she fought, better days and nights would come. And even if they didn't, that I was here, always here, to hold her while she cried, until she felt like smiling again.
I lay in my own bed now, letting a few tears slip out of my eyes, the ones from my right eye, crossing the bride of my nose and falling to the pillow to meet the others. Why did she leave me behind to feel all this sadness? Why didn't she believe me when I said I would hold her through any pain, any night, no matter how long it took until the sun rose? Why did she go?
Then, damn it, the anger comes. She left me. She left me. She left...me. Screw everyone else. She left me, when I was always there for her, through everything. And all she could give me in the end was a note, telling me she was sorry and to live for her. How dare she?
Sniffling, I inhale the scent from Elijah’s hoodie laying on the other side of my bed. I drag it closer, bringing it to my nose, letting the scent take me to another place, where I was smiling instead of crying, where, for a moment, life didn’t seem so full of pain. Tucking the hoodie between me and the bed, I reach for my phone and unlock it to text Elijah, needing to know the answer to this question from the only other person I know who might understand.
Me: Just one more question for the night. Do you ever get angry at your best friend?
It takes a minute until he texts back. And his words are like a balm to my guilty soul.
Elijah: All the time.
