Page 9
Story: Tiller
Hedoesn’t.
I’m given information. Some I knew. Some I didn’t. I’m told Ava was killed instantly and Cullen died in transport. They swerved to miss a motorcycle that came into their lane on Mulholland Highway between Malibu Canyon and Kanan Dume Road and hit an oak tree head-on.
The motorcycle rider left the scene. Never stopped.
I’m told where my sister and Cullen’s bodies are. Where they will go from there. I’m asked if we want an autopsy and told that they were organ donors and asked if they can have their eyes? It’s been hours since their death and someone wants to cut their eyes out to give to a donor?
I’m asked to sign papers and given pamphlets on grief and loss.
I’m hugged and offered condolences and a million “I’m sorrys,” that essentially mean nothing to me. I’m sorry doesn’t make this any better. It doesn’t take away the pain.
There’s a girl wearing a pink and purple princess dress and a loosened side braid. She’s clinging to a purple blanket, rubbing her nose with the soft fleece tainted in her mother’s blood. It’s midnight, a time when little girls like her should be sound asleep, tucked away safely in their homes, but not this little girl. She’s in a room surrounded by social workers.
Unaware, she doesn’t know or ever realize it’s her mother’s blood she’s rubbing against her face, but then again, it might be her father’s. Regardless, oblivious, she holds on to the only memory she has left of them.
The walls around her are stark white, blinding, obnoxious. The girl’s stare is unfocused, uninterested in anything around her. And in this moment, I pray she keeps that innocence because when she realizes her parents have been ripped from her life by the sounds of breaking glass and the violent bang of metal on metal, her life, that memory she has of them, will never be the same. It’ll fade until it’s gone completely and all she has left is that blanket.
Swallowed by heartache, I remain out of sight, afraid, watching, waiting for her to react to those around her. She doesn’t. They fuss and obsess, asking questions they won’t get answers to. Her eyes, dark and mysterious, remain distant, her auburn curls falling helplessly in her face. Next to her is her pink bear, the one she sleeps with, and if you look closely, it too holds a memory of her perished family. The necklace around the bear’s neck, it’s actually a bracelet her father gave her mother on their first wedding anniversary.
Tears burn my eyes, but they don’t break free. They surface and pool like the memories of Ava. My knees shake, a need to move, but I don’t go to her even though in those moments, I want to comfort her. I want to rip her from that plastic chair and take her far away from here and this nightmare. This child, she’s my three-year-old niece, and I know in the days to come, when she realizes Mommy and Daddy aren’t sleeping or on vacation, that they’re never ever coming back, those are the moments I hope I can offer her familiarity. Those are the moments she’s going to need me to take her from this and hold her tight. I hope she knows I’d give my own life if she never had to feel another ounce of pain the rest of hers.
But that’s not a guarantee I can ever give her. What I can do now is hold her close.
It’s minutes after my presence in the room is made that she notices me. She looks from the window where she’d been lost, and then to me. The grief surges inside me, every expelled breath a struggle to keep it together for this child. Tears began to form as helpless eyes hold mine.
It takes her a moment for her eyes to focus and react. It’s then relief washes over her innocent features. Chubby cheeks rise with the twisting of her full cherry red lips into a small smile. Dropping her blanket on her lap and the bear on the floor, her hand brushes her curls from her face as she points to me. “Amble.”
It’s a lot to ask of a three-year-old to say your full name so I’ve always settled for whatever she calls me. For the last few months, it’s been Amble. Before that it was Bear, so we’re getting closer to my actual name.
My heart bursts with happiness that I still have her and the sense of contentment only a child’s love fills your heart with. And though the ache for losing my sister is never going to fade, I see her now, in her daughter, River, smiling at me with her arms spread out wide. It’s an invitation, a reaction, a need for someone to give her what she’s looking for. Reassurance she’s safe.
Hold it together. Stay strong for her.
Those thoughts, they’re in my head. I know that, but it’s not my voice saying them. It’s Ava.
Immediately, I pick her up, holding her head to my shoulder, swaying the two of us back and forth. She’s so small, so innocent, and I’m so scared, devastated and confused.
What does this mean? What happens next? Can I take her away? Can I have her? She’s all I have left of my sister.
I can’t imagine what River’s seen today, what’s she replaying in her head of the accident, if anything, but I know in this moment, when I pick her up and she wraps her tiny still baby-chubby arms around my neck, she’s giving me so much more than I’m able to give to her.
The touch of her, the smell of her, it brings back the pain. When you lose someone suddenly, it’s like a lightning bolt to your heart and any reminder of them, that’s the electricity coursing through your veins. A reminder you will never be the same.
River draws back, still in my arms and stares at me. My stomach rolls and weight bears down on my chest. She touches my cheek with her hand. “Amble, I missed you.”
It’s only been a week since my sister took her to Disney Land. Did she know it’d end in tragedy on the way home? No, no one could have predicted that.
Wanting to escape my own mind, I smile at River. “I missed you too.”
Content, she lays her head on my shoulder, playing with the ends of my purple hair. She loves the color of my hair. I continue to sway the two of us back and forth, my knee-high red rubber boots squeaking against the concrete floor.
A heavy sigh hits my neck from behind, warm and clammy, a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. They’re offering condolences, and I know it’s not the warmth of the devil’s touch I crave because he’s not answering.
I called Tiller twenty times on the way here. Not a single one answered. I called his house, too, but no one knew where he was. It’s just like him not to answer when I need him the most. He’s not my boyfriend, and at times, I can barely call him a friend, but he’s the one person I depend on to get me through anything.
“Do you want me to hold her?” Alexandra asks, coming around the corner and into view. I hadn’t realized she arrived until now. My sister, the middle Johnson daughter, thinks the world revolves around her and is so completely different from Ava and me.
I grip River tighter, refusing to let go of the one piece of Ava I have left. “No, I have her.”
I’m given information. Some I knew. Some I didn’t. I’m told Ava was killed instantly and Cullen died in transport. They swerved to miss a motorcycle that came into their lane on Mulholland Highway between Malibu Canyon and Kanan Dume Road and hit an oak tree head-on.
The motorcycle rider left the scene. Never stopped.
I’m told where my sister and Cullen’s bodies are. Where they will go from there. I’m asked if we want an autopsy and told that they were organ donors and asked if they can have their eyes? It’s been hours since their death and someone wants to cut their eyes out to give to a donor?
I’m asked to sign papers and given pamphlets on grief and loss.
I’m hugged and offered condolences and a million “I’m sorrys,” that essentially mean nothing to me. I’m sorry doesn’t make this any better. It doesn’t take away the pain.
There’s a girl wearing a pink and purple princess dress and a loosened side braid. She’s clinging to a purple blanket, rubbing her nose with the soft fleece tainted in her mother’s blood. It’s midnight, a time when little girls like her should be sound asleep, tucked away safely in their homes, but not this little girl. She’s in a room surrounded by social workers.
Unaware, she doesn’t know or ever realize it’s her mother’s blood she’s rubbing against her face, but then again, it might be her father’s. Regardless, oblivious, she holds on to the only memory she has left of them.
The walls around her are stark white, blinding, obnoxious. The girl’s stare is unfocused, uninterested in anything around her. And in this moment, I pray she keeps that innocence because when she realizes her parents have been ripped from her life by the sounds of breaking glass and the violent bang of metal on metal, her life, that memory she has of them, will never be the same. It’ll fade until it’s gone completely and all she has left is that blanket.
Swallowed by heartache, I remain out of sight, afraid, watching, waiting for her to react to those around her. She doesn’t. They fuss and obsess, asking questions they won’t get answers to. Her eyes, dark and mysterious, remain distant, her auburn curls falling helplessly in her face. Next to her is her pink bear, the one she sleeps with, and if you look closely, it too holds a memory of her perished family. The necklace around the bear’s neck, it’s actually a bracelet her father gave her mother on their first wedding anniversary.
Tears burn my eyes, but they don’t break free. They surface and pool like the memories of Ava. My knees shake, a need to move, but I don’t go to her even though in those moments, I want to comfort her. I want to rip her from that plastic chair and take her far away from here and this nightmare. This child, she’s my three-year-old niece, and I know in the days to come, when she realizes Mommy and Daddy aren’t sleeping or on vacation, that they’re never ever coming back, those are the moments I hope I can offer her familiarity. Those are the moments she’s going to need me to take her from this and hold her tight. I hope she knows I’d give my own life if she never had to feel another ounce of pain the rest of hers.
But that’s not a guarantee I can ever give her. What I can do now is hold her close.
It’s minutes after my presence in the room is made that she notices me. She looks from the window where she’d been lost, and then to me. The grief surges inside me, every expelled breath a struggle to keep it together for this child. Tears began to form as helpless eyes hold mine.
It takes her a moment for her eyes to focus and react. It’s then relief washes over her innocent features. Chubby cheeks rise with the twisting of her full cherry red lips into a small smile. Dropping her blanket on her lap and the bear on the floor, her hand brushes her curls from her face as she points to me. “Amble.”
It’s a lot to ask of a three-year-old to say your full name so I’ve always settled for whatever she calls me. For the last few months, it’s been Amble. Before that it was Bear, so we’re getting closer to my actual name.
My heart bursts with happiness that I still have her and the sense of contentment only a child’s love fills your heart with. And though the ache for losing my sister is never going to fade, I see her now, in her daughter, River, smiling at me with her arms spread out wide. It’s an invitation, a reaction, a need for someone to give her what she’s looking for. Reassurance she’s safe.
Hold it together. Stay strong for her.
Those thoughts, they’re in my head. I know that, but it’s not my voice saying them. It’s Ava.
Immediately, I pick her up, holding her head to my shoulder, swaying the two of us back and forth. She’s so small, so innocent, and I’m so scared, devastated and confused.
What does this mean? What happens next? Can I take her away? Can I have her? She’s all I have left of my sister.
I can’t imagine what River’s seen today, what’s she replaying in her head of the accident, if anything, but I know in this moment, when I pick her up and she wraps her tiny still baby-chubby arms around my neck, she’s giving me so much more than I’m able to give to her.
The touch of her, the smell of her, it brings back the pain. When you lose someone suddenly, it’s like a lightning bolt to your heart and any reminder of them, that’s the electricity coursing through your veins. A reminder you will never be the same.
River draws back, still in my arms and stares at me. My stomach rolls and weight bears down on my chest. She touches my cheek with her hand. “Amble, I missed you.”
It’s only been a week since my sister took her to Disney Land. Did she know it’d end in tragedy on the way home? No, no one could have predicted that.
Wanting to escape my own mind, I smile at River. “I missed you too.”
Content, she lays her head on my shoulder, playing with the ends of my purple hair. She loves the color of my hair. I continue to sway the two of us back and forth, my knee-high red rubber boots squeaking against the concrete floor.
A heavy sigh hits my neck from behind, warm and clammy, a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. They’re offering condolences, and I know it’s not the warmth of the devil’s touch I crave because he’s not answering.
I called Tiller twenty times on the way here. Not a single one answered. I called his house, too, but no one knew where he was. It’s just like him not to answer when I need him the most. He’s not my boyfriend, and at times, I can barely call him a friend, but he’s the one person I depend on to get me through anything.
“Do you want me to hold her?” Alexandra asks, coming around the corner and into view. I hadn’t realized she arrived until now. My sister, the middle Johnson daughter, thinks the world revolves around her and is so completely different from Ava and me.
I grip River tighter, refusing to let go of the one piece of Ava I have left. “No, I have her.”
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