“Nicole?”
The voice on the phone sounded desperate.
“Ann?
Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I know.
I’m sorry…. Oh, Nick, it’s all my fault!”
Anna burst into tears.
It was a week into
the New Year and 1:30 in the morning when Anna, my best friend,
called me, frightened and in a panic. I assured her that I
was on my way and hung up.
My Dad and I drove
to Anna’s house, but not without calling 9-1-1 first.
When we arrived, the old mansion was as black as death. Even
the electric candles that normally burned in the windows had
been snuffed. As we entered through the front door, which
had been left wide open, Dad began to turn on the lights.
We called for Ann, but received no answer. I darted from room
to room in search of Anna with Dad close behind me leaving
a path of artificial light that betrayed our whereabouts to
all outsiders.
We found Maria
before we found Ann. She hung from a rafter in the kitchen.
Her body turned slowly as the rope wound and unwound in the
gentle breeze from the open window. The only noise was the
high-pitched squeak of rope rubbing against wood. It sounded
like a tire swing blowing in the wind that stirs before a
violent thunderstorm.
The maid’s hair,
which she wore in a bun when she was working, fell loosely around
her face, covering her features. She was still in her uniform, but
one of her shoes had fallen off during her confrontation with death.
The shoe lay on the floor beneath her, surrounded by broken eggs,
glass, and a variety of food items. The refrigerator door hung open,
as if propped there by the stench of rotting food that hovered around
it. The icy January wind was not able to brush away all of the fumes
from the sour milk, spoiled meat, and decaying body. The fridge
was virtually empty. Any remaining items were spilled, broken, or
bruised.
“How could she do this?” Dad’s face was drained
of all color.
“Well, Anna’s mother said that Maria’s husband
was just arrested on another DUI, but Anna thinks th—“
“No, I mean, why here? And why did she feel it necessary to
trash the Giangardella’s kitchen? Especially after they’ve
helped her over and over again. Not only with the job, but with
presents for the kids this Christmas along with the baby-sitting.
Where are the Giangardellas anyway?” Dad began to look around
the kitchen again as if Anna’s parents were hiding under the
table or something.
They’re not here. They went on vacation. Maria was, uh…
baby-sitting.” There was just no other way to explain how
Maria and Ann came to spend the weekend together – just the
two of them.
“Baby-sitting? A sixteen-year-old?”
“Well, it’s a long story.” I hoped that he wouldn’t
want to hear it, but the fact that it was a long story seemed merely
to pique his interest. I spoke slowly and was careful with the words
I chose. “Y’ see, when Ann found out that her parents
were going away for the weekend, she planned a little … get-together
for a couple of friends. Apparently Maria found a list of those
invited and showed it to Mrs. Giangardella, who grounded Anna.”
“Translation:” Dad stared down on me. “Anna was
going to have a wild party, most likely involving boys, alcohol,
and a trashed house. Oh, and you, my darling daughter. She composed
a list naming… oh, say, one hundred of her closest friends,
which Maria found, resulting in a weekend with a baby-sitter. Is
that an accurate account?”
“Yeah. Close enough.” Dad obviously felt that Anna deserved
her punishment, so I decided that I had better not destroy her image
with more of the truth. Y’ see, I knew that Maria did not
wreck the Giangardella’s kitchen before she jumped off of
the counter to her death. In fact, the mess in the kitchen was probably
the last straw that pushed her off of the countertop. Anna had gone
too far this time. I knew of several pranks that she pulled to “keep
the maid in line,” as she put it. An entire box of laundry
soap in the washer, for instance, was punishment for Maria telling
Mrs. Giangardella that Anna got an ‘F’ on a term paper.
I knew right away why Anna trashed the kitchen. It seems that the
list of names and the details of the party were not in the trash
can that Maria happened to be emptying, as she claimed. Rather it
was in a pile of homework papers on Anna’s desk.
“By the time Monday rolls around,” Anna told me on Thursday
night, “that maid is going to regret ever reading that letter.
And trust me, Nicki, she will never again go through the stuff on
my desk – or in my trash can for that matter.”
The sound of the garage door opening reminded me that we still hadn’t
found Ann. I tried to run across the kitchen to the entrance of
the garage, but I had forgotten about the mess. I ended up just
running in place like a dog unable to get traction on a linoleum
floor. My balance deserted me, and I fell to the floor without making
any progress toward the door leading to the garage.
“Hey, Nick, there’s no rush,” Dad started.
“Yeah, there is! Ann blames herself for Maria’s –“
There was no need to finish my explanation. Dad raced past me, holding
onto the counter and the wall to steady himself and flung open the
door to the garage.
The garage door had slowly clicked open before coming to
a halt by the ceiling. A rope was tied to the handle at the
bottom of the door. My eyes followed the rope to where the
other end was tied to the leg of a chair, which had fallen
over on its side. The garage door opener was lying on the
concrete not far from the chair. I heard my Dad gasp, and
I followed his upward gaze.
Thank goodness
the ambulance pulled into the driveway that very second. Men
in crisp white uniforms jumped out of the vehicle and performed
their job duties with such efficiency and ease. They cut down
Anna and revived her before laying her onto a gurney and peeling
away – red and white flashing, siren screaming.
The police were
there. And detectives taking pictures. Of the garage. Of Maria.
Of the eggs on the floor. Ann’s parents were home, too.
Crying, sobbing, screaming. Then they were gone. To the hospital.
They must have flown home, because it’s a three-hour
drive from their cabin on the lake. Unless. Unless it’s
five in the morning already….
A detective asked
me questions, but I don’t know if I answered him. I
don’t even know if I moved from the spot in the kitchen
doorway that opened into the garage.
I can still see
Anna hanging from her jump rope – still twitching with
life. Her eyes are open… she sees me, and a tear rolls
down her cheek. It drips off of her skin, plunging to its
own death. Splatters on the cold concrete, leaving behind
only a dark, wet circle as a reminder of what it was. What
it could have become. Even that speck of a memory that it
leaves behind will dry up and be forgotten. Nothing will be
left, and we can only pray to God that He will help us to
remember what once was.
A camera clicks. A flashbulb shines. And the scene replays itself
once again. Over and over in my mind.
I see my best
friend crying with no other choice in life but death. I see in her
eyes the realization that she single-handedly pushed another human
being over the brink of helplessness into the void of death. The
guilt of suicide can only result in suicide.
But Ann was evidently
too squeamish to cut her wrists and pills would take too long, I
guess. She knew how to tie the rope to hang herself, but she probably
also knew that she would not be able to willingly jump off of the
chair to her death. She had to be pushed. Or to slip and fall. It
must have been that seed of a thought that helped her visualize
a way out. All hope was not lost. Death was near. She could kill
herself by rigging the chair to fall out from underneath her. She
could use the mechanical garage door and its opener. Ann always
was one for dramatic flair.
Today came and went.
Then so did tomorrow. I think that maybe the day after that did,
too. I can’t remember much. Other than my best friend tried
to hang herself with the very rope that we played jump rope with.
It had bright red handles on each end that were specked with glitter.
I remember how those handles sparkled in the sunlight. And that
cord between each handle. Oh, what a glowing white! Even when it
was wrapped tightly around Anna’s neck, it looked clean and
white in the light of that single bulb in the garage.
My parents admitted me
into the hospital. They don’t think I’m handling my
best friend’s attempted suicide very well. Apparently I’m
not working through my emotions. I don’t agree with them.
Just because I refuse to kill another teardrop the way Anna had.
Shove it off of the cliff of my face to a watery grave down below.
I can work through my feelings in less cruel ways. I mean, it’s
not like I don’t think about Anna or anything like that. In
fact, she is all that I’ve thought about since it happened.
I haven’t even slept, because I’ve been too concerned
about dealing with my best friend trying to hang herself. Did I
mention how close Ann and I were? We talked about everything. I
even knew that she was planning to make a mess as punishment for
that lousy maid ruining our weekend. I was also the only person
that Ann called when she found Maria hanging amid the trash in the
kitchen. And I was the only person who knew that Anna blamed herself
for Maria’s suicide. The only person who knew that Anna might…
do something… terrible.
As Anna’s best
friend, I had been too weak to protect her from the guilt that was
haunting her. And now I, too, feel the presence of guilt weighing
down on my shoulders. Pushing me closer and closer toward the release
of tears so that they, too, may jump to their suicidal deaths. And
finally be free.
