The first time you almost died, you were barely two years old. I was supposed to be taking care of you, but I had crept into the kitchen to sneak some bites of ube ice cream. I was stuffing my mouth, my cheeks frozen and my lips already stained purple, when I heard a crash. There was a moment of silence your scream fractured. Something was wrong. This wasn’t an “I’m hungry,” or “Pay attention to me,” scream; this was an “I’m scared” scream.
Tatay was napping in the living room. He jolted awake and ran past me as I swallowed as fast as I could and followed him.
There was so much blood.
You had ventured into our parents’ bedroom and pulled the full-length mirror off the wall. The broken glass was scattered in pieces on the floor; some long, jagged bits pointed straight at me like an accusation. Your chubby face, arms, and hands were streaked bright red. I went to you, but our father pushed me away. “I asked you to watch her!” He slapped me across the face and slammed the door.
In the hallway, I could hear you howling as Tatay repeated, “Tama na,” but I knew you wouldn’t stop crying unless he gave you his ear. How many nights had you crawled into my bed, snuggling, pulling at my earlobe until you fell asleep? When your sobs didn’t stop, I shouted through the door about the earlobe thing; moments later, you were quiet. But I was worried—had Tatay listened or had you died?
My tears were both a mix of relief—yes! Only child again!—and sadness. You might be annoying, but recently, you started calling me “Ate,” the Tagalog honorific for older sister, except your little voice exaggerated the syllables, so it was “Ahh-teh.” It was very cute, and I was proud Nanay and Tatay counted on me to take care of my baby sister even though I was only five years old. But clearly I couldn’t be trusted—I had failed them and you, and now you were dead.
It felt like an eternity, but a few minutes later, the door opened. You stood there, face scrunched. “Ahh-teh,” you said. “Owie.” You pointed to your face, elbows, and tummy. I kissed every place you pointed. We weren’t allowed to touch the broken glass, but we watched as Tatay scooped up the pieces and wrapped them in newspaper.
You made it a habit of trying to die over the years. Was it because you shattered all of your luck when you broke the mirror?
I remember when you were nine to my awkward twelve, and we were eating apples in the backyard. In between bites, I was working on my cartwheels. I was uncoordinated and tripped or stumbled on each attempt. You had taken a huge bite and as I tried again, I fell over, and I heard you laugh. It was cut off, replaced by silence. I looked over and your face was red, your big eyes pleading with me. I raced over and whacked you on the back. The stuck bite of apple in your throat went flying. You didn’t cry or thank me or finish your laughter. You found the piece of apple and began chasing me with it. I ran away, not wanting to be touched by the slimy, regurgitated fruit that almost killed you, and we ran until we were laughing so hard, we cried.
At sixteen, you drank a California Cooler Orange two litre all by yourself. Your friends called me when you barfed red vomit everywhere. I told them to call 9-1-1, but they hung up. I drove from my dorm at UBC to the house party you were at in Langley. Even speeding, the drive took over an hour. I found you in the bathroom and when you saw me, you smiled with pink hued teeth. I was in my second year of nursing school and the possibilities sprinted through my mind: an upper GI bleed, or maybe a bleeding ulcer. Maybe you were bulimic and had ruptured esophageal varices.
I yelled for someone to call 9-1-1 while cursing your friends—you could be bleeding out. You gently touched my hand and said, “Beets. I had beets for dinner.” You laughed and puked all over me.
I’m sorry.
I know I should be reflecting on your life, highlighting your accomplishments, but I didn’t want your eulogy to sound like your resume. Yet when I think of our twenty-seven years together, all I can remember are the many times you almost died:
When you jumped off Kevin Kloot’s roof onto the trampoline and bounced off the trampoline into his pool. Naked.
When you drove an ATV without your glasses.
When you thought cow tipping would be hilarious. You ran straight at the cow and bounced off it. But it wasn’t very funny when you were diagnosed with a cervical acceleration injury and had to wear an Aspen collar for eight weeks.
When you went hitchhiking. In Thailand. At 3 am. By yourself.
When you shaved your head in your first year of university, you nicked yourself, and somehow contracted MRSA. You became septic, and were found in 7-11 applying Cream Soda Slurpee to your feverish body. They rushed you to the hospital, your skin sticky, sweet, and pink. After you recovered, you realized you hated your shaved head. We went shopping for wigs and headscarves; you loved a long, turquoise wig. Every time you wore it, you insisted I call you “Princess Tallulah.”
When you went skiing for the first time, you thought double black diamond was the easiest run because, and I quote, “Diamonds are the bitches in cards.” Even from the hospital bed, with your broken legs, I could not convince you clubs, and not diamonds, are the lowest suit.
When you rode the bull at Roosters at the highest speed. You flew off, hit your head on your knee, and knocked yourself out. When you came to, you threated to sue. We all drank for free the rest of the summer.
When you tried to straighten your hair with an iron and it burnt off half your hair. You set it metal-side down and ran to the mirror to assess the damage. By the time you smelled smoke, your basement suite was on fire. You moved into a new, cute apartment with a new, cute haircut.
When you dated a scuba diving instructor and developed the bends.
When you jumped out of a taxi in New York because you spent the last of your money on fake tickets to a Yankees game. You swear it was Jack Black who sprinted across three lanes of traffic to lead you to safety. On the sidewalk, he took Band-Aids from his neon green fanny pack and placed them on your scraped legs. Years later, when we watched “The Holiday” together, you whispered, “Maybe it wasn’t Jack Black who helped me in New York.”
I don’t know who I am if I’m not trying to keep you from dying. Am I still an Ate if I don’t have a sister?
At least I shouldn’t have to worry about you anymore. I worried when you changed your major from Engineering to Social Work, even though you brightened every time you talked about your patients. I worried when I came over and saw the vitamin bottles I gave you were unopened. You never ate enough and the little you did eat was food shaped like something else: Sour Patch kids, Goldfish crackers, cans of Alpha-getti. I worried when you dated and dated and dated. You went through men like hairstyles; you couldn’t help it. You were easy to love, but you treated relationships like marathons. You put the work in, trained diligently, ran the race, but then it was over. Time for the next one.
But worry, like love, isn’t something I can stop. You are dead—the worst thing in the world that could happen, happened—so what could I possibly worry about? I worry you are too eccentric for heaven, that you will somehow piss off the wrong angel who will kick you to a crappy cloud, or stick you with a different flavour of people; vanilla to your Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-and-Fruity. I worry you’re too hot wearing a halo and wings (you always ran hot). I worry you’re sad, and you won’t laugh.
This is blasphemous and selfish. I worry about you because I haven’t learned not to yet. You will be deliriously happy in heaven. You shine brightly wherever you are. In grade seven, my teacher Sister Mary Bethany said hell was the absence of God. I thought hell would be the absence of you, that I’d miss your shine, but although you’re not physically here, you are everywhere. At Save-On-Foods, when I saw a middle-aged woman blatantly pick her ass in the cheese aisle, I heard your voice say, “That wedgie is a gouda one.” I recognized you in the girl wearing a hot dog costume brought into the ER. She had tripped and split her chin open. As I triaged her, I asked why she was wearing a costume in June. She told me she was a hot dog because it was her school’s Culture day and hot dogs were integral to her culture. When I was at the mall, I went into a lingerie store. Inside, there were helium balloons tied to a sign advertising a sale. As I browsed, a man began hitting a balloon like a punching bag. Curious, I inched closer, and I heard him whisper, “Take that! And that! $30 for panties? Ridiculous.” You hated the word panties and would buy bulk when there were 5 for $25 underwear specials. $30 for a pair of panties is ridiculous.
There are times, though, when I can’t find your shine, and the dark thoughts creep, spreading like liquid through my mind, until all I see, hear, and feel is black. But I know you are only a closet away. I put on your turquoise wig and look in the mirror. You may be dead, but Princess Tallulah lives. Some people carry their loved ones in their heart, but I will carry you on my head. We will shine together; we will shine on.
Melisa Gregorio’s fiction has appeared in The Sprawl Mag, Witness, Pulp Literature, Ricepaper, and elsewhere. She is completing a collection of short stories and revising her first novel. In addition to being a writer, Melisa works as a master’s-prepared registered nurse specializing in clinical informatics.