The Hanging Words

Lonely Is As Lonely Does

I spend the next few days in a state of shock, wondering if this is how I've decided to cope with my sister's death instead of grieving. Lacrimosus is a relatively new disease, so there's still so much about it we've yet to discover, but I never thought I'd know someone who had it. Empathy isn't my strong suit—that's a flaw of mine, I know—but I'd still say that I'm aware of global issues and the terrible ways some of those issues affect very real people. It's just that when you're feeling bad for someone across the Internet, it's very different than when it's someone you talk to face to face on a regular basis. Someone you're related to. That's when shit transforms from a cause into a personal matter.

In the same way, Lacrimosus was always something I'd heard about, maybe skimmed a few articles, but never encountered in real life. I knew of the controversy surrounding it, whether or not the people who claimed to have it were just hallucinating or dealing with more deeply rooted problems, but now there was someone in my life with a concrete diagnosis. According to Brian, she'd even been taking medication.

And yet she still chose to take her own life.

Did the medications not work, then? Or had she been misdiagnosed? Could the wrong medication have driven her to suicide?

I'm drawing conclusions based on conjecture, which isn't helpful.

I slap a pan on the stove top and pour in a couple tablespoons of olive oil, while trying to figure out what to make of the whole situation. It's hard to come to a conclusion, though, when you're as ignorant as I am of the topic.

The phone rings.

Halfway through chopping an onion, I shift my grip on the knife so I can pull my cell out of my pocket and clumsily swipe the answer icon.

"Hello?" I ask, squeezing the flat device between my ear and my shoulder.

"It's me."

"Hi, Auntie," I say, angling my arm to start chopping again.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks, and I have to remind myself that I'd left the funeral reception early after feigning illness. Really, my social battery had gone critically low and, despite the apparent catharsis of grieving en masse, I just wanted to be alone. Shitty thing to do at your sister's funeral, I know, but I'm a shitty person. So, there you have it.

"Yeah, I think it was just a twenty-four-hour thing."

"Probably from someone there. People are so disgusting sometimes. You know I saw Candice leaving the ladies' room without washing her hands? How quickly everyone forgets. That would've never happened in 2020. When the pandemic—"

"I know, I know, Auntie. That was the only time everyone cared about cleanliness. I was alive, you know."

"Yes, but you were so young."

"I still remember."

"Well, you do forget things sometimes. I can never keep track of what you remember."

I smile through pursed lips, sweeping the onions and now the mushrooms I've sliced into the pan. They sizzle, sending up tendrils of steam.

"Anyway, I was calling because you know how I always have Mariana on Saturday nights?"

"Yeah." This was a standard rule in Evora's household, her contribution to Dores and Brian's well-being. Saturday nights were date night for them, and since Aunt Evora lived close by, she'd have Mariana stay the night so the two didn't have to cut their evening short.

"Well, I was thinking it would do you some good to have her over this time. You know? Have some company." She says this in that particular voice of hers, where she knows she's intruding on your life but thinks she's doing what's best for you. I know she means well, but that voice is always followed by reluctant compliance on my part. And nine times out of ten, I don't actually benefit from whatever it is she's trying to get me to do. Usually, it's something like volunteering with her rotary club or cleaning Saint Anthony's Church—a delightful chore we do so often I now have my own key, which lives permanently in the pocket of my one and only coat.