Straight On Til' Mourning

IV.

From the still darkness of the condo, Kirsten stepped out onto the balcony. The rest of the neighborhood was five o'clock peaceful, populated by fireflies, locusts, and the occasional golf cart. Virginia Beach was run-down, much more so than the beaches around Lose Angelos, but she was more at home among trash than treasure.

She set her bowl down on the railing. Instant ramen loosed curls of steam into the air, hot enough to make the ceramic sweat. One hand gripped the banister. Pushing herself up on her toes, Kirsten hauled herself over the edge to sit, balancing precariously, sunburned legs dangling.

Behind her eyelids lingered her last memory: the square black edges of the coffin, the green-tinted roses. The newspapers - and at this thought, she caught at her sides with a sob - the newspapers had said a lot of things but they had not said the truth.

In true Knightley fashion, a homage to the life she had always wanted to live, they had called her names like "beautiful" and "romantic" and "alluring." A documentary modeled after her short life and even shorter career was due out in theaters next year.

Following the manner of Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse and countless others, she was to be held as the idealized version of a dream cut short, a tragic chance occurrence. Of the entire family, only Kirsten knew that there was nothing accidental about the syringe and sleeping pills. And the note - that, too, had been intentional.

Love me in death as you could not in life, it read, and Knightley had ripped the bows off every bra she owned and had left lacy piles scattered over the bathroom tile. Concerning this: again, only Kirsten understood the symbolism, all though more by chance than confidence or shared secrets.

The funeral for Kolleen had been nowhere near as extravagant. She was the less famous of the triplets. Cow-brown eyes, a penchant for sparkles, a crippling fear of UFOs and dark staircases. Her death: struck in the temple by a horse's hoof. A week after Knightley had passed, the remaining sisters had fled to the summer house in Maine. Kolleen had been driven out of the house, had taken a horse through the dense woods in a fit of frustration.

After a manhunt and three dead flashlights, they had found her body - pulse slowed, skin cold, blood congealed - on the forest floor. The horse had been standing several feet away, head lowered in repentance, eyes still wild and white with fear.

"There's nothing more tragic than losing a child," Kirsten's mother had said, after both funerals and a fresh round of Botox.

Kirsten clutched her mother's hands. Her fingers shook with exhaustion. Nightmares had been prowling her bedside. The night before, she had woken up at three o'clock screaming.

Now, she said: "What about losing a sibling?"

"Yes, dear, of course." Her mother's touch glanced upon her arm, glanced away. "But it's more traumatic for me, you see - not to...dismiss...your grief."

"I see," Kirsten had said, withdrawing. "I see that I'm the one who's here, when all of three of us should have been gone."