The Brink of Life

Chapter 3: The Johnsons

Charlie tried to drive me home, but I said no. He looked at me and asked if I was sure, but I could only see his pitiful eyes. I had to get away from them.

I barely got out the words to thank him, and then I turned and began to walk. Usually the walk to my neighborhood was long, but my thoughts allowed for the time and distance to pass quickly. I thought of what my mother's face would look like when she found out I was dead. I figured she would be the first to know; she was a police officer, after all, and her precinct was closest to the school. I assumed they wouldn't find my body for a few days, which would turn out to be very wrong. I wondered if she would be the one to find me, my broken body in the closet, my open eyes unseeing.

What broke my heart the most, though, is that no one knew yet. Not just my parents, but Gina, Stephanie, and James, too. Their worlds would shatter, and none of them had any idea. They were going about their days, working or going to school, complaining about the little annoyances of life, without any clue that I, someone they loved deeply, was gone. They would never see me again, or talk to me again, or hear my voice, or my laugh. And I would be forced to watch them mourn. I had no idea what I was in for.

I reached my house, seeing my dad's red bike out on the porch. The house was yellow, which I had never noticed before. My eyes stung and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn't believe I didn't notice the color of my own house.

Tears began to stream down my face. I stood in front of the door, looking at my boots standing on a beige 'Welcome' doormat. I had a weird urge to knock or ring the doorbell; like it wasn't even my house anymore. Like my time living there was over, which wasn't exactly untrue.

I walked through the door and past the staircase, into the living room and kitchen complex. My dad was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper in front of a steaming cup of coffee. He had paint stains on his hands and a streak of blue on his neck. He was wearing his reading glasses, the ones I make fun of because of their thickness. My teasing was completely justified; I mean, he looked like a cartoon character wearing them. It was hilarious; at least, it used to be.

He looked at peace, and that felt like a gunshot.

Very suddenly, the front door opened and slammed. My father raised his eyebrows and looked up from the paper in a very grand-fatherly way at whatever teenage attitude prompted the door-slamming. Gina was stomping like a child, huffing as she entered the room, and dropped her backpack in the middle of the floor.

"Good afternoon, Angelina." She stomped over to the fridge and opened it furiously.

"Erin left me."

"She left you?"

"Yes. At school. She drove off without me and left me to walk home. What a—" Before she could finish, Dad cleared his throat and shot her daggers. Gina rolled her eyes. "Is she here?" She asked vindictively.

"No, she's not. Doesn't she have work today?"

Work. I did have work that day, which I didn't realize until my dad mentioned it. I work at a coffee shop downtown — or, I did. It was a nice job; my coworkers were kind and I got to control the music. I started working there in my sophomore year to start up a college fund for myself. I knew that my family could pay for it, but I was all obsessed with independence back then. I wanted to do something for myself. I ended up saving up about $2,000 in the bank, which ended up going towards Gina's college fund after my parents stressed for weeks about what to do with the money. In the end, I was happy with their decision.

Gina picked up her phone and dialed my coworker Danielle, who was working on the day I died too.

"Hi Danielle. Is Erin there?" ... "Oh." ... "Did she say she wasn't going to come in today?"... "Ok, well can you let me know when she gets there?" ... "Ok, thanks." Gina's anger melted quickly into what looked like fear. God, I hadn't seen Gina afraid in a really long time. Her fearful expression broke my heart. Even then, she had no idea the pain that was coming.

"She didn't come in today, Dad," she said. At this point, my father put down the paper and took off his glasses.

"I'm assuming she hasn't been picking up, either," he said. Gina nodded, and he sighed anxiously. "Okay, let's try her again, then."

Dad picked up his phone and dialed my number. It rang, and it rang, and it rang. I could practically see the light of the phone screen illuminate the closet at the school where my body lay rotting. I could almost see my lifeless eyes lit up by the fluorescent white light.

"This is Erin, leave a message." Beep.

He hung up, and called again. It rang, and it rang, and it rang.

"This is Erin—"

He tried again.

"This is—"

"This—"

And again, and again, and again.

                                                                                         *****

My dad has always been my best friend. He's a painter whose family owns an art gallery in Philly, Johnson Arts, which essentially pays for our quiet, middle-class life. Because of this, he hardly works, so he's home all the time. He was always able to come to my sports games and debate tournaments when my mom couldn't because she had to work. I always enjoyed his company too, so he and I spent a lot of time together. I can't understate how many times he and I had midnight coffee conversations about school or art or life or music. He told me about his paintings and recent art endeavors and always listened to my drama and whatever stupid problems I was currently facing. He kept pretty calm most of the time and I'd rarely seen him truly angry, but he's an emotional person, which I see in Gina, too. He doesn't take criticism well and has little emotional control, which is when he tends to paint his best work, in my opinion. I've always admired that part of him - the fact that he can convert ugly emotion and thought into something beautiful. I wondered what he would paint after he found out about me.

On this dreadful day, time passed slowly in the Johnson House. Eventually my mom came home, grocery bags in hand, trying to break through the tension in the room. It was about 8pm now, and she was peeved that no one had started dinner. My sister quickly retorted with the fact that I was missing and not answering the phone, to which my mom responded nonchalantly, "She's probably fine, just playing hooky."

"Erin doesn't play hooky, Cece. You would know if you were ever here." This evolved into a heated argument between my parents, prompting my sister to roll her eyes and jog upstairs to get away from them. She and I were used to their arguments; they haven't gotten along since the affair. At first, their yelling would terrify us, and we would hold each other in Gina's tiny twin bed; and I used to tell her stories and fairy tales to distract from the verbal violence in the next room. Her favorite was Jack and the Beanstalk; I think she liked the idea of escaping reality into an unknown, wonderous world in the sky.

My parents' words blended together and sounded like a gun-fight, one shot right after another. Between my sobbing, I made out that my dad thought I was in trouble, that I never skip out on work and would never abandon Gina to walk home by herself. My mom argued that I was fine, I can take care of myself, I'm a Johnson.

"You always fucking do this Cecilia, I know my daughter-"

"Right Jack, your daughter, the kid you carried in your body for nine months-"

"Jesus Cece-"

"Fuck off, Jack!" At this point, my mother stormed off and up the stairs, stomping like Gina was earlier. My dad sat back down at the table, and called my cell phone again. This time he listened to the whole voicemail, I think just to get a taste of my voice.