It was the usual Saturday night when dad drove Netania- my twin sister- and I, to our favorite waffle shop after dinner. I still remember the warm scent of the waffles; the taste of melting chocolate inside my mouth; the sounds of laughter as we gobbled them down. The eagerness with which we would chase the moon is still fresh in my mind. I miss the summer breeze that kissed our hair and those raindrops we made do with, instead of shooting stars, for our million little wishes.
The road was still and somber, and we were buoyant and bright.
They say life changes in a heartbeat. It does.
In the blink of an eye, bright orange lights streamed through the windows and the windshield. The sharp lights blinded us, and I got so disoriented that I couldn’t figure out whether the other vehicle was behind us or in front of us. A strong force of the collision sent our car spinning like a top. Dad turned the wheel in an attempt to regain control. I heard the windows smash and noticed the shards pricking us. A heavy force squeezed me and tremors of pain ran through my right leg. I saw Netania jerk back and forth, her body ramming into the dashboard with each rotation of the car. I noticed her brown eyes becoming faint and her face turning white as a sheet. My head started swirling around, and I struggled to breathe while feeling the terrible spasms in my leg. As my senses failed me in the next moment, I succumbed to temporary darkness.
As I opened my eyes, I found myself in a room painted in white. The place was reeking of pungent medicines and spirit. I nearly yelled in anguish when glancing down, I realized that my left leg was wrapped in white plaster. There was a sudden movement and I saw my mother propping me up with pillows behind my back. I felt hot even with the air conditioner on. My head ached; my chest felt heavy; and my throat constricted. I could feel the heat gathering around my eyes as the events were coming back in full force.
“Mom, how are Dad and Netania doing?” I hastily inquired, but a nurse interrupted us with a discharge slip. As mother signed it and went out for the clearance, a nurse supported me so that I could settle in the wheelchair. The thought of being wheelchair-bound for six weeks sent shivers down my spine but I felt better after imagining Netania accompanying me to school and badminton classes.
However, my imagination could never take the form of reality.
As soon as we reached our place, I saw a body cloaked in white. I sank in my wheelchair. My vision blurred, and the hair on my hand bristled as I saw my reflection on the floor laid out lifeless. A Vermillion gash stretched between her temple and sharp thin lips. The color of her face had been drenched out to paleness, but every arch and groove of her face shone.
“Mom, wake her up,” I let out a loud, bitter sob and my body broke out in a cold sweat.
It’s terrifying for me to recall let alone pen down all the details. However, as I look back on it for a moment, it reminds me of post-traumatic vomiting that had overshadowed my existence. My stomach would churn, and I’d fight to oppress the green liquid, but I’d succumb and lose the battle. I joined the college as the plaster was removed but I couldn’t continue for long. I’d just cry looking at the empty seat beside me. I remember the day when I fainted and how all the days after were hell.
The fear of losing my consciousness again incapacitated me, making it immensely difficult for me to be around people. I couldn’t relate to anyone. The feelings of isolation grew stronger and stronger. I’d come home just to puke my organs out and cry myself to sleep. I’d run away from the mirror as it reflected back a vulnerable figure with undone hair, sunken eyes, saggy skin and dry lips. It would take my entire teenage strength to step out of my dark pit, but the torture of the empty room across from my room would drag me back to the abyss.
It was only after a year that I was able to gather the strength to visit her room.
My eyes rested on a doll house resting at her mahogany dresser. The childhood dreams we knitted together of living in a big dollhouse came rushing back.
As I opened the drawer, I could see report cards studded with A grades and shuttles and eyeliners. The memories of Netania helping me solve simultaneous equations and teaching me badminton and dressing me up flooded my mind. I had felt about her the way Holly felt about Fred.
I looked around the room and a picture of her kissing an elephant hanging on the wall reminded me of the summer she went on an exchange program to Indonesia. I remember how awful my days were going until that reassuring conversation with her flushed my blues, and I felt at peace, the way Holly felt at Tiffany’s.
I had stopped breathing the moment I saw her breathless. I had wilted and died just like the roses in her room. For months, I would stare at the ceilings and cry, gasping for breath.
I can’t believe I’m writing this. A year ago, I hadn’t thought I’d be able to say this, but I smiled again, aced my exams, won a local tournament, and learned to do the perfect winged eyeliner.
It didn’t happen in a day, though. It was after a year filled with counseling sessions; painkillers; antidepressants and visits to the gastroenterologist and psychiatrists that I had been able to stand up on my feet. The process had been incredibly excruciating, but I recuperated.
My phone rang, and it reminded me that I had to leave for the tournament. As I sat in the car and saw the big bungalows cross by, I laughed at how in my childish naivety, I had longed to own such places. I realized that places, without people, are hollow. However, people are like holidays. Netania had been a beautiful one. The thing about holidays is that they are ephemeral, and all they leave you with is a feeling. With time, the feeling fades away too. And then you are left by yourself, raw and naked. That’s when you realize that home is a place built within you; a person residing within you and a feeling reserved within you. It is the mental and physical balance, to be free from fears and to have your body, mind and soul at one place.
I still terribly miss Netania, but I don’t lose myself in the process. I still cry myself to sleep, but I have learned to smile as the sun rises and shines for me. My heart still breaks into a million little pieces every night, but I have mastered the art of mending it back the next morning.
The car stopped at the gates of the stadium. I smiled and understood what Bukowski meant when he said, “Drink from the well of yourself and begin again.”
“I’m home,” I thought to myself and took a deep breath.
