"Worthless Sister"

Uneven pavement. Tire tracks from new tar make dark black trails down the street. They cross over one another, lead off to all the different places we come from or go to in a day. There is a four car pile up on my way to class this morning. An old man stands in the road near the first vehicle, stooped over with neck stretching forward to hear any news, and watches his wife as she sits behind the wheel. She seems to be the cause of the accident. Was she the same old woman that hit the side of Your car, rolling it over four times, sending You through the windshield while Your younger sister watched? These days, I think only of broken glass and screams. The street You might have died on. The closed casket at Your funeral. Somehow, I though You might be delicately preserved in death, your cheeks still blushing. Like Snow White in her glass coffin. But no prince will ever discover Your young ruined face six feet beneath the ground and magic-kiss you into existence again. There will be no tours of Europe. No bridal shower. No great American novel. Just someone that I knew long ago stuck in a grave with Her name on it. Years from now, passers-by will look at that marker, make the calculations and say My, she was only a young girl! And they won’t know the half of it. But I do. I know it all.

Lisa Godoy is dead. That is probably pretty insignificant to most people. I guess that’s the nature of death unless it touches you very directly: it’s pretty insignificant. But when it does touch you, it packs a wallop. Even if, as in this case, the one taken is no longer a part of your life. It still rips open the surface and pulls something out.

Lisa was a childhood playmate. Her father was a friend of my father’s, before they had even left Argentina. They played soccer together. She was just my age, and had a younger sister, Sonya, just the age of my younger sister, Cristina. It was perfect. They had a perfect home, a perfect life.

The Godoys had a computer before computers were common, when they still used floppy disks, and a Winnie the Pooh game that involved a treasure hunt. They had a stoplight, a real working stoplight. Green, Yellow, Red. There were pictures of forests on the wall in their cool dim den.

The backyard at Lisa’s house was enormous, with a fig tree that we would climb and sit in to pass away most afternoons. She knew which of the fruits would be sweet enough to eat. I could have never found a ripe one. There was also a swing set, and a hammock. I didn’t know anyone else with a hammock. Her mother would bring us slices of apple with honey drizzled over them. Her parents were very kind, but somewhat strict in a protective way. Hector and Clemencia. I remember once, Lisa and I were quibbling over who would be the lead acrobat in our pretend circus. The fight became somewhat nasty, and ended with us both crying. Her mother had us apologize to one another, and then write sentences about how it wasn’t right to say unkind things to your friends. And another day, Lisa and Sonya were in the back seat with myself and Cristina at the Kentucky Fried Chicken drive through. Our mothers sat up front, ordering red-and-white striped boxes of chicken and biscuits. When the food was handed back, Lisa and Sonya received drumsticks and breasts pinkish beige, stripped of the skin. My sister and I paid no mind, but bit into our own un-tampered with portions. The crunchy golden strips came away easily, and drops of grease rolled down our chins as those salty mouthfuls went down. Lisa and Sonya had trembling lips while they watched. They begged their mother for skins. They pleaded, whined ceaselessly the whole ride home, for just one taste of the skins. Clemencia was strong-willed, though, and insisted that the skins were terribly bad for you, and did they want to get sick to their stomachs?

Her family was very religious. Church almost every night. My family never went to church. Except for one funeral, one wedding, and an Easter with neighbors from across the street who were trying to save my soul, I hadn’t set foot into a church in all my life. Sundays were terribly lonely mornings, with all the kids gone to Calvary chapel, or Our Lady of Perpetual Something-or-other. I always wanted Lisa to come and sleep over my house, but she wasn’t allowed to do those kinds of things. Secretly, we tried to dance the Lambada with invisible partners in my parents’ master bedroom while the grown-ups talked outside. We weren’t very good at it, I don’t think. We listened to Carmann, the non-secular children’s entertainer, and spooky Halloween sound effects on her dad’s CD player. We didn’t need to tell stories. We had too much imagination already. Two little bookworms hiding beneath a tent that was really a sheet, giggling scared in the middle of the day.

Lisa was just as avid a reader as myself. When my family still owned our little RV, Matilda, we once took a day trip to Mexico with the Godoy family. Lisa had brought along the book “Witches,” and we took turns silently reading chapters back and forth. She didn’t seem to mind sharing it with me, even though I didn’t read quite as quickly as she did. When the movie for the book came out, we all went to see it together, sisters and mothers. Clemencia was appalled at the occult references made in the film. Her little Columbian frame shook with outrage as she took her girls home. But Lisa and I loved it. Every wicked moment was bliss, and we poked each other with our feet at the especially gruesome points.

Once, I ate dinner in their home. I left the tomatoes from the salad on my plate. Lisa’s mother said to me, You should eat them, and they will make your cheeks as pink as Lisa’s! At this, Lisa showed her glowing tawny cheek, laughing: It’s true!

There was a time that Lisa’s grandmother stayed home to watch us instead of her mother. I was kind of shy and scared about it. Lisa’s grandmother was tall and manly, and spoke only Spanish. Having to speak in Spanish always made me nervous. Lisa and I played with the exercise bicycle in the living room while her grandma read a newspaper in the kitchen. Lisa pedaled faster and faster, then hopped off. I put my left hand out to touch the spinning pedal, and the metal caught my palm. The soft pink ripped wide open, and blood came seeping out. I ran into the bathroom with Lisa. Her grandmother knocked insistently on the door, demanding to know what was wrong. Don’t tell her, I pleaded. She’ll make me get stitches! But Lisa knew that someone must be informed. She knew I was hurt, and my own cowardice was not going to stop her from doing the wise, correct thing.

I didn’t really need stitches after all. I still have that scar, though. It is a diagonal white line in the top left corner of my palm, just beneath the index finger. I look at it now. I stroke it, thinking of that day. It is my only scar. I didn’t ever think it would be the only memento of a deceased childhood friend. It seems logical, somehow.

We entered adolescence. I wasn’t in junior high when Lisa was. She was just old enough to begin seventh grade the year before me. And we didn’t go to the same school, anyway. I lived in Downey, they lived in South Gate. Lots of times, between that time and now, I have been in that city where many houses look alike and been almost sure I’d seen theirs. Thought I’d stop in and say hello. But I was never totally sure. So Lisa was in junior high, and at church this meant moving up into the junior high youth group. She invited me to a pizza party of theirs. It was a lot of fun. There were older boys, and girls with teased bangs. I was excited and somewhat envious. When Lisa invited me on the youth trip to Joshua Tree, I was thrilled. I packed things I thought I might need. Baby wipes, hairspray, cheesecake snacks in a little cooler (that was my mom’s idea). We slept in a tent beneath a large jutting rock, surrounded by dozens of other tents that held additional slumbering youth group members. We climbed boulders during the day. They were much higher than the tree in Lisa’s yard. But Lisa wasn’t ever afraid. She was tough, and excited, and ready to go. I imagine that’s how she lived the rest of her life, too. Like a cougar on the rocks, unwittingly braver than she ever knew. On a trip to the bathroom, I found something strange in my underwear; my first discharge. I was very scared, thought I was sick. Lisa explained that there wasn’t anything to worry about, it’s natural. It wasn't quite a period, but pretty darn close. I was almost a woman. That was a wonderful trip; the first and last time I have been to Joshua Tree.

Once I hit eighth grade, I was a mess. I was ashamed to even look that family in the eye. Lisa was such a wonderful girl. Really wonderful, not the phony “nice girl” type of wonderful. She was honest, and brave, and took care of everyone who was smaller than her. No matter how cruelly I excluded my own sister from any games, how many impossible errands I sent her to run in order to be rid of her, Lisa showed nothing but kindness. To her own sister, and mine as well. A few times, when I was half drunk with a boy’s hand up my shirt, I wondered what is Lisa doing right now. I imagined her as class valedictorian, and attending a prestigious university. She would have a very smart and chivalrous boyfriend with letters on his jacket. Her parents would be very proud of her. Maybe that’s not how it really went, but I’m sure it’s pretty close. In my head, she had no secrets from them. In my head, she was everything I’d lost the chance to become. My distant hopes for redemption lay with a girl I hadn’t known for years.

She was in a car accident, last weekend. Her little sister was with her. They were hit from the side by an elderly woman who didn't see well. Neither girl had their seat belt on. She was in a coma from that moment on. At the hospital, they ran three MRI's trying to detect brain activity. There wasn't any. So, 48 hours later, her father had to say Stop the machine, and let her be with God now. That's where they believe she is, you know. Her sister was not injured. It’s been a week, so I’m sure the funeral has already taken place.

I wonder how her mother felt. Did she think: I should have let Lisa eat the skin! Did all the protective lengths she went to bring her comfort in the end? I think she dug her fists into a mattress and sobbed, How many times have I told you about the seat belt?

Since I received the news by way of a mutual family friend, I have found myself thinking spooky things. Lisa would never wear this shirt out. Lisa wouldn’t use those foul words. Lisa wouldn’t leave a stranded motorist on the side of the road. She is haunting me, her thick black hair shining in every mirror.

I wonder if she ever thought of me, too. Felt concern for me, going about life unprotected, unwatched. How unfair it seems that a girl like that should be the one to perish. I just finger this scar and think what a worthless wreck I’ve been; but here I am. And Lisa Godoy is dead.