ANGELICA

The great Lion statue, go straight south. First crossroad, turn right, then left. Right again, left again. Endless coconut trees on either side of the road. The air, which was so cold a few moments ago, becomes hotter; it smells salty. I keep on driving until I see a big green sign, “Welcome to Marshville”. From this point, I can see the famous Marshville cliff on the right side of the road. It’s about 30 meters above sea level. The myth says that if you can stand at the edge of the cliff for one minute while making a wish, your wish will be granted, but I was never stupid enough to try it. Marshville cliff is famous not because of that stupid myth, but because it has killed many people. It doesn’t directly kill people, it’s not haunted or something, it’s just that it’s a perfect place to commit suicide.

           

Suicide! That word dances in my head.

image courtesy of jonnymelon

 

Have you watched “My Sister’s Keeper”? Well, my life, more or less, was like Anna in that movie. I was only two years old when my mother gave a birth to a tiny premature baby. Her scalp was hairless since she was born two months too early. She was sick so she had to spend a few weeks in the hospital. My parents and I visited her every day, “Your sister is beautiful, isn’t she?” dad asked me one day when we stood in front of the incubator.

I nodded my head, “When will we take her home?”

“I don’t know.” Dad’s voice sounded hopeless, “She is so sick.”

I looked up at Dad’s face, his blue eyes were wet, “I can take care of her.” I said.

He smiled and caressed my head, “I know, baby.”

I feel like turning back when I hear the distant roaring waves. Tears wet my eyes, one escapes down my cheek.

Angelica, my younger sister, was taken home several days after I had that conversation with Dad. She was three weeks old at that time, but her body was as tiny as when she was born. She didn’t grow an inch! I asked Dad and Mom about it, but as always, they just told me that she was sick. What kind of sickness? I never knew.

           

I’m so busy thinking, and crying, that I don’t realize I’m driving my car to the cliff. Is she guiding me here? Does she want me to be here?

Angie learned to crawl when she was two and walk when she was three. She walked funny. Dad and Mom scolded me when I said she walked like a monkey.

It wasn’t the only time I got scolded because of Angie. Mom always got angry whenever she cried, regardless it was because of me or not, “She is younger than you,” she began her usual speech, “and she is sick.”

“Cassie, I like your Barbie, can I have it?” Angie said one day as she stared at the doll I was holding in my hands. She was five at that time.

           

“But Dad gave you the same Barbie.” I said, looking at hers that was laying on the floor near her other toys, half of which were my toys that she claimed as hers.

“But I want yours. Mine is ugly.”

“They are exactly the same,” I took her Barbie, “look, they really look the same.”

At that point, she used her most powerful weapon, “Mom, Cassie hurt me.”

“Cassie!” Mom shouted from the kitchen. I heard her footsteps approaching us.

“Okay! I got it.” I threw the Barbie to Angie’s face.

She cried, “It hurts!” she ran to Mom, “She hit me.” She said.

Predictable enough, I got one slap on my cheek, “You’re grounded. No TV until you learn how to behave.”

All I could do was crying and locking myself in my bedroom. That’s how I spent my childhood. I became Angelica’s angel who would -had to- sacrifice everything to make her tiny lips smile.

I get out the car slowly. The waves roar louder, as if inviting me to come closer.

I went to school when I was eight, too old, huh? I had no choice. My parents wanted me to go to school with Angie, so I had to wait until she turned six. It was so unfair, but what could I do? They didn’t listen to me, no matter how hard I argued.

“Angie, it’s time to go.” I knocked her door on the first day of school. I heard Angie cough, “Angie, what’s wrong?” she didn’t answer; she coughed louder, “I’m coming in.” I opened the door, “Mom...” I screamed at the top of my voice when I saw her lay on the floor with blood staining her handkerchief.

I went to school alone that day because Angie had to be taken to the hospital. It was so depressing. I was made fun of; my classmates called me, “Ma’am” just because I was two years older than them. I buried my face on the desk and cried.

“Hey, crybaby.” I heard someone say. I lifted my head and saw a boy with gray eyes and curly blond hair, one of my classmates, “Being older isn’t so bad.” he said.

“Why are you talking to me?” I asked in defensive tone. I’d practically never talked to anyone except my family before. It felt weird when a stranger tried to have a conversation with me.

He giggled, “You’re funny, you know that? Anyway I’m Andrew. Like you, I’m older than most of the kids in this class.”

I looked at him straight in the eye, “You also go to school late because you have to wait for your sick younger sibling?”

“What?” he asked. I didn’t answer, so he went on, “I got held back twice. Haha. It’s kinda funny.” I failed to find the funny part in getting held back twice, “Anyway, you haven’t told me your name.”

“Cassandra, but you can call me Cassie.”

“Cassie,” he smiled, “nice name. So Cassie, what’s your story?”

I’d just met Andrew, but I didn’t know why I felt comfortable talking to him. I told him about my sister. As I finished my story, I somehow felt relieved. Andrew became my best friend; he always sat on my right side in class, meanwhile Angie sat on my left side. Since her last visit to the hospital, she looked much better.

I thought Angie was fully healed, but I was so wrong; her condition worsened. My parents told me she wouldn’t live long. Mom hugged me and said, “Please treat her better from now on.” I would, even without Mom asking me to. I would never complain about her being so greedy over toys and TV. I would give up everything for her. 

It was autumn in 2003 when Angie had to drop out from school. She was only fourteen that time, but she looked much older. Her disease got worse day by day. When she turned fifteen, she had her fourth surgery that required her to spend a few days in the hospital.

           

She became so paranoid after she found out that she would die young, “I don’t wanna die, Cassie. I wanna live a normal life. I wanna go to school like you. I wanna get married. I wanna have children.” she said, “And I really wanna be a writer.”

I smiled and cried at the same time. I knew how much Angie loved writing. She spent most of her time writing short stories and poems. I thought her writings were the only thing that kept her alive, “You will. I promise.” I drew her closer to me.

Angie kept writing, especially short stories. She would read to me and Andrew with sparkling eyes. I didn’t lie when I told her that her stories were amazing. One day after coming back from hospital, she wrote a story. She didn’t tell me what the story was about. She put it under her pillow after she finished writing it. It was the first time she hid her story from me, and it made me curious and worried. I sneaked into her bedroom and took the story that night. It was about a dying girl who fell in love with a boy. That girl wanted to tell the boy about what she felt, but she didn’t as she would die soon, and she thought that the boy liked someone else. Tears sprung in my eyes since I knew it was about her. And Andrew. And me.

I blamed myself for not being sensitive enough. I should have known what Angie felt about Andrew. Her eyes sparkled whenever Andrew came over. She would read her stories and ask his opinion. Andrew didn’t like literature, -well, he didn’t like anything other than skipping classes and surfing- but he pretended that he was interested. He would say, “You’re such a good writer.” Angie would blush and thank him shyly.

I called Andrew after I put the story back to its place. I told him about it, “But I like you.” he said. His words made my heart beat so fast that I was afraid it would jump out from my chest.

“I like you too.” my voice was a whisper, “But Angie likes you and she is sick. Please be her boyfriend. I want her to be happy.” I cried as I said those words.

There was a long silence before Andrew finally spoke, “Okay, if that’s what you want.” he hung up.

Angie had never been that happy before. She continued writing short stories; not about dying or death anymore, but about love, happiness. Andrew made her strong; she spent less time in hospital. I felt happy for her although deep inside, I was dying. Andrew was my first love, problably my last as well, but I had to bury my feelings for him because he was the boy my sister loved.

One day, I told Angie that there was a short story competition and I wanted her to participate. She asked Andrew, and he nodded his head. Angie smiled and started writing right away. She took a couple of hours to finish the story.

“Do you think I’ll win?” she asked me after sending the story.

“Of course you will. Now, it’s time to take your pills.”

“I don’t need them anymore. I’m healthy now. Can’t you see?”

I looked at Andrew, he got my signal, “You should take them.” he said. It worked, as always. Angie went to the kitchen to take her pills.

Andrew looked at me sharply, “I can’t do this anymore.”

           

I shook my head, “You know that she doesn’t have many years left.”

“But I love you Cassie.” Andrew walked toward me, he put his hands on my shoulders, “Look at me.” I looked at him and our eyes met, “I love you so much.” his face got closer. I felt like being stung when his soft lips landed on mine. I’d fantasized about how it would feel to kiss him, but this was much more wonderful than any of my fantasies. It felt like there were million fireworks exploding in my body, all at once.

“No!” there was a weak scream from the kitchen door. I pushed Andrew and turned around. Angie stood dumbfounded.

“Angie! This is not like what you think.” I walked toward her.

“Don’t touch me! You betrayed me!” Angie ran out from the house.

“Angie, stop.” I ran after her.

She kept on running faster and faster toward the infamous Marshville cliff. She looked at me as she reached the edge of the cliff. I would never forget the look on her face at that time; anger, disappointment, sorrow.

My body was paralyzed as if it had been wrapped tightly into rolls of linen like a mummy. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. My stomach tied in knots.

“I hate you, Cassie.” Angie said her last words before jumping to the sea.

It was the last time I went to the cliff. I couldn’t stop blaming myself for what had happened to Angie. I could've stopped her, but I didn’t. Now, ten years after that incident, I stand at the edge of the cliff, looking at the roaring waves under there.    

“Angie, how are you?” I spoke slowly, “It’s been a while, huh?” I rub my wet eyes, “Do you remember the short story competition? You won! I knew it even before you wrote the story. I just wished you'd been there to receive the trophy. Do you have any idea how the judges complimented your story? They said it was the best story they’d ever read.”

I make a wish with my eyes shut. I make sure it has been one minute before I finally open them. This is the first time in my life I wish the stupid myth was true.