Written by Eugenia Yang

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

“Nora, you want more?”

“What do you think?” I reach for the joint resting between Freya’s thumb and index finger. We are sitting on the kitchen counter avoiding all the drunk college kids at the frat party. Inhaling and exhaling, I watch the smoke exit my mouth and spread out once it hits the window that doesn’t open. My vision blurs as the air around us starts to get hazy due to the lack of air circulation. I close my eyes and let my senses take the lead.

Then the white smoke from the joint slowly morphs into the small patch of white fog clinging to the oxygen mask and I can no longer feel the high anymore.

“I raided Dre’s stash again. This is supposed to hit like Molly does.” Freya winks at me and gives her best performance of a genuine smile. She only steals from her boyfriend when he did something wrong. It is her way of revenge because she’s too scared to actually breakup with him. I assume he cheated on her again because it just keeps happening, but I never say anything. That’s how Freya and I communicate. We talk when we want to and we back off when we don’t. The main reason, or more like the only reason, I stay friends with her is because she doesn’t care or judge. She had lost her mom to cancer last year so we were kind of on the same boat. We met at group therapy. Both of our therapists were more certain than we were that it was the right kind of help we needed that really only involved a lot of meditating, painting, and lecturing.

Getting high had become the only coping mechanism I find effective enough to help me get through these past two years. I barely talk to our mom after my sister, Tia, and I moved to Los Angeles together; I left for college, and she, for a job offer. Since Tia is six years older than me, she thinks it’s her god given duty to take on the parenting role in our two-bedroom apartment. Our friends and relatives always praise how she took good care of me when our mom is busy running the company our dad had left behind.

My phone chimes and I check for the notification. It’s another text from Tia asking where I am. She wants to visit the graveyard tomorrow because it’ll be our Dad’s 65th birthday if he was still here. I turn my phone off and tuck it back in the pocket of my jeans.

I hold up the purple pill Freya had given me to examine it. It is about the size of a shirt button and like Valium, there’s a letter carved in the middle of each tablet. The letter N.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I think it’s called Nyx? Not sure. It wears off pretty quickly but should be fun though.”

“Alright. See you on the other side then. Cheers.” I touch my pill with Freya’s and we swallow the drug in unison by washing it down with a gulp of water. She dabs the burnt joint on the wet kitchen towel we stole from the sink, leaving stamps of black ash on the embroidered message, White Claw is the New Black, before hopping off the counter. We float around the frat house and push past all the people as we wait for it to kick in. Slowly, my vision starts to get fuzzy and the technicolor LED lights begin to swerve around me. Freya laces her fingers around mine and closes her eyes as she dances with the music. Her hands are trembling and so are mine. She must be feeling it too, the cutting of all strings, the liberation we’ve both wanted.

A pair of hands finds its way to my waist. Cold and rough, they rest on my bare skin, sending shivers all the way up to the back of my neck. He smells like fresh linen and lime. If I’m sober right now, I will probably push him away and tell him to fuck off. But I am now leaning in to him without even bothering to see who it is. I let myself melt and disappear into his embrace. This is nothing like rolling, when everything you feel enhances by tenfold. When one wrong thought can take you down to the bottom of the deepest rabbit hole if you’re peaking. This is different. It’s like someone had locked my troubles up in barred cages and placed shackles on my emotions. I can think of dying right now and still be smiling. Ties with my past was temporarily severed; if only this can be my new normal.

*** 

I stopped re-dosing after the third time because the party was starting to get rowdy. The guy, whose name was either Tom or Tim, kept asking us to go home with him but we refused. Eventually, Freya and I snuck out when he left to get us more drinks. We are now at Freya’s apartment watching low budget horror movies while munching on cereal and vanilla ice cream. I can tell she is starting to doze off because she will shift her posture dramatically every few minutes and start spooning mouthfuls of cereal to wake herself up. We are almost done with the movie. My body is exhausted but my mind is more awake than ever.

“Do you remember the last conversation you had with your mom?” I ask.

“Yeah I think so, why?”

“What was it about?”

“It was the usual. She told me she loved me and asked me to take good care of my dad and stuff. I think she kinda knew that was our last time talking,” Freya mumbles through the soaked Frosted Flakes. “You?”

“Pretty much the same,” I lied. I actually don’t remember what my last conversation with my dad was about. I used to think the worst part about losing your loved one was the sadness. I was wrong. It’s actually the guilt of forgetting. First, it was my dad’s phone number that I was sure I knew by heart. The digits left my mind, one by one, until there was only the area code left. Then, his voice started to slip away. Eventually, our last words before he went into a coma became foggy too. I think the only reason I still remember his face is because of the family portrait sitting on my nightstand.

What I didn’t tell anyone was that I was there, by his bedside, the night before he died. I was the only one in the room because they only allowed one visitor at a time. I remember the beeping noise from the EKG and the little patch of white fog coming and going on the inside of the oxygen mask that covered his face. His big, round eyes sparkling with energy. The wrinkles at the end of his eyes spreading and growing when he laughed. His smile that always made me feel like there was nothing I couldn’t accomplish. I remember hating that I couldn’t see any of it.

“Hey, Dad, it’s me, Nora,” I said. I recalled reading online about how even in a coma, people are still able to hear everything that is going on around them. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure what to say. So I sat there and watched his chest rise and fall, over and over, until the nurse came in and informed me that visiting time was up.

I had the chance to say my goodbye but I let it slip away.

It was a different story for Tia. At the funeral, she gave her eulogy about the last words they shared. She told our dad about her dream to work in the fashion industry and confessed to him that medical school was not what she wanted. “He paused for a second to think and told me I could do anything as long as I listened to my heart,” she said with tears circling in her eyes but they never actually fall. “But he also said no to my dream to go on The Voice because everyone knows I sound horrible. So, thank you, old man, for your honesty, as always.” She chuckled and the audience replied with their laughter. It was the only time my mom smiled throughout the whole ceremony.

This became the story Tia told at every family gatherings and holidays. People never asked about my last words with our dad and eventually, the conversation slipped out of my mind as time passed on.

I look over at Freya, who is now asleep and snoring. Her bowl of cereal miraculously sitting on her flat stomach without spilling. I take it to the kitchen and decide to wash it by hand instead of running the dishwasher, so that no one will hear me cry through the running faucet.

***

       “You keep this for now.” Freya hands me the little plastic bottle filled with Nyx pills before I get out of her car. “I’d be screwed if Dre finds this later.”

“Alright. Thanks for the ride bud,” I say before entering my apartment building. “I’ll see you in class next week.”

I try my best to make no sound when I enter our apartment like a thief breaking in for robbery. Tiptoeing through the hallway and arriving at my room, I thought all coasts were clear when I hear Tia call my name from behind.

“Jesus, you look and smell horrible. Where have you been all night?”

“Good morning to you too,” I reply without turning around. “Sorry, I passed out at Freya’s.”

She sighs. “Please go take a shower and put on some appropriate clothes. We still need to go pick up the cupcakes before heading over.” I start to laugh when I realize she was talking about Dad’s favorite red velvet cupcakes. Tia looks at me, confused.

“It’s not like he’s going to eat them. Why’d you even bother ordering them?” I explain to her after finally catching my breath.

“Can we not do this today?” Tia asks. Seeing that I have failed to get a reaction from her, I suddenly feel an anger starting to simmer in my chest. I’d be satisfied by just a tiny hint of weakness to prove that my words had hurt her. Anything to show that she isn’t the strong, independent daughter everyone thinks she is.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Nora, please.” Tia’s tone starts to get impatient. “Dad would want you to be there. You know that.”

“Dead people don’t want anything,” I say to her and smile. “That’s the perk of being dead.”

She looks at me, her stare filled with disappointment and shock, as if I had just murdered all the kittens and puppies in the world. I suddenly feel naked and exposed under her stare. I wish I can take back what I said but it was too late. My anger is now replaced with fear, the fear that I have finally succeeded in doing what I do best, which is to shut everyone out so that I can be alone. I go back to my room before she can say anything. I wait, until I hear our front door open and close an hour later and take out the pill bottle Freya had left me. I take a few, swallowing them dry, and then a few more, as I realize I can’t even pretend be a good daughter or sister for the sake of our dad’s birthday.

***

I remember I stood in front of my mirror and asked myself, what do people normally wear to a funeral? It felt stupid to ask my mom or Tia at a time like that. I ended up wearing a grey cardigan over a black dress. Even though my dad loved my style and never minded its edginess, I still took off my metal earrings and wiped off my heavy eyeliner and eye shadow. I walked out of my room and saw Tia already waiting in the hallway. She examined my outfit and frowned. “You should put on some stockings. Your dress is too short.” I guess it’s true that people always say funerals were more for the living than the dead because I knew my dad wouldn’t care. But I still did as I was told.

I stand in front of the same mirror now and I look at myself. My eyeliner is all smeared, leaving a circle of blackness hanging below my eyes. My lips are chapped and my hair is no longer straight. The ends are curled up and tangled. There are beer stains on my crop top. I find myself missing the girl from two years ago so I begin to take my makeup off. The patches of gold eye shadow, black eyeliner, and rose pink blush slowly turn the remover wipe into a piece of mosaic art.

I take the family portrait out of its frame I light it up. I let the burning photo fall in the metal trash can. The edges curl up and our dad’s handsome face distorts. It becomes an eerie creature that only has one eye, half a mouth, and no nose. The flame eventually swallows up our faces and smiles. The black and orange perimeters racing slowly to meet one another. Beneath that lies the empty pill bottle I got from Freya.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” I whisper, even though there is no one else in the room.

The sound around me fades slowly into total silence. The noise of cars driving past. The low humming of the AC running. The barking of our neighbor’s dog, Carlton. They all slowly blend into each other and become a choir of white noises.

Did I not take enough? A high pitched squeal explodes in my head as soon as I finish the thought. The exact kind you get when the microphone is too close to the speaker. I cover my ears with my hands to try to make the noise go away. My vision begins to get blurry as a total opaqueness takes over my sight. I open my eyes and see darkness. I close my eyes and see nothing but a blinding white explosion. One second I’m shivering, and the next, I’m drenched in sweat. I lie on the lilac rug that matches my bed sheets. My fingers dig deep into the fabric hoping to ground myself in reality. I don’t want this, but it’s too late. The harder I try, the faster I find myself plunging into all the purple fur and soft feathers. I’m drowning in all the violet. 

The last thing I see before completely blacking out is Tia’s unmatching socks, one is mustard yellow and the other, neon green, running towards me. I feel her hand slip under my head and the warmth of her stomach, soft and soothing, as she tries to wake me up.

*** 

If this is what death feels like, I might’ve pressed rewind and chosen differently.

I was trapped in between the state of being asleep and being awake for what felt like days, even weeks. It was hard to stay awake because my eyelids were so heavy. I must’ve been put on some kind of sleep medicine. It was as if my body was dead but my mind was still half alive. I had to make a real effort to see clearly. Every single time when I peaked through my eyelids, my sister was there, sitting by my bedside. Sometimes she read to me and other times she didn’t. I made a mental note to tell her that I actually couldn’t hear a thing she said because she always held her book up, covering her face and her voice. But her hand never let go of mine, even when she was asleep. Her fingers, longer and bonier, wrapped around my hand. It felt good to have someone hold on to me like that.

They must’ve decreased the dosage because I finally feel like I’m waking up, completely. I blink a few times to adjust to the lights and clear my throat. “Hey, you.”

“Oh god, Nora,” Tia jumps at my voice. The novel she’s reading falls out of her lap. “You scared the shit out of me. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had better times,” I reply. We look at each other and I’m scared for a second that it is too soon for a joke. But she smiles and my heart rests.

“I brought some of Dad’s favorite cupcakes for you, by the way,” she says, after a few moments of silence. “I forgot they were also your favorite.”

To be honest, I did too. Our dad used to order cupcakes from the corner bakery that was on the same block as our old house in San Diego. I was in fourth grade and Tia was a sophomore in high school. He picked them up on his way back whenever he got off work early. Me and Dad’s favorite were red velvet, while Tia and Mom loved vanilla buttercream. We raced to see who could finish the most cupcakes. Tia was in her angsty teen phase, when any sort of family activity rendered embarrassing, and refused to participate. So it was just me and my dad. Every time when I win, I’d get so sugar-high that I couldn’t sleep that night. We stayed up and watched movies until we both fell asleep. It was our special Friday night tradition.

“He loved you just as much. You know that.”

“I know he did.”

“Don’t forget that again, okay?”