Runaway

We sat on the edge of the man-made creek which cut between East and Cherrywood Street. We had gone here to escape the reality that was inside the building behind us. We skipped stones, frustrations pushing their force across the Spring air. They collided into the murky creek bed, and the water looked shallow enough that we might be able to cross it barefooted. I marveled at the thought of crossing a body of water the same way Jesus had. I wasn't sure where Jesus was today and why He wasn't giving me the right words to say to the girl beside me. I looked up at the cirrus clouds, hoping a flash of lightening-bolt revelation would find its way into my head. The birds framed the sky, their feathers caressed by the breeze. I wished I could give her those wings. I wished I could pluck several birds right out of the sky, tie her to them, and send her on her way. She didn't need to know where she was going. She only had to know that she was getting away from here.
I didn't like looking at the body. I never understood the reason for a viewing. It seemed to me that it was only a torturous way to prolong grief. Bodies never looked real. I had reached out to touch her once out of curiosity, and she felt waxy and solid. Her wiry gray hair made it look as if she'd just come from the beauty parlor and laid down for a rest. Her hands were clasped, as if she were in eternal prayer. I didn't really understand why she had been posed that way. There would be no praying for her anymore. The fragrance of flowers cradled her, and it reminded me of the scene from The Wizard of Oz when Dorthy laid down to rest in the poppies. The dress fit snuggly, as if it had hung in her closet a year before today. I cried, and I didn't know why. I looked at the husband, now a widow, and I wondered how he would take care of himself after all of those years of being waited on. Most of all, I watched beautiful Nicole. I watched her every move, from each strand of chocolate brown hair pushed strategically behind her ear each time she thought she might cry, to the way she held her red mouth tightly, refusing to let a sob overtake her.
I didn't know the woman. She was my cousin Nicole's grandmother. Nicole and I had met just two Novembers from that date. She wasn't a blood cousin, and we never noticed. Since our encounter, we were given countless rules on long distance phone calls, grounded for breaking those rules, and inseparable when the summer months came. We got little sleep. At night, we ate whole Chocolate cakes and drank liters of Jolt cola. I loved the way her house smelled. The laundry room was usually open, so the scent of Tide would carry into each room of the house, along with dirt from her dad's farm boots and her mother's soft perfume. Most of all, it smelled lived-in. I had recently moved into a new house, and it didn't have that smell. My house was cold and uninviting, like a model car museum.
I knew it was coming that afternoon. Her parents had set me aside, telling me that Nicole's grandmother had died, and asking me if I minded going with them to the funeral. They wanted me to be there when Nicole heard the news. I agreed, but the pressure of not knowing what to do or say left me paralyzed. They sat her down in that inviting living room, and she cried for what seemed like centuries. I held her, letting her tears soak my bare sunburned shoulder. We soon packed up the family van and headed to Pennsylvania. During the ride up, I made silly faces and told stories to keep her mind occupied with meaningless mush.We played Hanson casettes in our tape players and argued over which brother would be ours. I didn't want her to think about the reality any more than she had to. It was typical Ashley and Nicole time. It was, however, slightly sobered with the underlying reason why we were driving twelve hours away from her home.
When we approached the steps to the funeral home, I felt her weight falter under my tightened grip. I hadn't brought any black dresses to Nicole's house that summer. I hadn't expected anyone to die. I borrowed a dress from her aunt. It pinched my skin each time I walked, as if it were angry its original owner had given it to a stranger. I readjusted my grip on her arm, fumbling a bit. The thing I hated the most about funerals was that no one smiled. As we entered, everyones' faces were strained and complicated. I didn't like that. I hoped that at my funeral, people who be smiling and pleasant. But then I thought that might mean that they were happy I was gone; then I decided I wanted everyone at my funeral to look as miserable as possible. We went through the viewing line, and I watched each encounter a person had with the grandmother. Some wept, grabbing her lifeless hands, squeezing them to point where I thought they might break a finger off. Others smiled and had conversations with her, as if they were finally making that phone call they'd put off for so many months. Some sat there in silent nostalgia, while others did quick sweeps to avoid the awkwardness of looking at a corpse. After Nicole and I retreated from the box, she said, “I have to get out of here. I can't be here anymore.” I studied her expression. I knew that look on her face. It was the same look she'd give me when she was explaining something extremely important to me. That is how we found ourselves overlooking the creek.
I sat crouched beneath the afternoon sun. I would glance over at her every moment, wondering if she was waiting for me to say something profound. I usually consoled her during every struggle, but this was one thing I couldn't offer words for. She finally returned my nervous glance, and I knew that she just wanted someone to stay beside her. Nature filled in the gaps of silence, from the dialect of those sky birds to the breeze through blades of grass. I held my breath under the emptiness. My sigh broke the stillness. I squinted against the rays, turning to her silhouette. I motioned toward the water. “Think we could catch a raft and sail away like Tom Sawyer?” Her nose crinkled, the way it would right before she attempted a smile. She had to read the book for summer school, and I remembered how she'd told me that Tom's attempted escapes from his home on a timber boat were enviable and inspiring. She shrugged her fatigued shoulders, and I could tell she had been tensing them just seconds before. A dimple framed her lipstick-worn mouth. “Sure, why not?” I squeezed her flushed hand, and in that moment, we ran. We ran past reality, and imagination stole its place. We ran away from the building behind us, into the space in front of us. We ran until we didn't recognize anything anymore, and we ran to be lost.