By

Beenie

I stood on the docks watching the lazy rolls of gray water slosh up against the rocks. Only two months ago the water was a tranquil blue, the air filled with the sweet aroma of the river. Now the air smelled as stale as the bread crumbs Grams throws to the birds in the park. It all seemed so cold and desolate. And I know why. It was because she was gone. I would be too in a few hours, but it wasn’t the same.

Myra was my best friend. We had known each other since we were four. She was the closest thing to a sister I had ever known. For the last six years we had planned for this moment. We were going to leave Tidewater and share an apartment near Rock Ridge, the state college we were going to attend together. Dreams of city life and escape from this sleepy New England town surrounded by water had haunted our dreams for years. Now I was getting away, but Myra never would.

She had always been the leader, the plotter, and the one who could argue her way out of any mess. But she was also the one who was faced with the most obstacles.

I had always envied her. She was tall and beautiful, with long dark curls surrounding her sculpted face as if it were a painting. And those brown, come-hither eyes could mesmerize anyone. She had a singing voice that would put the canary to shame and a glibness that could silence the most skilled politician . This was the Myra I wanted to be. It was also a facade. An imitation Myra only for public use.

She had another side. We all do. This was her true self, not the bewitching mask worn at parties, not a person of elegance and charm. This Myra was a funeral pyre of intense, raging emotions of guilt, self-doubt, and self-loathing. Part of that was her mother’s fault, whether she ever realized it or not. Mrs. Planks wanted Myra to be successful. This meant a number of things, one of which was displaying above average ability in school. Myra had never performed well on tests. Book knowledge was something she just couldn’t seem to fully grasp. It’s not that Mrs. Planks pushed her daughter to the breaking point, in fact she hardly ever showed any disapproval more than the occasional frown. All Mrs. Planks did was hope, and in the end, that hope proved more deadly to Myra than the most lethal poison.

Myra wasn’t invincible, but she wanted to be. She wanted it all: beauty, brains, and she wanted to please everyone. One fateful day, she realized it was impossible. I can’t begin to imagine the pain and burning despair that must have gnawed away at her soul with the realization that, for the golden girl, something was impossible. The epiphany came with a letter from the admissions office of Rock Ridge College. She had been refused. So the following day, Myra donned her best dress, left the house, and walked into the breaking waves.

Her body was found two days later, blue and bloated. The letter she had written, found the day of her release sitting in a pristine envelope on her pillow, was addressed to both her mother and myself. I say release because in life I don’t think she was ever really free. She always had her demons: trying to fit in, be the best, and fulfill the expectations of her mother and even me. Yes, me. I acknowledge my share in her fall. I don’t pretend to hide it or ignore it. In fact, I hated myself for it. Part of me still does. It’s such a small part, but it’s the one that, when it uses it’s voice, is heard the most. It doesn’t whisper. It screams out in a deafening roar as soon as you’ve found a moment of silence, "I let her die!"

I had received my acceptance a week before her. For one full week, she lived by the mail box, waiting for the reply. And when it came, she couldn’t stand the prospects of having her dream, one she had carried for six years, destroyed. Or of letting me down. She never said it to me. She didn’t even write that in the letter. It was just one of those things that passed between us, a silent understanding among friends. Her letter didn’t place blame on anyone. It was painfully blunt and to the point. "I’ve had my fill," she wrote, "so I’m calling it quits." There was more of course. She wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered over the river. She had always loved the river.

The funeral was simple and small, just the way she wanted it. She knew Father Snow, a rigid old puritan and pastor of our parish, would refuse to be present. Her death was premeditated. She knew it was suicide. She knew her faith’s stand on it. And, God love her, she didn’t care. Her letter said as much. That’s why when I went with her mother to identify the body, and I saw the empty shell with those matted, brown curls, I laughed. I laughed even as my eyes teared like fountains and I fell to the floor sobbing. I laughed because I saw her face. I saw the closed lids, the discolored skin, and swollen cheeks. And I saw her smile. I saw those purple, lifeless lips frozen for all eternity in a smile of such a triumphant joy at having finally found peace, that I shared that joy even as I broke down in my own pain and suffering. She was free.

So here I am. Standing one last time on the docks. Staring into the murky depths for my lost undine. She was an Aquarius, you know. In a sense, all she did was return to her element. And I know that, if there is anything after this life, any continuation of the conscious, when I see my laughing face mirrored in the water, it’s really Myra’s reflection smiling back.