Buried in Sunshine Read online

  Buried in Sunshine

  By Matthew Fish

  Copyright © 2012 Matthew Fish

  All Rights Reserved

  I am fearful. I look up to a calendar full of pictures of different exotic tropical locations that reads 7/13/2011 and realize that in exactly one month, I will be turning twenty-three. I am afraid of growing older, growing up, and worst of all—growing into nothing. I fear a life that has no purpose. My name is Emma Hope Corbeau, although I tend to leave out the ‘Hope’ part for I often find that I have none. When asked, which is not a seldom occurrence given my self-imposed exile from society, I tend to simply offer up the name Emma…Emma Corbeau. My last name is often mispronounced—it’s “Coor-bough,” not “Corbeww,” or even “Cardboard” as people sometimes mockingly say as I correct their mistaken attempts to fumble the pronunciation. I suppose I could be easier on them; after all, it is only a name and I so easily cast aside Hope. However, I want it to be known. I want to be acknowledged. I want to be someone.

  I suppose that it should be enough that I am still young—or so that is what I am often told. Just as I am told that I am attractive. I have wheat blonde hair with bangs that hang just above my cloudy blue eyes—eyes that look like an overcast afternoon with faint lines of white that form a wavelike pattern around the black of my iris. I have a sharp nose that I find imperfect as it has a small bump across the bridge. I am very keen on finding imperfections in myself. My lips are a pale pink that is only slightly distinguishable in color from my honey colored skin. I am skinny, I constantly skip meals. I am not very tall, short some would say. In the past people have said that I was very pretty—that I was sexy. I suppose, physically, the curves of my body and its feminine form have not changed much…it is just how I view myself that has changed in spades. I do not think myself ugly. I just find nothing appealing about myself. I am perhaps too ordinary to be any kind of actress or model—plus my fear of speaking or being on display in front of a crowd easily squelches that avenue for success. Then again, I do not know if that is what I want to be known for. Despite my lack of hope, I do feel that I have to be here for some purpose. Does God just make people who are destined for absolute obscurity? …if so, why do they do it? Why make something that is worthless? I know that it must seem like I am being rather defeatist. But, as sad as it sounds, I feel I am being more of a realist. After all, we can’t be the whole “anything we want to be” we have been told so many times by our parents and people on the television—hell, I can’t even seem to do anything that makes my mother proud of me. I cannot even function in a way that would allow me to be proud of myself.

  My grandfather passed away when I was fifteen. I felt bad because I spent most of the last year wanting to not exist anymore, when all he wanted was more time. He wanted to continue to live, and now I so desperately wanted it to end. I remember something he said once, under heavy medication, that has stuck with my every single day since they fumbled out from his slightly incoherent lips—he said, “Emma… You live just long enough to see everyone you care about pass away and all you dreams disappear into dust. Living is a terrible thing but sometimes it is all we can do.”

  He died the next day at the age of ninety-one. He had a pretty good run to be quite honest. I fear that I will never make it to forty. When I think about what he said that day, I wonder if it is a curse and eventuality afforded only to those who have lived a long life. If I disappeared tomorrow, none of that speech would apply to me. Then again, I already care for very little and my dreams seem so unreachable that they might as well be placed upon the moon and I’m trying to reach for them atop a precariously positioned stepladder.

  I know that I will fall someday. I feel as though it is my destiny to fail. After all, my sister who was two years younger than I…she killed herself in spring two years ago. People around me say that I am in recovery—that my life is in a state of stasis because the mental injury of her passing is far too near and dear for me to move on. I suppose that is a reasonable assumption to make. Her name was Alexis. She had blonde hair as well and crystal clear, sparkling blue eyes. Her eyes always carried a weight of happiness to them. They were the glittering sun upon a lake to my cloudy overcast eyes. She always smiled. I hardly ever smile, especially these days.

  It was my mother who found Alexis. I was out. My mother had just returned from clothes shopping—there was not much in the two bags, although we have money—mom likes to live like we are poor. She was headed towards her bedroom with two plastic bags in hand as she passed the bathroom and noticed that the door was ajar and the light was on. She caught a glimpse of something swaying. As she placed the plastic bags to the floor she slowly opened up the door and saw Alexis hanging from a bit of rope from the shower rod. Alexis had removed the curtain and wrapped a length of cord around the iron rod. She had stood at the edge of the claw footed bathtub and simply jumped off. Alexis was a beautiful girl. Perhaps, if she weighed a bit more she would have snapped the iron rod. I would have never thought of going out that way. I would have suspected that the rod would have broken or the joints holding it into place would have given way and I would have just ended up looking foolish. Alexis pulled it off. It could be said that anything she put her mind to would be accomplished—even this final act. I think about the reasons a lot, mostly because I did not see it coming. I must be the worst sister ever. She was also so driven. She was going to a four year college for a fine arts degree. She wanted to be a graphic designer or some kind of commercial artist. None of that matters now, not anymore.

  Sometimes, I rationalize her decision as something genetic. Everyone in my family has attempted or succeeded suicide. My great grandfather committed suicide after he found out that his eldest son was stealing from the company they both worked at. He attempted to shoot himself in the head, he did not quite do it right and ended up dying in the hospital three agonizing days after. My aunt, in a fit of depression, threatened to leave her family and drive their van into a lake. The police stopped her before she reached any body of water. My grandfather died as a result of severe liver damage that he sustained from taking too many painkillers. It was the most painful way I had ever heard of someone dying. I remember him just crying out in agony—he wanted it to be over. I suppose, he had lived long enough that he felt he needed to take matters into his own hands. His wife, my grandmother, died nearly thirty years before he passed—she, however, did not commit suicide. It was cancer that caused her curtain call on the grand boring play that is life. My grandfather never remarried; then again, I suppose it is hard to remarry at sixty. Even my mother once attempted to drink herself to death after one too many unsuccessful relationships. Instead, she just ended up sick for a few weeks with a nasty case of alcohol poisoning. To her credit, she was never a quitter—she still drinks and still attempts to have relationships (even if they are mostly of the one night variety these days.)

  I do not know if my father ever attempted suicide. I do not even know if he is alive. He left us when I was around twelve years old. Aside from a few pictures of him, I have no concrete idea of what he looks like currently. I can form images in my mind of him holding my hand as we walk down the sidewalk when I am young. I can remember him at birthdays, he always smiled. I wonder if he still smiles. I do not know why he left. I always imagine that he is somewhere out there in the world, sometimes I think that he will come back for me and apologize in an attempt to make it up to me in some way. I half expected to see him at Alexis’s funeral. He did not show…of course. I suppose, I take after my mother’s side of the family. I also suppose, you could say that suicide runs in our family the same way that cancer is hereditary in other families.

  I have not attempted to remove myself from the world. I cannot promise that it
will always be that way. After all, it seems to strike us at random ages—whether we are twenty-one or ninety, it is probably an eventuality that I will have to face. I wonder what will drive me to it. Would it just be random like Alexis’s suicide? Sometimes I picture her waking up that day and looking into the mirror and just seeing something completely different than she had expected. Like she sees someone looking back at her and she is not happy at all with it. So she does the only thing she can to fix the issue—she hurries about the house looking for a length of cord (Alexis always did things in a hurry) and hangs herself. If she could not be happy with the person that she was…what hope do I possibly have?

  I remember sitting outdoors in the large field of trees outside of our house after a few months after her death. As I sat in the morning sun, thinking about nothing in particular—a single newly formed leaf fell from an ash tree overhead. I watched the leaf as it spiraled down to the ground and finally rested against a fresh growth of spring grass. It made me think of her. The leaf that falls in spring—that is what Alexis was. Unlike my grandfather who was a shriveled brown leaf that was loosened by a cold autumn wind, Alexis was a newly formed fresh emerald leaf that had a long existence ahead of her but fell to the earth anyway. I cannot tell if the comparison is poetic or banal. I would like to think the former rather than the latter.

  It is a Friday. My mother, whom I live with, is out—she is always out. I lie with my back against an old couch, my skinny knees resting against my stomach as I linger in a sunbeam. I have heard that cats do this most of their days and I can see the appeal. A filtered beam of light warms against my body. I am wearing a short pair of cotton tight shorts and a comfortable slim fitting black shirt. Feeling the hot sun against my body makes me feel closer to those I have lost. Sometimes I wonder if every soul gets shot out into space and absorbed by the sun. Although I hardly get out anymore, I find comfort in this spot.

  My mind flashes to an image of Alexis dangling from her neck from the iron rod in the bathroom. Even though I was not there to see it, my mind has reproduced an image so accurately that I can say for certainty that it was exactly how it looked right down to the color of the cord and the pitch of her lifeless sway.

  This image constantly haunts me. It torments me. It leaves me feeling as though I cannot continue existing. I want to be one with the sun like the others. However, I want to leave something behind—some unremarkable lasting thing that states that I once existed. I suppose I could carve my name in a rock somewhere. However, I do not feel that it will be enough. I do not know why I have this urge to be remembered. After all, Alexis, who had so much talent, did not need this comfort. How did she find it so easily to leave?

  My mind is very random when it comes to thoughts. I tend to trail off on different tangents for no particular reason and possess no rhyme to my disorder. It is something that people either find fascinating or terribly frustrating, mostly the latter. I often find it very easy to admit that I might just not be an all together likeable person. Ultimately, I am alright with people disliking me.

  I should be comforted that I have something that does not allow me to follow in her Alexis’s footsteps. Without the need to leave something behind, to be remembered—I probably would not be here now. I do not know how I would go about removing myself from the world of the living. Everything that I have encountered or heard about in my life has either been too painful, messy, or slow. I do not like the sight of my own blood. I do not like the idea of being in pain. When I was about eighteen or so I had my appendix removed forcibly by some doctors while I was drugged, asleep. The following six months were the most painful and unpleasant memories I carry in my life. There were days when I could not get to the bathroom without feeling as though the pain was too overwhelming. Some days I wish I could have just given up. I eventually recovered, however a small j-shaped scar now resides upon the flat smooth skin of my stomach—a lifelong reminder.

  I live in a three story old Victorian style house. It was the one thing my father left us with, well… that, and a rather large savings account. He was a man who came from money and had purchased the home outright. He spent his few years in its residence fixing up the place. My mother says that the house was built sometime in the mid 1800’s. It used to be a farmhouse, until at one point, someone came in and allowed the three acres the house is situated on to be reclaimed by nature. Now, a tall forest of evergreens and oak and ash surround the house. From my spot on the third floor, it is a daily occurrence to see some wild deer amongst the leaves or to see a rabbit wander out from the tall brush. The house has hardwood floors throughout and intricately carved wooden doorways. Cold brass handles adorn the old creaky doors and a spiraling staircase leads down the three floors. The top floor, my room, is a small space with one large window that looks out and has an attic like ceiling. My bed is a simple wooden frame, besides my small couch and a painted white dresser with a cracked mirror, it is the only real furniture I have in my room. My room is sparsely decorated, it feels empty. An old bronze lamp that I found in the basement sits on my dresser. I do not have any posters or paintings or pictures up hanging around. I find it more comforting to stare at the wooden grain of the wall—sometimes I see things. I read that if you stare at a random pattern long enough that the mind tends to create images within the visual noise. I have special spots that I have nicknamed ‘angry bear,’ ‘man sailing,’ and ‘headless woman having sex.’ To an outsider they would appear just natural formations in the wood; however, to me… they mean something for I have spent time with them and they have shown me what I want to see.

  The second floor of the house is mainly bedrooms and the special bathroom. My Mother’s room—whose name is Susan by the way (such an unremarkable name, I’ve wondered if it ever bothered her) —exists on the second floor along with Alexis’s old bedroom. Neither my mother nor I go in that room anymore. The door stays shut. The bathroom Alexis killed herself in remains in use, however, it has a fresh coat of sea-foam colored paint over its walls…I suppose it was an attempt by my mother to fix things—like sea-foam paint is some kind of emotional band-aid. There is a third smaller room on the second floor. This room was to be my father’s office. It still has his leather brown office chair and desk set up, only after all these long years—it has become more of a storage room for boxes and bins. I imagine the chair and desk are sad as they sit in there, buried beneath forgotten or unneeded possessions. After all, like me and Alexis, they were both abandoned as well.

  The first floor contains a kitchen that my father was kind enough to update with all the newest models of appliances (newest eighteen years ago) and new cabinets and marble countertops. It also contains the dining room which we never eat at anymore; we stopped eating there before I hit my teens. The family room with the large l-shaped leather couch and shelves of books resides just beyond the door to the spiral staircase. From the kitchen, a small alcove is situated where one can gain access to the basement. I do not like the basement. The basement is a dimly lit dingy expanse that seems to stretch on further than actual house itself. It is a series of purposeless small rooms and hallways that almost form a small maze. I suppose in early days of the house it was used for storage of items, maybe farm equipment and grain—now it just sits mostly empty. There are some old things down there, a rusty silver bicycle, some broken wooden dining chairs, some old clay pots, and a pile of cobwebbed and dirty canning jars.

  My mother works every weekday as an office assistant for an insurance agent from around seven in the morning until five at night. She always pressures me to ride along with her into city—we live approximately fifteen miles from the nearest large city (we are rather rural but not too far to be considered too rural.) She wants me to see my therapist more. I know she means well, but I could care less. I often come up with excuses: “I am not read today. I do not feel good. I will go next time... I do not need to go. I do not need any help.” Often she just shakes her head and gives up and the conversation ends there. I am not great
at giving excuses, but with her willingness to concede so easily, I am never forced to come up with anything better. She usually makes it home around five-thirty and after that slips out of her work clothes and into her casual wear. After making sure I eat something she heads out to the bars. Sometimes she comes back around midnight and gets some sleep before work. Sometimes she doesn’t make it in until much later. I stopped caring.

  From two floors below me, I can hear the faint ring of the telephone. I place my socks against the slick wooden floor, careful not to slip, and press my weight against my sore legs. I should get more exercise. I walk to the door in no particular hurry. I know that by the time I reach the phone the caller will have long since given up. I hear the last of the ringing as I reach the main floor of the old house. I stand beside the phone. We do not have an answering machine—I do not even own a cell phone. Like I mentioned before, mom likes to live like we are poor. We do not even own at television. I know that if it is important they will call back and if they do not, I will be making the trek back upstairs to my bedroom.

  The phone rings once more. I pick up.

  “Hello?” I ask quietly. I have never been fond of speaking over the phone. In fact, I hate it.

  “Yes, we are trying to reach Emma Corbeau.” A female answers on the other end.

  “This is,” I shortly answer. I have not received a call in months.

  “I’m really sorry Emma,” The voice begins as she switches to a kind and gentle tone. “I… I am a nurse at Alchemilla Medical Hospital here in city, your mother was admitted after collapsing at work… She didn’t… She didn’t make it.”

  “What?” I simply ask as I feel as though the floor beneath me is going to swallow me whole. “What do you mean she didn’t make it?”

  “I’m so sorry,” the nurse speaks, “She died. She just collapsed, she was brought here but it was too late…there was nothing that the doctors could do.”