March 14, 2003
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Brett and I slept in yesterday, so he decided to stay the rest of the afternoon. Around lunch Darcie Mitchell’s sister called asking for Chelle; she was taking a final, so I took down the number and left it on the desk in our room.
Darcie had the distinction of being one of the few people I’d rather be if I could be somebody else. She seemed to be the perfect girl: slender, leggy, and pretty, not too short or too tall, with the gamine face of a French model, sensual and Bohemian. Darcie was a creature of grace and into the ballet. She could put together a complete look from a thrift shop, while I’d come back unwittingly with one of my own aunt’s hand-me-downs, discovering the source when I found her homemade label, still in place. I’ve never known anyone but Darcie who could wear a paisley scarf and not be suspected of greasy hair. She managed a grande entre each time with a simple toss of her head and a “Where’s my ciggies?” All eyes seemed to be upon her as she collected her necessary thingies to make herself feel at home. And then an attentive, “What’s up?!?” Unlike me and most of my friends, Darcie never binged or had to diet; no, she was one of those rare gals who could really eat whatever she wanted and stop before she gained an ounce. Food was truly and properly unimportant. In fact, she successfully flaunted her habit of conspicuous waste, always ordering the works, then forgetting all about that deluxe deli sub after only a few bites, casting it aside to dry out in its cut paper wrapper while everyone drooled over it, thinking, Mind your manners; that’s not your sandwich, you fat cow! Naturally, all the guys adored her, and the girls envied Chelle’s being her friend, wishing some of that charm could rub off upon THEM.
Around two I was fussing with my hair in the john, which I had to myself for once. An old Stevie Nicks tune, “Sleeping Angel,” came unbidden into my head and I began to sing it, taking advantage of the bathroom acoustics. The song reminded me of another girl, a former roommate I hadn’t gotten along well with. She liked to sit in the stairwell and warble out Stevie Nick’s “Landslide,” but I never appreciated it and was critical of her talent, considering the person. Now I imagined myself telling her how I saw what she meant about Nicks; maybe we could sing together and be friends. Funny how I cared about her after all this time. When I came out, Bruce was practicing the instrumental part to ”Sleeping Angel” on his guitar in the front room.
“Don’t you love that song?” I said appeasingly, Bruce tending to be such a prick. “Stevie Nicks was one of the first artists to turn me on to country music.”
“Actually, it’s gospel,” he corrected. Like too many men, he’d fallen to the masculine shortcoming of know-it-allism. “Can’t you hear the harmonics? It’s also in the lyrics.”
In answer I ventured a few lines, my annoyance erasing my usual nervousness singing with any audience. It also helped knowing Bruce had addiction problems galore and was a real fuck-up; no one I’d worry about impressing, and Brett didn’t sing, so what the heck. True to form, Bruce upped the ante and started playing along, seeing if I could keep time. My, but he was an excellent guitarist. I was soon carried away by the emotion of the music, barely aware that I was standing right in front of the window with cars and people passing by. Gee, we sounded so good together. How could that be, me and Bruce. It made me shiver. We were building towards the finish when I remembered Brett stretched out on the old Lazy Boy recliner, sipping a beer. What did he think of all this, my belting it out in near-perfect sync with his buddy, someone I usually despised, as if the guy were my husband, for chrissakes? I searched his face, but he had that spacey fixed grin he gets sometimes and I couldn’t read behind it. He was probably watching my boobs; yep, his eyes just shifted to my derriere, silly boy.
Suddenly, Chelle came out of the kitchen and screamed at us to pipe down; weren’t we supposed to be studying?
Amazed at her strong tone, I was about to say, “Hey–” Can’t we take a break without you getting so PARENTAL? when I noticed the tears on her face. Bruce was just another fling and it was not like Chelle to be jealous, at least not by throwing a tantrum in this immature way. Oh, dear, I thought, she’s flubbed a test again.
“What’s going on?” Bruce asked sternly, setting down the guitar.
“Darcie died!” she blurted, sobbing. “I can’t believe it!”
The tragic news sobered us up for the rest of the day. All Darcie’s sister had said, maddenly, was that she’d died of “natural causes”. Natural causes. Like illness or old age. At only twenty-one? But Darcie was never sick; she was the most alive person I’d ever known. We just saw her, what, six months ago and she looked fine. Then I remembered this play by Arthur Miller. The guy’s little brother got a really bad headache one day. He kept complaining he didn’t fell well, but everyone ignored him, just as they usually did. Turned out he had contracted spinal meningitis, the poor kid. He was dead within a few days. Shocking. Now a rare form of that’s hitting some campuses. Was it something like that that had taken Darcie’s life? Nooo, was the patient, evasive answer. Well, what was it then? Every time I thought of Darcie, from the moment I knew, I saw the row of beige and brown tract homes with terra cotta roofs where she’d been living temporarily with her parents in East L.A. I kept seeing all the double car garages jutting towards the rounded culdesac. Some had the doors open, with boys tinkering around inside.
Later Brett intimated that “natural causes” in this case probably meant suicide, and we weren’t supposed to ask about it. Strangely, I wasn’t surprised; so there WAS something wrong behind the girl’s carefree, sophisticated facade. Everyone thought it. Huh. We wondered how she did it, gas or drugs? Did she slit her wrists? Or maybe it was even anorexia. Yes, anorexia, that was probably it. Sad.
Take me, if you need me,
But never hold me down.
You’re asking me to trust you.
Well there’s little of that around.
I’m trying to believe you,
And I’m learning all the time.
Two-part personality
The flower and the vine……
Comments (1)
There’s nothing like an untimely suicide to teach us about life. I experienced my first at the tender age of fifteen, when one of my father’s friends from work, Curt Matsinger, succumbed to manic depression. No one had known he was that ill or knew how to help until it was too late. I’ll never forget it.