"Do you like shisha?" texted Alice's friend Sjoekje. In California for L's spring break, I was driving to Sjoekje's house, super-excited for a nighttime catch-up.
"I don't know what shisha is?" I tapped back at a stoplight.
"Hookah."
"Oh! I tried that in Armenia," I wrote. "Apple flavor."
"Double apple OK?" read my phone screen. "Also have white peach. Putting coals on now."
White peach smoke sounded right up Alice's alley. So did "double" apple. Why would she settle for single apple?
Sjoekje had instructed me to come inside when I arrived, because her friends would be rehearsing for a gig, and she wouldn't hear me knocking.
Doing as told, I walked up to Sjoekje's quintessential California home: swaying palm trees in the front, red terracotta roof, 3-car garage. I walked inside. When she turned to see me, we opened our arms and gave each other a big, tight hug. One like I'd never felt before. I didn't want to let her go. She wasn't quick to let me go either. We embraced for two solid minutes, a long-ass time compared to your typical bear squeeze. In her, I could feel Alice's essence. I wanted that feeling forever. I heard Sjoekje sniffle, and I tried not to whimper too loud. When we finally let go, we both had wet cheeks. Like I'd said once about Iris, seemed like Sjoekje and I were Alice for each other.
Soon Vicki appeared and the party started. That white peach smoke smelled delicious! So did the apple. Er, double apple.
In the photo above, there's space on the couch to the left of Vicki. That's room for Alice, whose spirit kept the festivities going well past midnight.
That early morning ten years ago remains the darkest moment of my life. At 2:45am, the phone rang. Peter answered it. “It's your dad. Alice has been in a car accident,” he relayed. “And died.”
I shot up from bed. My chest went numb, as if to protect my insides from my shattering heart. I wanted to jump out of the window, to join her, but we lived in a second floor apartment.
I couldn't handle myself, I didn't know what to do. After talking to my mom, I called my therapist at 4 in the morning. I told her I wanted to jump out of the window. She said don't jump. I said I wanted to go outside. She said that doesn't sound like a good idea, it's very late. She suggested I drink some herbal tea. We scheduled a 7:00AM appointment. At the end of that sessions, she said I could expect the next several weeks to be "bumpy." I'd never heard more prescient words.
I recount these details because I don't want to forget that I've survived the greatest pain.
I've been dreaming of Alice, but she hasn't appeared in them. She's present, but invisible. It makes me sad when I'm awake, like she's getting more distant from me.
In one dream I'm walking around Barnard College. I see Alice's Whitney classmates Debbie B and Jana S, and strolling with them is a young woman who looks like Alice in high school. She has longish wavy brownish hair, but her face is different. I hug Debbie, and start bawling that my sister has been transformed, and I can't touch her.
In another, I'm an adult at my mother's house. Alice is getting ready to walk with my mom to an open house in the neighborhood. I need to use the toilet, and see that what we called the "girls bathroom" is not in use. (Why didn't we call one the "boys bathroom"? Because I was the only guy, probably.) I dart into the bathroom and secure the lock. When Alice hears me close the door, from her bedroom she yells, "Not all of us have to go to the open house!"
As in, I could stay home if I'm going to use the restroom, and and she and my mom could go on their own. Typical Alice pushing me away. In the dream I never see her, though. I only hear her voice.
I just couldn’t call this entry Summer of Tears, even though
that’s what it’s turned out to be. Summer of Smiles evokes Alice, doesn't it?
Since June, I’ve had moments where I get
swept up in a recollection of Alice, and hot water starts dripping down my face.
One time, I was sitting with L writing invitations for her
birthday party. Yeah, old school-style American Greetings invites bought ten per pack at the supermarket. We're filling in the blanks for To, When, Where, and “Doo-Wop (That Thing)” by
Lauren Hill comes on Pandora. I sing along a bit, then I can’t take it
anymore. I’m remembering Alice’s copy of The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill
sitting in her bedroom, how I first heard the song from Alice’s lips while she
crooned to the radio, swaying left and right. I start sobbing. I cover my face, putting my head in
my hands. L’s startled, and I explain that Auntig Alice used to really like The
Fugees and its lead singer. I can’t not think of Alice whenever I hear Ms.
Hill’s voice.
Another time we were watching my favorite 90s music YouTubes, L and I. As we’re watching TLC’s fabulous hip hop motions,
the waterworks erupt on my face again. L turns, and taken aback, says, “what?” "What?" she repeats when I don't have an immediate answer. “She died too
young,” I say, about Lisa Left-Eye Lopes, and my sister. Who cries watching "No Scrubs"? It's the opposite of a sad
video.
Then when we played "Smooth Criminal," I started crying again,
another artist lost too soon. But I'm tickled when my daughter who usually doesn't react explicitly goes "Uh?" when Michael does that badass leaning-forward-until-he-might-fall-but-doesn't move. "That's right," I say.
They say when you cry, you get closer to the ones you've lost.
[I didn't finish this post when I first started writing it 3 years ago. I'll wrap it up for the sake of publishing it at last:]
I recently read The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold because I heard that it was written from the viewpoint of a young woman who had died, and I was interested in reading someone's perspective of, well, heaven. The depiction of that place in the sky seemed realistic, I feel weird saying.
I had to pause and think when Susie, the narrator, said she hadn't heard her mother say her pet name out loud. I haven't heard my mother say Alice's pet name, Tsakoun, out loud since she died, either. Meaning "my youngling," it was a word my mom said to Alice only. She never used it in the third person.
I miss hearing my mom speak it, and hearing Alice reply.
In ten days we'll mark ten years since Alice died, and I can't even believe it. The mildly good news is I've finally stopped eating donuts and more donuts. Like maybe I've shed the sorrow from losing her. I'd been wearing it around my waist all these years. I think it's receded into my bones, along with my memories of her, and will live there for now.
Thinking about this past decade, in a way I'm grateful that Alice's departure from the world prompted me to write. Without her, I could have easily spiraled downward, suffocating from my grief. But Alice's spirit propelled me to chronicle the story of my loss which led to creating a blog about workplace issues then publishing personal pieces in other outlets. I've catalogued my work at chahinian.com. Alice is in every line I've written.
Rereading the lines on this site, I want to edit them so they're sharper, more descriptive. But as I get set to print this blog as a memento, I'm afraid to touch the poor word choice and grammatical errors. It's like my yearning for Alice lives in the sometimes bad sentence structure. I don't want to erase that.
So this online journal will sit, messy. Like me all these summers, struggling to make sense of my sister's death.
For the last ten years I've been looking for Alice, everywhere. From the corner of my eye I'll spot a figure that resembles her, and do a double-take on a woman with pixie hair and a lean frame. Perusing family photo albums, I'm always hoping I'll come across an image I haven't seen before. Sometimes I'll even hear her voice, but if I turn around there's no body.
When the pop punk band blink-182 came out with "California" in August (an album I love love love), I glanced the track list and wondered if I'd spotted her: in "San Diego." Listening to the album start to finish, I finally got to song 13. My ears pricked up. Omg it had Alice written all over it. Check out the chorus:
-----
I can't sleep because what if I dream
of going back to San Diego
We bought a one-way ticket
so we can go see the Cure
and listen to our favorite songs in the parking lot
and think of every person I ever lost
in San Diego
Can't go back to San Diego.
-----
"And think of every person I ever lost in San Diego. Can't go back to San Diego." So true for me. I only lost one person, but she was extra significant to me. Unfortunately I feel repelled by the city Alice moved to and in which she died. I still can't go back there. Other details fit too -- Alice and I went to see the female version of the Cure: Siouxsie and the Banshees. Not in SD but in Orange County. Same difference right? We totally listened to our favorite songs in the parking lot outside the Grove.
Those are the lyrics. Then there's the music. Travis Barker does amazing handiwork on drums, natch. But what sent chills up my spine while tears rolled down my cheeks was the harmonies. Starting near 2:18, the guys are singing background and I swear they're wailing. For my sister. The screen even floods with "A"s right then in the lyric video. Have a watch-listen:
Blink came to town this past weekend. I'd bought a single mosh pit ticket. But I was conflicted because that same afternoon we were throwing a big barbecue for L's 11th birthday. My mom would be traveling 3,000 miles to be there and Sophie'd be coming from far away too.
I'd been feverish the night before the party. The morning of, I doubted I could host a shindig then drive 70 miles to a concert and back. But everyone at home chipped in to make the celebration happen, and I rallied. Heading to the rock show I felt like the luckiest guy in the world: I had my extended family together, and they'd made it possible for me to go to the gig, and look for Alice.
Midway through the set, the guys played "San Diego!" When it came time for their howling, only Matt Skiba sang. Why didn't Mark Hoppus join in? But they sang my jam!
Which I played again back in the parking lot, by myself.
Last night, er, this morning I had a dream. Sophie and Alice
were there, and Sophie was trying to make nice with me, like adjusting
my collar, making sure I looked nice. But I wouldn't look at her because
I was p`ssed at her for whatever reason, and she just said, "Oh, Haig,"
really lovingly, really acceptingly, patiently, while Alice looked on. I didn't look at her, though. I kept to myself.
My mom called me in the middle of yesterday, saying she wrote a poem about riding her adult tricycle. It came to her in 15 minutes, and she wanted to read it to me over the phone. I was touched.
-----
Riding the bike is
(by M. Chahinian)
Wind blowing the hair
Breathing the fresh air
Flowers everywhere
Trees planted along the way.
Exercising is the best
Going east and west
Stopping for some rest
And perhaps be the guest.
Happy people to greet
Chit chat and meet
Embrace the heat
Bid farewell and proceed.
It is a good way
To start the day
Continue till midday
Then call it a day.
The pleasures are endless
Always happiness
Joy and gladness
Knowledge in quietness.
Looking at the birds perched on the
wires
Without any cares or fear of fires
Well protected and fed by their
Supplier
He who is our Heavenly Father.
-----
Totally cute, right?
Alice used to write poetry like this. Did my mom impact Alice's writing?Or did Alice influence my mom?
I had a dream about Alice last night. More like she appeared to me in a dream. There's a difference; the dream wasn't really about anything, except Alice's presence.
I'm not sure where I was when I saw Alice in front me, beaming her megawatt smile. She wore a rust colored loose sweater, typically chic. I couldn't believe I was with her, and I was so happy. I wondered if I was dreaming, yet it felt very real, so I dismissed the thought. All the pain of her absence disappeared when I ran up and hugged her. I picked her up like a baby, her legs dangling over my right arm, my left hand supporting her back. So blissful, I kissed her cheek again and again. We were both laughing and smiling. We didn't exchange any words.
We're away for L's spring break, and I went to a yoga class this morning. Toward the end, we put our fingertips on our foreheads and our thumbs at our jaws, covering our eyes in a meditative stance. We were supposed to clear our minds and breathe. But it felt like an opening for my sadness to enter, and I sat there on my mat, crying, trying not to make any noise.
Today's Alice's birthday, she would have turned 44. I miss her so much, and wonder what our relationship would have been like if she were alive.
I never finished this post when I started it four years ago on the 6-year anniversary of my sister's death. I'm dusting it off to print now [9/13/16]:
I had a dream that Alice was at my mother's house. Alice and I had been working consciously on our relationship, struggling to work through our differences. I realize now that if we'd succeeded, we could have had much more fun. In my dream, the neighbor across the street looked young from behind. Alice and I were getting ready to do something together, and I was excited, and calm at the same time. The morning started out not tense. What a dream, indeed.
Then the day grew weary. At this point, I can't remember the other details. Such is my memory. And such is the unconscious mind. I include this scrap of a story as a means of keeping everything I have about Alice. I don't want to lose anything.
I had a dream last night, and woke up sobbing. OK, it was a morning dream.
I'd dreamed that I'd visited Alice in jail. The walls were stale yellow, as was the lighting. I sat at a table in some kind of holding cell, waiting for her.
I had sent her a letter about how much I love her, and how much I know she loved me. A guard came up to me and said, "She got your message." Hearing this, I was overcome with relief, and gratitude. Hence the waterworks.
But in that moment I was also worried about how she would rehabilitate after being released from prison.
A friend told me that after a death, only the good memories linger. I fear it may be more complicated than that.
I dreamed my biological family was on vacation. Alice was there, although she didn't look like herself, she had really long hair. This detail makes me wonder what she would have looked like today. In my dream I dumped all my negative energy on her; I hit her, I kicked her, I called her dumbass.
That's no way to treat your sister. She was often the scapegoat in our family. It was unfair. To target her repeatedly was untrue. She wasn't always the instigator. I regret treating her like the one responsible for all our ills. My father, mother, Sophie, and I had our own share of aggression, resentment, and rage.
I'm sorry for hurting you so much, Alice.
Soon after this dream, I visited Iris, a friend of Alice's from junior high school. I wanted to meet Iris's partner and hold their new baby Ivory, for Alice. It felt like my sister was there with us. Iris and I were Alice for each another.
This Sunday, April 24, 2011 marks the 96th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, when the Ottoman Turkish government initiated a campaign to massacre the Armenian population. They systematically killed about 1.5 million Armenian people, including all eight of my great-grandparents. I've been thinking about this lately, and how it relates to the aftermath of Alice's death.
Armenian civilians are marched to nearby prison in Mezireh by armed Turkish soldiers in Kharpert, Ottoman Empire, April 1915.
In 1896 my father's father Haigazoun was born in jail, in Istanbul. His father Der Nerses--his ordained name, we don't know his given name--was incarcerated, along with his wife, for being a Christian priest. Der Nerses was poisoned soon thereafter, and my great-grandmother--Khoutsig, I love that name--raised him and his two brothers alone, until she met her own demise at the hands of the Ottoman Turks around 1915.
My dad doesn't know the stories--or the names--of his maternal grandmother or grandfather; the trauma his mother experienced in her childhood seems to have rendered her early memories inaccessible.
My mother had no living grandparents either, and knows almost nothing about their lives. She tells the story of her father Garabed, age 8 in 1915-1916, visiting a vineyard with his father when a Turkish soldier on a horse came and took his father away, leaving young Garabed standing there. Her mother Azniv, bereft at age 7 in 1915-1916, was adopted into an Armenian family in Palestine, in Jerusalem, where she essentially became the nanny and took care of three younger children.
So my grandparents survived unspeakably harsh life events. By witnessing the elimination of their parents, my hypothesis is that a fear of annihilation was sparked in them at a young age.
I believe this fear of being decimated has passed down the generations. My parents feared the extermination of their own existence, as it happened to their grandparents, and as Armenian-Americans, my sisters and I feared annihilation too. Unconsciously we feared death if we didn't grow up and prosper as Armenian-Americans, and raise Armenian-American children too.
Which leads to the idea that Alice got annihilated. Not by the Turks, yet killed nonetheless. She was supposed to make it well into old age, as our ancestors desperately willed for all of us. And I've been blindsided by the horror. To the extent that I'm still writing about living without her almost five years later.
The term "rest in peace" comes to mind. Alice rests, and what I'm working to do is lay to rest my loss of her.
We kind of force ourselves to "celebrate" Alice's birthday every year on March 26th, even though I'm still very sad. I can't help that. I have a new thought about that, and will write about it in another post.
This year we went to the park with the butterfly kite we purchased back in 2007 for her birthday. For some reason I'm not able to
[left unfinished]
