14 Years On

And on the eve of the 14th anniversary of Alice's death, I received an arrangement.

The floral tableau below was hand-made by a dear friend. It's a sculpture, really. Her medium isn't brick or bronze, but blooms. She said she was thinking about Alice as she created it. I've been so touched by her ability to empathize--she'd never even met my sister. Two days later I still can't take my eyes off the beautiful creation, fit to remember a beautiful person.

On September 18, I'd gone to sleep early. At 11:40PM, an earthquake struck South El Monte. Twenty-five miles west of the epicenter, I was shaken awake. It was like Alice was telling me, "you better remember tomorrow." As if I could ever forget.

In the morning, Peter, L and I picked up my mom and drove to Rose Hills. Actually, my dear friend had made a special arrangement for my mother too. Who loved the spectacular array of blossoms so much, she wept. Well, it was a heavy day. 

On the way to visit Alice's and my dad's grave sites, we stopped to pick up bouquets. Well, we also got Alice a rainbow pinwheel with a butterfly at its center. We arrived at her tombstone which was covered in grass clippings. I cleaned it up, and dug for the water cup. Somehow it's never easy to find that metal vase. But finally we did, and with good luck, it was easy to pull out. We filled it with water and the colorful buds. My mom said an Armenian prayer. Told Alice we loved her very much. Then we took off.

But before I left, I grabbed the spinning toy. Gardeners would be trashing it within a few days, and I wanted it at home where I'd be reminded of Alice's whimsical nature every time I saw it.

On the Eve of the 13th Anniversary

I was sitting at home tonight feeling agitated. I didn't know why. I'd plans to go see my favorite Kristeen Young in an East Village club at 10pm, but around dinnertime I lost interest and decided not to go. So unlike me when it comes to a pop concert.

Trying to rest on the couch, unable to get comfortable, I hatched a plan to make cookie dough. A ball of heavy, sugary carbohydates would definitely overtake my crap feelings. Making the stuff wouldn't numb my feelings, no. Ingesting it would. I got up to go to the kitchen, when a dear friend pinged from CA:
-----
Thinking of you tonight and will be all day tomorrow. I love you!!!  Miss you tons.

No f`cking wonder I'm sitting here, distraught but unsure why, making cookie dough for myself. I hadn't even considered the calendar. Thank you for remembering. And f`ck, the waterworks now.

Oh no. Am I an a-hole for reminding you? Love you.

No, not at all. No. You know me inside more than I know myself. That's love

-----

So, 13 years ago today since it's now past midnight, Alice died in a car wreck.

I poured half a bag of walnuts into the sweet paste to spike my blood sugar a little less. Then I ate almost all of it. And felt sick afterwards, as planned. 

Just as those granulated crystals often provoke, I soon wanted more. So I shoveled tablespoonfuls into my face until I was thinking of nothing but the pounding in my head and the thickness of my belly.

Thing is, I've been on a health kick these last few months (see mention of walnuts, above. See?).  Alice would be proud of how much I've improved. But I sabotaged my progress a little tonight. 

Thirteen years ago today Alice died.

I thank my lucky stars I have friends who won't let me forget.

The Carpenters on AM Radio

I know I cry in a lot of these posts. It's a common response to remembering someone. So--spoiler alert?

I'd heard that the Carpenters' eponymous album had been remastered with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. I played it online and found the sound quality to be so sharp, even over the Internet. If Richard Carpenter really was a perfectionist, it showed. Karen's voice was smooth, beautiful, and sad. Sitting in front of my desktop, I was hanging on every crisp note.

When the opening harp of "Superstar" began, I was transported to the mid-1970s when I was six. My mom driving my sisters and me through Whittier surface streets to Mesrobian as we listened to 1480 KWIZ AM. Me sitting next to Alice in the back seat of the Dodge Colt, nervous about not preparing my Armenian reading assignment well enough.

My mom's 4-door Dodge Colt had this same barf, er, beige color.

The memory felt heavy. I couldn't hold back my tears. I adjusted the volume of my shelf speakers so my 13-year-old sitting on the couch wouldn't hear me. I hung my head and covered my face, convulsing with each sob. What got me was how as a little boy with sand in my shoes I didn't know I'd lose my big sister one day. And how Alice, a little girl with everything before her, would die tragically at 36, leaving me behind.

The line "Said you were coming back this way again, baby," punched me. I thought back to the last time I said goodbye in person to Alice, in Marina del Rey. It was 100% meant as "See you later." The absence and sadness Carpenter sang about resonated, as good songs usually did, letting me project my own meaning onto them.

The instrumental section swelled, and I felt a kiss. I snapped back to the present, so touched by L's compassion. When had she developed such emotional maturity? And what had I done to deserve this? She put her arms around me. Long ago in parenting class I learned you shouldn't encourage your kids to take care of you. It was supposed to work the other way around. But here I was, in need.

I stood up, and hugged L tight. "I miss Auntig Alice so much," I said.

Wise Words

I found discount tickets before the play Torch Song closed in early January. We didn't have a babysitter anymore so omg we took L to see it. Totally for adult audiences; good thing L was relatively mature for her age.

At one point the protagonist said, I remember it so clearly:

"It's easy to love a dead person. Because they don't talk back."

The line felt like a bag of bricks dropped on my lap. Was Alice easier to love in death than in life? What a hard, horrible thing to acknowledge.

It's true, I can have difficulties with people in my life today because they talk back. As humans do. As I do.

I feel like there's a lot more I could say on this, but my brain is saying no more right now.

Alice Joined Me at the Distillers Show

The Distillers at Brooklyn Steel 5/29/19 via Instagram 

Things started out pretty grim. Two months ago I found out the Distillers would be playing in town May 29. Alice and I had seen them open for Siouxie and the Banshees back in 2002, immediately taking to the lead singer Brody Dalle. This show had already sold out, so I looked at resale tickets, but didn’t want to pay the huge markup. Still, I had hope.

The night before the performance, I looked online again. Bingo! There were seats available, face value $36 plus $13 fees.

"F'ck the fees," I said, channeling Alice. I decided I'd pay admission at the door. I was going to see the Distillers!

I bolted through the rain that night to get to Brooklyn Steel, the venue. "Where do I buy tickets?" I asked the security guard, huffing and puffing as I arrived.

"It's sold out," she said.

"There were still some last night!" I protested.

"They went this morning."

I felt stupid, and pathetic. She noticed.

"People hang out at the end of the barricades looking for extra seats,” she offered.

So to the street corner I went, begging. "Looking for a ticket," I mumbled. No takers. "I'm looking for a ticket," I said louder. Passersby gave me the pity eye. "I need a ticket," I repeated. Seemed like I was making concertgoers uncomfortable. I wondered if Alice was going to help me. I felt calm, a good sign.

"Oh I think I have two on my phone," a young woman with her friend finally said, looking in her purse.

"How much do you want?"

"$30?"

"What did you pay for it?" I didn't want a discount. I was feeling grateful, and generous.

"$50," she said.

"Sold."

I handed her some bills, but stayed close to make sure I was her plus one, not her girlfriend.

Into the auditorium I flowed.

The opener, Starcrawler, was thrashing through a remake of the Ramones' "Pet Sematary." I made my way as front and center as I could without nudging anyone. Arrow the lead singer wore a codpiece and covered her face with stringy hair. I clapped when their set ended.

As the house lights went on, I heard what sounded like the opening notes of "Vogue" by Madonna. It couldn't be, at a concert where the warm-up band had smeared blood on themselves? But sure enough it was. And then, "Music." By the third tune, "Dress You Up," I knew Alice was in the house. Every. Single. Song. Was Madonna! "Like a Virgin" they played. And "Hung Up." Along with my favorite, maybe of all time, "Deeper and Deeper." I was smiling so big, bopping by myself. I turned my face or ducked whenever the teenagers in front of me snapped selfies. Checking their eyeliner first, of course.

Dancing, feeling high, connected to Alice, I felt a warmth wash over me. I realized I was going to get a Madonna ticket after all.

What do I mean? The Madame X tour was coming to Brooklyn in September, and I'd already submitted a "Request for a Ticket"--the totally annoying way of acquiring entry to what's sure to be a talked about concert this fall--and had been rejected after waiting almost ten days for the response. I felt so insulted; Her Madjesty had refused my money. Well, she added extra dates, and I hopped on the bandwagon again, this time choosing the final night thinking it might be the least in demand. Or the most in demand, since it was her last night? I just didn't know. I was still in the waiting period.

Soon, the lights dimmed and the headliners appeared. Along with the crowd, I roared. Out of nowhere beer splashed onto my arm. Didn't care. As the band tore through the opening chords of "Sick of It All," someone pushed me from behind. Oh no! Twelve feet from the center microphone, I was standing in the eye of the mosh pit. The wave swayed three feet to the left, testing my balance. Then three feet to the right, nearly toppling me over. But I had no fear. Until I felt a leg on my head.

I gently motioned around. A crowd surfer was coasting his way over us toward the front. I supported his shoulder as others heaved him forward. I went back to singing and jumping like a maniac, now to "Beat Your Heart Out" from the only Distillers CD I have, "Coral Fang." That album is a masterpiece of beautiful pop angst that the British music magazine Q had heralded with like five stars when it came out.

"What's up Brooklaaaaaaaaaaaaan?" Brody said when they finished the third song. That second syllable she totally screamed at the top of her lungs. If my heart could have sprouted wings and taken flight, at that moment it would have. It was like 2002 again and I was with Alice vibing with this bad-ass punk rocker. You know what else? The lighting was just as I remembered from 17 (f`ck, that long?) years ago. See the photo above, with Brody in silhouette and the backdrop lit up.

Something dripped into my ear. Wtf, were we all that closely squashed together that my neighbor was sweating on me? I touched my shirt, and it was fully drenched. By my own perspiration. I made a note to drink a lot of water on the way home.

"Repeat after me," Brody commanded the audience. "You're not sick!"

"You're not sick!" we chanted.

"I feel better," she said.

The show almost hadn't gone on. Overtaken by some kind of illness, shortly before coming onstage, Brody had taken a z pack, a steroid injection, and tequila shot. Seemed like it was working. I think Alice was helping prop her up, too.

For posterity, here are the other songs she sang from Coral Fang: Beat Your Heart Out | Dismantle Me | Die on a Rope | Love Is Paranoid | The Gallow Is God | Hall of Mirrors (my all time fave) | For Tonight You’re Only Here to Know | The Hunger | Drain the Blood.

I walked out of the hall so peaced out, blissful. Nothing could hurt me. Feeling Alice so much all night, I noticed I hadn't even cried. Did it mean I was getting better? Or losing touch. I didn't want to consider the latter.

The next day, I was telling Peter how great the night was.

"Oh, did you get my email?" he asked.

"No?" my typical response to that dreaded question.

"You got a ticket," he said, smiling."Third row."

I couldn't handle it. I covered my face and burst into tears. I was going to see Madonna, so close up.

"I knew it," I said into my palms. "Because of Alice."

She never died. I believed it.

Photo by Arnel Hasanovic on Unsplash

I had a dream last night where I was feeling friction between Alice and me, similar to how I can feel sometimes with my teenager. A kind of general ill will with uncertain origins.

I was going about my business (in a seaside town? But whatever) while Alice was visiting at home the whole day. I was following my impulse to avoid her when I realized, "Wait Alice is alive! Seize the rare opportunity and go home, spend time with her." I was euphoric, feeling what a precious gift this moment was. Alice had never died, she'd simply been away. I totally believed it.

I changed my plans and ran back to her, thinking how I'd hug her and not let go.

Thing is, basically all time with loved ones is a rare opportunity. It doesn't last forever.

The Time We Rubbed Noses

A friend asked to see a photo of me as a child. Scrolling through shots I'd captured from my mom's albums, I came across this.

Alice is holding me so close, her arm wrapped around me like the big sister she was. We're both reveling in rubbing our noses with each other.

I don't remember the picture being taken. I must be about four years old. It looks like we're at Mesrobian, even though I'm not wearing a uniform. It may have been a "free dress" day? My mom crocheted our sweaters, almost identical except for the red stitching on Alice's.

I keep staring at this intimate moment. I'd never really appreciated that Alice and I had had it.

Heaven

I used to read this poem in the New York City subway all the time. Each time, I thought of Alice.

I want to end this blog with it.

Heaven

by Patrick Phillips

It will be the past
and we'll live there together.

Not as it was to live
but as it is remembered.

It will be the past.
We'll all go back together.

Everyone we ever loved,
and lost, and must remember.

It will be the past.
And it will last forever.

"Heaven" by Patrick Phillips, from Boy. © The University of Georgia Press, 2008.

The poster produced by the MTA:

Shisha with Sjoekje

"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.

Ten Years Ago

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.

Still Dreaming of Alice

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.

Summer of Smiles

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.

Tsakoun

[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.

Ten Years

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.

San Diego

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.