MILES to GO || before I sleep

Thirteen years ago today, my older half-sister Michelle Smith died.

By this time thirteen years ago, I, at 11 years old, was back here in San Francisco from what was supposed to be a fun weekend trip up to Petaluma with my Dad. It's hard to remember the specifics, but I know we went somewhere, and when we returned to the house and listened to the messages on the answering machine, the only thing distinct was my mom's voice, shouting and crying hysterically.

My dad asked his then-girlfriend to usher me out of the room while he listened to the message again to try and make sense of it. I went outside and played Patty-Cake with his girlfriend. I had no idea what was going on. I was worried about by mom, but for some reason, the thought of something truly terrible having happened did not --could not-- cross my mind.

A few minutes later, my dad brought me down and sat me on the white textured couch we had. White couches are a stupid thing to own. If you do own them, they're more of a statement than a functional piece of furniture. They'll always get dirty, even without an 11 year old and a dog in the house. (For the record, if you're stringent about cleaning and don't have those plastic covers over every piece of furniture, then I guess it's fine. Needless to say, my dad isn't either of those types, then or now.)

Anyway, my dad told me first that Michelle had been in an accident. The first thing that popped into my head was a rather steep hill covered in ivy not that far from our house. It's right beside the Rose Garden, and I knew my sister liked to ride her bike through there. I always thought it was dark and winding and scary. My 11 year old-self thought that there were bears and lions in Golden Gate Park, and that you were more likely to see them in places like that than up in the pretty rose garden. I imagined that she'd been biking on the crest of that hill and fell down, broke her ankle. I seem to remember stories of her having broken her leg or ankle before, so in my mind, it wouldn't have been the first time.

I don't remember if I asked if she'd just broken her ankle. I don't remember if I'd asked anything, doubting and scared, or naive and laughing. My insides were probably like Jello, just quivering, unable to stop.

I do remember being in the back seat of the car, stuck in traffic on the way back to San Francisco. I'd wanted a fun weekend in Petaluma, and now I had to go home. But I was worried about mom, freaked out about Michelle: I'd just had a fight with her about my Dad not long before I'd left, and I felt weird about going back home and having to "face" that, so to speak. I was thinking of how weird it would be, my mom and my dad and his girlfriend in the same room.

The next thing I remember, I was walking back up the stairs to my mom's house, to the dining room. It didn't look too much different from how it looks today. I remember my mom sitting at the head of the table on the left, her back to the piano my sister used to play all the time. She'd recently gotten more interested in the acoustic guitar, though. Besides, the piano was always out of tune, and Michelle was more interested in becoming a filmmaker than a pianist.

I remember the house being filled with cops. I got scared. I felt cold. I think it was then, seeing all the strangers in my house, my mom looking completely broken at the head of the table, shouting or crying or both, that I realized something was really wrong.

I don't really remember much about the next several days. There was a visit to the hospital. I'm not sure if it was for my mom to identify Michelle's body or to arrange for her to be sent to a mortuary or what. I didn't get to see anything. It was probably for the best, though seeing her at the funeral probably wouldn't have been much better.

There was a story that I heard in bits and pieces: Michelle had been out hiking with her friend Rayanna (not even sure if I'm spelling it right; we haven't heard from her since then) at Land's End, a stub of land not too far from Ocean Beach. Back then, it wasn't closed off, but everyone knew you weren't supposed to be over there. There were no fences, no railing, no anything. Just dry grass, dirt, rocks, and the ocean 200 feet below. Michelle and Rayanna weren't part of any sort of hiking expedition. There were no trail leaders or expert backpackers or anything like that. No equipment. I don't even think there were cell phones back then, at least not that Michelle or Rayanna would have owned.

Michelle fell.

I think I was told that death was immediate, that she wasn't in any pain. I kind of doubt that, nowadays. Part of me wants to believe it, of course, but it also hurts to think that she didn't --couldn't-- think of her family in her last moments. If she had, I wonder, would she have thought of how awful I was to still have a father when she didn't? Did she still think I was the worst bratty little sister ever, or would she miss me? I'll never know. It's one thing to tell yourself something to make yourself feel better, but the truth is something else altogether. They're not always the same.

Over the years, I've been to what I thought was Land's End a few times. Most of the time, I've been wrong. I went to the caves near the old Sutro Baths ruins, thinking that was Land's End because my dad told me that it was the "closest I'd ever get to it." I remember seeing people that had climbed over the rusty, single-bar railing sitting up on the rocks, wanting to yell at them because no matter how immortal or careful they were, my SISTER had died there. Were they even thinking of their family or friends in that moment?

There was another place, just past Point Lobos, higher up and surrounded by trees. It was a high cliff with a rocky beach below it, remnants of the Sutro Baths and the war cannon installations here and there. Some people had a tendency of making dirt circles and things like that up there. I kept wanting to see a symbol in them, a message from Michelle to me. Something.

I think this past spring was when I really saw Land's End. There was a sign there that mentioned Painted Rock and Land's End, talking about how dangerous it was and how people had died. Once, I think I wrote (or maybe I was tempted to write, I can't remember) "My sister was one of them!" on that sign. People still went right over the stupid rope fence and walked to take pictures of the stunning view of the ocean and the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge to the right and Marin County to the left. You could hear the fog horn, hear ships coming into port.

There wasn't enough room for more than two people to walk up there at a time, but there were still lots of people there. I wanted to yell at them too, but I was too choked up: angry at them, angry at myself, angry at the world. This spring, I went to the real Land's End alone.

Before, I'd been with other people. Some of those people I brought because I felt they needed to know the truth, the "me" that still was struggling with her half-sister/only sister/only sibling's death. Some of them I brought for purely selfish reasons, because I wanted comfort. I know I used them, and it was wrong, but my story and my feelings at that place have never been anything but the truth. I still think that it's hard for people who haven't really experienced death so close to them to know what I went through. They can just hug you or pat you on the back or say "I'm sorry," and that's all they can do.

For each person, what they need during that time is different. For me, I didn't know what I needed for myself. I decided to be the rock for my mom. Other people reacted to my reaction. The only person I remember being there "for me" explicitly was Christopher Garcia. He'd been a friend of mine at our after school program, Claire Lillienthal.

By the time summer ended, I already felt like it was the "Year of Hell." I didn't hold very high hopes for the remaining five or so months of the year. Having a transition like that, from elementary school to middle school meant that I changed a lot. I was a bitch in middle school. It could have been a lot better. I could have been a lot more mature. But I'd been through hell, and I didn't think anyone else could understand. No one really seemed to be genuinely trying, anyway. At that age, how can you? I'd hoped Chris Garcia would have given it more of a shot, but he chose popularity over me. That was a bit like twisting the knife already stuck in my chest.

He moved away before high school started. I remember seeing him on graduation. We didn't speak to each other, but I desperately wanted to. Years later, when I was working at AMC Theatres on Van Ness, he came to see a movie with a friend. I was so dead-tired that I thought I was dreaming. I didn't think to beg my supervisor to ask for my 15 minute break then, even though there was a line starting to wind throughout the lobby. He checked out the list of shows and couldn't find anything interesting, but he came up to my window in the box office, grabbed my hands through the window, and told me he was sorry for everything he'd done in middle school. He said he was a Marine now. I didn't stop to think for his phone number, his email, where he was stationed, anything.

I can honestly say he was the first boy I was ever truly in love with, and while that might have been a misplaced love due to the death of my sister, I'll always cherish what he did for me. Part of me still wants to see him again, if just to hug him for a good five minutes straight.

I made a lot of enemies in middle school, but a lot of lifelong friends, too. For those that stuck by me and have understood, that have come to know the truth since then, thank you. I hope we'll have thirteen and more years together.

This is my sister. I miss her very much.

At last, the San Francisco recap post... assuming I can actually remember most of what happened.

Saturday, July 15th - Scott came over around noon, not long before our shuttle was supposed to have arrived. He was originally going to come over earlier, except his friend Brett got a job back down in San Diego, and since all of their other mutual friends were off partying, Scott decided to help him pack up, so he stayed the night in Burbank. It was weird for him to already be near the airport where WE needed to be, just to come 20 miles up north so he could take a shuttle BACK DOWN to Burbank, but oh well. :P

It was awkward at first, but the shuttle arrived soon enough and we were off. After wandering out the paltry selection of stores and restaurants (read: less than half of each) in the United/American Airlines terminal, we sat down and had some snacks, at which point it was silently "decided" that to hell with it, call us whatever you will, we are what we are and we feel the way we do, so screw it. So yes, I suppose we were acting like boyfriend and girlfriend, even if that "definition" hardly applied to us. He was very sweet and affectionate to me, and even though initially I was scared of that meaning I would have a harder time of saying goodbye to him when the time came (Peace Corps taking him to Central Asia, me going to Japan), I'm not stupid enough to deny affection and attention when it's offered and WANTED.

We managed to get to San Francisco just fine; the plane was horribly small and the drink selection terrible (Pepsi! EEEUCK!), but at least we made it on time. We took the BART (I got a little lost at the SFO station) to Daly City, and bought a 7-day passport at the airport for $24/each. Then we took the 28 to Fulton and met my mom at the house. :} We hung around for a while, got dressed, and then headed out to downtown, where we'd take another BART to West Oakland to go to the Fire Arts festival. Aside from the usual loonies hanging around at the BART station, there was no problem. We got off at our stop and, just as dad said, we knew immediately where to go-- right toward the pillar of fire.

*grin* The Fire Arts festival is something my dad raved about last year, hosted by The Crucible, a fire-arts school that focuses on things like metalwork, electric work, glass blowing, and the like. We had to work our way through a windy, twisty line, but at last we made it in -even though a group of snotty bitches cut us in line. I hate that! I really do! But anyway, we got in, met my dad at the bar, and then looked around. The first thing I noticed was DDR on a wide projection screen, so we headed over there-- and sure enough, they were doing something called "Dance Dance Immolation," a modified version of Stepmania with "fire" themes. The modes were renamed (Light was Burner, Standard was Raver, and Heavy became Asshole; the description of the latter was "Your arcade misses you") and the gauge became a danger thermometer-- you know, like you see on nuclear reactors, or on the modified DeLorean in Back to the Future part III?

We watched a few people in flame retardent suits attempt to DDR, but needless to say, they all sucked. No one seemed to know what DDR was or how to play it... so when the event coordinator walked around and asked for volunteers, I surprised myself by speaking up. I was wearing leather pants and a vinyl tube top and 3-4" Tommy Hilfiger leather boots, but I shimmied out of the tube top and into a red cotton sleeved shirt, and after much waiting and confusion about suit sizes, I was up there, an oxygen tube strapped to my back, a silver suit concealing my identity... and I DDRd while flames shot in my face.

I shit you not. FLAMES. IN MY FACE.

The guy I was playing with said he'd DDRd before, but we agreed to let each other pick songs. But they'd renamed all the submenus too, so I couldn't find the song I wanted, so I got stuck with Mobo*Moga or something for my first song. I aced it anyway. ;} I got Breakdown for the second song, and aced that, but by the third stage, I was so tired from the heaviness of the suit and my sore feet, I started to stumble while playing Butterfly. The guy controlling the game refused to let me do any speed or step modifiers, saying "This isn't DDR, this is Dance Dance IMMOLATION!" And immolation is right, because even though I still did okay on Butterfly, I got flames in my face plenty of times. It wasn't until the suit was off that I realized how grateful I was for the oxygen tube. I was sweating terribly but DAMN that felt good!

Not too many people can say they aced DDR while flames shot in their face. :D Boo yeah, baby.

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"Do you have any brothers or sisters? How do you think they have affected your life? Are you a different person because of them?"

Ehh... dorky title, I know. Oh well. Better than "This Week's Theme." I was waiting for one I could actually write about, because I've pretty much shorted out all my rants and raves, now that school is out and I squirmed myself out of that blasted summer program. I already complained about the obtuseness of my parent's minds, so here we go...

I USED to have a sister. Older sister, by 8 years. Her name was Michelle, and was born on January 21, 1977. She was technically only my half sister, seeing as we both had different dads.
I remember how she used to say she hated me because I had a dad. Sometimes my dad was really nice, and her jealousy was obvious. But I was the squirt; in my eyes, she had much better perks, being older, first-born that kinda thing. She'd also sometimes mention why my mom and dad were divorced- my dad was a jackass who couldn't control himself.

Now that I think about that, I'm thinking it really applies to both of my parents. But my mom wasn't as different back then as she is now. Maybe she's "gotten better" a little bit. But she's still angry, lonely, and... angry. I can't speak for her, but that's what I think. Just typical of me to think that she missed Michelle more than she would had it been me.

Why all the past tense? My sister is dead. If you couldn't tell. I don't mean to be horrifically blunt -well, actually, I guess I do- but I don't mind talking about my sister. Heck, that's why I'm writing this, right?
But that's off on a tangent. How has she affected my life? When she was alive, she was my role model. She taught me by words, by actions. What to do and what not to do. I had the opportunity to observe from her mistakes. Maybe I learned a little bit, maybe I didn't.

I think she made the biggest impact on me when she died, July 20th, 1996. "The Year Of Hell", as I nicknamed it. The year right before I went into middle school. You see, I was counting on Michelle -Mickey, as I called her- for advice. But one weekend I spent with my dad and his girlfriend of almost 7 years turned into so much havoc-- my mother crying hysterically over the phone, my dad's almost angry and shocked voice as he called my house (which I still live in) to find out what was wrong. When I finally got called back inside, I knew -KNEW- that something bad had happened. I tried to smile, ask if she had just broken her leg or something. She'd been in accidents before -loved biking to the extent of getting hit by someone who opened their car door right into her- but always came out fine. But not this time.

She decided to go hiking with her friend Rayanna at the Land's End. Its name tells you everything, doesn't it? It literally is Land's End - an opening in rock, like a cave. Near Cliff House a cliff that just cuts off. My dad told me it was this cave near Cliff House that we'd once gone to, but I found out it was further northwest, in what is now a roped-off area north of Ocean Beach, in San Francisco, CA. The wonderful idiots of the Park & Rec service didn't put a fence between the cliff edge and the rocks ... or the craggy beach some 200 feet below. She fell.

For months I tormented myself-- I regretted not saying anything to her before I left, didn't tell her to be careful, or that I loved her, appreciated her, and needed her to be there for me. People think that you can't truly connect on any similar level with older people. I couldn't with my mom at the time, and still can't. I could with my sister.

She was about to enter her 2nd year of college. She wanted a promising career in film making. She was good at it, too. Weird, but enthusiastic, passionate, and intelligent.

My 6th grade English teacher was my personal hero the year after that. She helped me develop a "diary" of sorts-- "to Michelle" that I would give to my Mom. I didn't work on it as much as I should have, but I finally finished it and gave the green spiral notebook to my mom; she loved it.

I dedicated every story I wrote to her. "An Angel". I'd never been very religious; I celebrated more Jewish holidays than Christian, even though my semi-Christian mother was the one I lived with 5 days a week. I visited my family in Los Angeles/San Diego more often, because everyone from my dad's side was rich, "normal" and lived on the West Coast. My mom's side, from what I heard, was not that well off, a bit messed up in the head, and all scattered on the East Coast. That part hasn't changed. Even though I'm technically not Jewish, my mom not being of the religion, and me refusing to get a bat mitzvah because I'd have to transfer schools to learn Hebrew...

But both me and my mom are different people now. It's hard to believe how much someone can mean to you-- even when you fight with them every day, argue... ignore them, envy them. People have asked me if I have siblings, and almost automatically, I reply yes, an older sister. But now, I have to say, "No, I'm an Only Child." It's a very lonely title. "Lonely Child" is more like it. I guess I lost a lot of my youth when I lost my sister. She was helping me grow up AND stay young. She paved the way for my future-- she helped me learn to act, sing, and write webpages and stories. She's my "Guardian Angel", no matter what religion I am. But I find it hard to remember her face exactly, or her voice.

I've been asked, if you had the chance to live in paradise for one year, would you, knowing that you wouldn't remember any of it afterwards? What is more important, the memories of the experience or the actual experience? In my opinion, it is the memories. Life IS memories. Memories are vivid, memories are forever. Memories cannot be taken away from you, even if you fall into a coma or get amnesia. They exist within you, even if you try to forget. I've also been asked, if you could go back to any point in time and change a decision you made, what would it be, and why? It's a one way trip; you have no chance to fix any mistakes you make, and if you "correct" your decision, the future in front of you is more likely than not vastly different from the one you know.

I thought that I'd find a way to "save" my sister, but such is the power of God. Like I said, I'm not religious, but things are meant to happen, right? Destiny, fate? Maybe. I'd like to think I plot my own destiny, but my sister is not me, and thus I cannot save her destiny from however she makes it to be. But I could fix my regrets. Say goodbye, tell her how much she means to me. If I knew then what I know now... I'd be the same, just a bit less guilty and suicidal.

She hasn't made me hate myself, or make me wish (too much) that it had been me. She's given me a chance to be independent and free-minded, just like she was. She succeeded, and thanks to her, I believe that I will too.
Maybe it's weird that her old piano (out of tune) is like a shrine to her, with photos, poems, and the funeral cards scattered around her urn, but it helps us remember-- the good and the bad come hand in hand.
Such is the way of life.