"What bothers me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.
"What's wrong with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell something burning?"
I ran for the oven and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is ever perfect and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over something they can never achieve."
"Your sister achieved plenty," my father said too loudly.
I could not take anymore. "And what about the mood swings? Are you going to tell me it’s perfectly healthy to be so depressed you stay in bed behind black-out curtains for a whole day only to emerge ready to go out for cocktails?"
"And now, we're talking about your mother," my father said. "Your arguments always segue, like your entire life is full of segues. Next you'll be telling me that you want to quit nursing and join the circus, right?"
"Sienna is – was just like Mother. She would refuse to come out of her dorm room for days. I used to have to bring her food. Then suddenly, I would run into her at the cafeteria. She would be bright and smiley and act as if nothing at all had ever been wrong. That's not right."
"They are passionate, they know what they want, and they strive to make it perfect. I don't see anything wrong with that. Sure, they both take disappointments hard, but it just shows how much they care," my father said.
"Just once, I want to hear you admit it is not normal," I said. "And don't even use your lawyer arguments on me. Normal is not postponing Christmas because Mother has locked herself in the closet. Normal is not you breaking down the closet door with a metal baseball bat because she hasn't said anything through the door for two hours. Normal is not a smart, popular, college girl at the top of her pre-med class suddenly slitting her wrists and bleeding to death in a bathtub!"
I looked across the kitchen island at Charlotte. We had stood here and had the exact same conversation over and over again. Friends had offered contact information for doctors and psychologists, given my father books, and invited my mother to meetings. My parents always insisted she was fine.
Now, Sienna would never be fine again and my father still could not face the facts. "Something must have happened to make Sienna do what she did. When I found out who made her feel that way, there will be hell to pay. I bet it was that boyfriend of hers, Owen. She was always complaining that he refused to get a real job or do anything with himself."
I thought of Owen on the front cover of the gaming magazine. My father would never understand. "Speaking of Owen, have you called him?"
"Why would I call him?"
"Daddy, he needs to know! He doesn't go to UCLA. What if no one on campus had his contact information? What if they didn't think to get a hold of him? He might not even know Sienna is dead," I said.
"Maybe he's the one that drove her to it."
Charlotte sucked in air between her teeth, a sharp sound of disapproval. Even my father had to admit that was too harsh.
He shrugged in deference to Charlotte. "I never liked him for Sienna. They were not a good match. He was going nowhere and trying to hold her back."
"That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to know," I argued. "Sienna loved him."
"Sienna didn't love him," my father countered. "She thought he looked good in pictures. I never heard one conversation where they ever agreed. They argued before every date."
"Only because they always did what Sienna wanted," I said.
"Right, exactly. A man needs to have a little bit more of a backbone, don't you think?" my father said.
"Enough backbone to make a phone call," I said.
Charlotte bit her lip to stop a bubbling laugh. My father scowled but a short sparkle of admiration lit his eyes. I had no idea where the sharp backtalk was coming from, but I hoped it could yield results.
"I raised two daughters. I wouldn't know the first thing about having a man-to-man chat with your sister's boyfriend. What if he cries?" my father said. He went to the side cupboard and poured himself another glass of whiskey. "How about you call him and I won't ground you for sass?"
"You can't ground college students."
My father shrugged again and walked out without another word.
"Don't worry," Charlotte said. "I'll finish the sugar cookies. You have a phone call to make."
I went up to my room and paced around, turning on every light. Sienna had once told me the secret to phone interviews was to talk while you looked in the mirror. She said it made you sound more natural, more relaxed, like it was a normal conversation with another human instead of disembodied voices.
I brushed my hair, pinched a little pink into my cheeks, and put on a light layer of lipstick. I couldn't talk to Owen looking like a grief-stricken zombie urchin – if I could manage to talk to him at all.
We used to talk on the phone in high school, quick chats before I handed the phone to Sienna, but later calls about video games. Sometimes, Owen called to ask my opinion about certain games or to talk through a new strategy. The calls kept up through college, so I had his number in my phone.
The last call had been about a week ago. It started off about Dark Flag and his magazine interview. Then Owen had asked me about classes. We had talked for over two hours about me leaving UCLA.
"Come to Vegas and we'll chat more," he had said.
Well, I thought, I’m back in Vegas. This conversation was just going to be far different than anything I had dreamed.
CHAPTER TWO
Owen
I had to park two streets over. Once the car was off, I could not force myself to open the door. Hundreds of people were going to Sienna's funeral. They walked past my car in their expensive black dresses and hand-tailored suits. It took all I had not to start the car and drive away.
Sienna hated my car. It was the same old, black Porsche I had bought from my father's mechanic when I turned sixteen. The seats were cracked, the exterior paint so worn it had lost its shine, and the dozens of dings marred the body. Still, the engine purred when it started. And, it pissed off both Sienna and my father. I loved that car.
Sienna wanted everything to be perfect. If it worked but did not look good, then it would never be good enough for her. On the flip side, she was willing to put up with broken things that were beautiful. That was the reason I could not get out of the car.
Her family made me uncomfortable. Sienna's mother was always way up or way down. One day, I saw her with her face streaked with tears and smeared make-up. A few hours after that, she was beaming as she belted out "Sweet Caroline" at the local bakery.
Mr. Thomas was worse. He was a high-powered lawyer who never turned off his killer instinct for arguments. I once told him I was looking forward to the nice weather over the weekend. He looked up three forecasts and the farmer's almanac to prove me wrong. Sienna had just rolled her eyes at me and canceled my idea for a picnic.
Still, they were a beautiful family with a beautiful house in beautiful Summerlin and Sienna loved them. I could not imagine facing them without her.