I used to find it ironic that they decided to put “R.I.P.” on my tombstone. I found it not only thoroughly unoriginal but wrong. The idea of ever achieving rest or peace seemed impossible with her at my side. I used to fault my parents for this, my last grievance against them. In retrospect, I should've counted my blessings and been grateful they didn’t give us a joint funeral.
On May 26th, 2024, two young women died in a collision with a semi truck on the 1-94 toll road right outside of Waukegan, Illinois. Friends of Mary-Anne Lowe, age 21, and Lydia Henderson, age 20, reported that the two women were part of a group of students driving to Wisconsin for the weekend. The collision was fatal for both women with Lowe snapping her neck, dying instantly, and Henderson, suffering intense internal trauma, slowly bleeding out on the scene. Their friends and family mourn.
I had begged Jake to let me ride in his car. Lydia’s car had faulty air conditioning, had a faint smell of cheese, and of course, contained Lydia. I had been texting Miles when it happened. I was pleading, sending text after text to him begging to switch places at the next pit stop. I remember my feet on the dashboard, Lydia’s playlist in my ear, and mint gum that had long lost it’s flavor in my mouth. I’m lucky that it was so quick, snapping my neck like that. It was so very quick, it felt like blinking.
I suppose it’s my duty to expose the truth of what awaits us beyond death. I fear that my response may raise more questions than answers. There’s no way to explain it within the vocabulary of the living. The closest comparison I could make is that it’s somewhat like dreaming, except, of course, not at all. The truth is, I don't know what I am and I don’t know where I am. I don’t even know if I’m something that can exist in a where or be defined by a what. All I know is that wherever death has brought me, she’s there too.
It's inspiring how Lydia has maintained her irritating nature even in death. It’s inspiring how I can manage to be irritated even in death. It’s a testament to both our stubbornness how even without corporeal form she still manages to invade my personal space and I manage to roll my lack of eyes. I used to complain about her in a hushed tone, laughing at her only when I knew she couldn't hear me. I suppose I did it to avoid confrontation, to maintain some guise of a good person. There is no good, no bad, and certainly no personhood anymore. There is only the two of us.
I feel her, I always do. She’s tapping on my shoulder and crying. I’m crying too, I think. Tears fall from non-existent eyes. I don't have a neck but it still somehow manages to hurt. I wonder if she’s in pain? She asks me if this is fair, I tell her nothing is. Sometimes I hear her pray. I feel a mixture of guilt and envy take root in the stomach I don’t have. I find myself crying not for myself but for her.
I’m not watching over anyone, contrary to what the sympathy cards sent to my mother say. In the world of the living, it has been 3 weeks since we died. Lydia remains close. She tells me how they played some Pink Floyd song at her funeral. She asks me if I know the one. I don’t reply. Assuming I don’t know the tune, she whistles the opening notes, a shrill and lonely sound. She pauses. When I remain silent she continues to whistle. I ponder how she manages to whistle with no lips, tongue, or teeth and how I, with no ears, can hear it.
Lydia has asked me to braid her hair. She beams a warm smile, telling me how she had always loved how I braided my hair and she doesn’t know how to do Dutch braids. I protest yet ultimately give in. Wisps of what used to be hair, once brown and frizzy but now something else entirely, dance between my fingers. I struggle to hold on to the strands and they slip from my not-hands like sand, blown astray by an unfelt breeze. I don’t have a hair tie. That’s okay, she says and looks back at me with a placid smile.
Did you know I died a virgin? She absentmindedly picks at a spot of dried blood on her form. Whatever I’ve learned to expect from Lydia, that confession was not one of them. Me too, I lie. It doesn’t matter, we’re dead. Silence ensues. Are we? I attempt to clear my throat and feel where it fractured along with my neck.