liya ding

If Only

I lie on my bed fixating on the ceiling. I can’t bear to look anywhere else right now. If I look at anything else, I will be overwhelmed by all of my emotions, primarily nostalgia and regret for what could have been. I close my eyes and breathe in the delicate aroma of the pines wafting from the forest behind my old childhood house. 

A sudden thump sounding from the other side of my room startles me, and I jump. 

What was that? A mouse? 

As I get up and flick on the light switch, I notice an overturned picture lying on the ground. 

I sigh in relief and pick up the picture to put it back on the table. My relief turns to overwhelming grief and guilt when I see the picture. It is the postcard my sister sent to me when she explored the Switzerland Mountains. The picture features Samantha grinning widely on one of the hiking trails situated high up in the mountains. On the back of the card, she wrote, “Jonathon, look at the view from here!” 

Small postcards like these may seem too insignificant to keep, but now, they are the last pieces of connection I have to Samantha. It was a small tradition between us; every time she traveled, I would always expect to receive one postcard showing a jubilant Samantha eating gelato in Italy, swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean, or doing an archaeological tour in Egypt.

My sister was always an adventurous person, in the sense that she wanted to go everywhere. When we were little, she pointed out the picturesque-landscape pictures in books and would say with conviction, “I am going there when I’m older.” I was six years old to her ten years, and I would nod along to what she would say. I was the typical adoring younger sibling. 

If only she could have finished her travel list. 

I let out a strangled sob. 

Nights like these are the worst. I know it has been months since Samantha’s death…but sometimes, my sister’s death feels like it happened only yesterday. 

Nights like these are the worst, because I think of all the possibilities of her future. Samantha could have had her own family, could’ve been a nurse. 

I smile as I think back to the moment when ten-year-old Samantha proudly declared that she would always help people. I guess it makes sense why Samantha wanted to be a nurse; she was always the kind and compassionate one. 

And maybe that’s what caused her demise. Because she would have never stolen anything of mine. If only I hadn’t taken her coffee.

*   *   *       *   *       *   *

The phone call is what started everything. 

I was a freshman in college, and Samantha was in her last year in nursing school. She called me one early day in March, suggesting we meet up during spring break. That was a month away.

When I initially said no, because I was busy with homework and plans with friends, she kept pushing.

“Please, Jonathan? Nursing school finals are almost here. I won’t have another chance to see you soon.”

If only I had declined the offer, as I originally planned to. 

So, after classes released for spring break, I drove from Queens to Brooklyn. I arrived in time to have dinner with my family. We all chatted for a while before our parents called it a night, and I planned to go to bed too. But as everyone else left the kitchen, Samantha sat there with a huge textbook.

“Aren’t you tired?” I asked.

She yawned, “It’s good to get some studying done every day.”

I left her and headed toward my old childhood room. As soon as I walked in, I noticed that the room was different from when I had left it a year ago. In the span of a year, I had changed. It was cold, and I lay awake for ten minutes, tossing and turning. I finally gave up on sleep, and I headed to the kitchen for some food. When I walked in, I observed Samantha still busy sketching and writing notes. 

“Oh,” she said, looking up, “it’s you.”

“Hi,” I replied. “I’m looking for some late-night snacks.”

She said nothing and continued studying. I had heard from my parents that Samantha was aiming for a high GPA, because she was considering graduate school after college. Ever the high achiever.

She didn’t acknowledge me as I opened the refrigerator door to have a look at my options. I opened the refrigerator door and was greeted with the sight of many vegetables, eggs, and condiments. But the Starbucks coffee and leftover lasagna looked the most appealing. I grabbed the coffee, as I suddenly didn’t feel that hungry. 

When I reached my room and settled on my chair, I twisted open the bottle cap. A strong coffee smell emanated and filled the space around me. I was instantly reminded of Samantha, as coffee had become her lifeline in recent months as she was studying so much. Sometimes, I wondered how we became so different. I was just getting by in university, while she was aiming for graduating with honors.

Suddenly, I heard the refrigerator door slam.

“Jonathon,” she questioned, opening my bedroom door, “where did my coffee go?”

Her question was answered when she directed her gaze to the empty bottle on my table. A sudden wave of guilt crashed over me. I should’ve known that the coffee was hers. After all, our parents didn’t drink coffee much.

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t know that was yours.”

She sighed in frustration and told me, “I am going out to buy some more at the convenience store. Be back in ten.”

She spun on her heels, and walked out of my room, the door slamming closed behind her. 

*   *   *       *   *       *   *

If only I had told her not to go. If only I had pleaded with her to just drink some water or convinced her to go to sleep. If only I offered to get more instead of her so she could continue studying at home, safe. If only I did get more. If only I took the keys and drove with her in the passenger seat. If only I woke up Mom. If only I didn’t finish it from the very beginning, if I had simply split it with her. If only I…didn’t take it from the fridge at all. If only I…

But I didn’t.

When she was not home in ten minutes, I wasn’t worried at all. But as the minutes ticked by slowly and I didn’t hear any footsteps coming up the front porch, I had a premonition that something wasn’t right. As twenty minutes passed, I considered going out to find her. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, the house phone rang, and a moment later, I heard my mother’s blood-curdling scream. And then, I knew.

I silently cry as I remember, and tears fall from my eyes onto my cheeks, and they start dripping down my chin. They reach my lips, too, and unintentionally I taste the undeniably salty droplets of water. I want to scream, but I can’t because my body is wracked with sobs as I curl up into a fetal position. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bright red numbers flashing on a digital alarm clock telling me that it is one a.m. in the morning. I have given up on sleep, I learned early on from Samantha that sometimes it’s best to listen to your body’s needs. 

I smile as I remember another memory of her.

I was still in high school. She was in her first year of nursing school. Ever since she started nursing school, she made it her duty to care for everyone in our family. One day, as I walked down the icy front steps to go to school, I felt my feet give way, and I fell, landing on my back. Samantha came back to visit on Saturday, buying me aspirin for the pain. 

“Stay in bed,” she told me, as I tried to get up to do my homework. 

“Listen to your body,” she told me. 

I do not feel tired, so I sit up and put on my slippers. That simple phrase is still stuck in my head as I walk down the stairs and stop to admire all the artwork hanging on our walls; Samantha painted them all. The paintings feature vivid colors. One shows a field of yellow sunflowers in a valley. I asked her one day why the sunflowers were in a valley instead of a vase. I remember her tilting her head and pondering the question in her head.

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Some choices feel right.”

 Seeing Samantha’s paintings trigger insurmountable guilt in me. If only…

After the call arrived that night, my life spiraled into a mess. Local police notified my parents that Samantha had life-threatening injuries and needed her immediate family to come to the hospital. Everything else passed by in a blur. I only remember sitting dazed in the cold, lifeless waiting room, already missing her. 

I miss the girl in the pictures now before me. The girl who created them. 

I lift my hand to slowly run a finger over a picture of Samantha in happier times. She was laughing and her hands were balled up in fists. I once considered asking my parents to take them down, because it’s painful being reminded about what had happened to the creator of these pieces. But these paintings are reflections of my sister’s personality: vibrant, full of life, and bright. Do I really want to forget her? Besides, Samantha was always proud of her art, and she would have wanted them to stay right where they are now. 

I have seen the look on my father’s face as he walks down the stairs. Sometimes, he touches the photos tenderly, and pain is present in his eyes. I imagine him thinking of how empty and lifeless the house is now as we grieve for a person who had been so effervescent.

I smile at the girl in the photos. She looks better in these photos than she did in her last days when she was in a coma, on the verge of death. I wish Samantha did not pass away. I really hoped she would live—but she did not, and I would have to accept that.

I shiver, remembering the sterile hospital where she spent her last days. I remember the young doctor who delivered the news of Samantha’s death. After I heard him say the words “unfortunate death,” nothing else registered. And at that moment I couldn’t help thinking…

If only her doctor had tried harder. If only she’d had an older, more competent, more experienced doctor. If only she’d had a whole team of knowledgeable doctors. If only I could have been the one to save her. 

And I can’t help but to think: If only the person who died had been me, or the other driver, or…just someone else, anyone else. I know how selfish that is of me to think but I just can’t help it. Samantha was my role model, my friend, and my sister. We were inseparable and had grown up together. I still remember the promise she had made with me when we were children: we would always be together.  

I walk to the kitchen and turn the light on. 

So many painful memories in this house, and so many if onlys.