I’m lying awake in bed and trying to ignore the feeling in my gut. You know the feeling, like when you get pulled over by the cops and you know you reek of liquor and there’s a half-smoked joint in the ashtray and an eighth of shrooms in your backpack. That’s the way I feel right now.
           Something is wrong, I think. But there shouldn’t be.
Everything is fine.
           But I know that’s wrong.
           Not everything is fine.
           I close my eyes and try to ignore the feeling of impending doom. I try to think happy thoughts. I try and think of that girl I like in class, the way her eyes are shaped, the way her body is shaped.
         “ But it doesn’t work.
           Dark clouds begin to accumulate, darkening my fantasy and that girl’s face begins to turn pale, sickly. The hair on her head begins to fall, first one by one, then in clumps.
           Everything is fine, I think to myself once again.
           Then my cell phone rings.
           My eyes snap open and I know that God is laughing his horrible all knowing laugh.
           I groan and feel the hammer drop and slam in my gut.
           I sit up in bed and feel the room begin to spin. I shouldn’t have drank today.
           The cell phone continues its electronic sounding song and I want to vomit. I don’t want to pick it up because I know it’s bad news.
           Don’t pick up that fucking phone! Leave it! Because if you don’t hear it, then it can’t be fucking true!
           But I know I have to.
           I get out of bed and sway from side to side before I find my equilibrium. Stumbling, I make my way into the living room and lift my cell phone from the dinning table. I press the little green button with a trembling finger and bring it to my ear.
          “Hello?” I hear myself asking.
          “Elijah.” It’s my mother and her voice sounds on the verge of breaking, like a levy trying to hold back the flood waters.
           I know what’s wrong. There are no ifs, ands or buts.
           I know.
           And then I feel the liquor and beer rise up in my stomach.
           “You still there?” she asks with her tiny and breaking voice.
           “Yeah,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
           I hear her sigh, “It’s about . . . your sister.
           ”My sister? She can’t even say her name. . . .
           “She . . . passed on.”
           And I find myself at a loss for words. My eyes blink, trying to get a grasp of the situation. My mouth opens and closes like a fish and I feel the liquor bubbling to a boil. I think I’m going to vomit.
           “Elijah?”
           I nod and then realize she can’t see me. “Yeah. I’m . . . here.
           ”But that’s a lie. I’m not here. I’m a million miles away. I’m in the past, thinking about Emily, my little Italian princess, lying in her hospital bed, looking like death and wearing a bandana to cover her bald head. She’s smiling at me and all I can focus on are the bags under her bright and lively eyes.
           “When did she die?”I hear my mother gasping for air, trying to sound strong, trying to ignore the fact that her little girl is dead.
           Dead.
           My God. My little princess. . . .
           She’s been dying for such a long time from some enemy that I couldn’t defeat. She’s wasn’t shot. She wasn’t run over. She wasn’t stabbed. She was eaten alive from within.
     “About . . . half an hour ago,” she replies. “I just wanted you to know,” she says and pauses. “Look, I have to go. Your father needs me right now. I’ll talk to you later, baby.
     ” She hangs up without waiting for a reply. I pull the phone away and look at the screen. I feel my heart  thump against my chest and I want to fall to my knees and scream and punch the floor.
           But I don’t.
          “Always project a positive attitude,” I hear my mother say inside my head. And so I close my eyes, clench my fist and tighten my jaw. I push the feeling down, down into that deep darkness where I hide all my fears and insecurities and doubts.
           I have to go home.
           Suddenly, I’m a drunken blur, running around through the apartment trying to find my duffel bag and clothes and wallet and toothbrush and toothpaste and keys and cell phone.
           As I head for the front door, I hear a little whine and look down. Zoe, my dog, looks up at me and cocks her head to the side. I slap my forehead and curse myself. How could I have forgotten about you?
           Five minutes later, duffel bag slung over my shoulder and leash in hand, I lock my apartment door and realize I haven’t showered yet.

           I blink my eyes and find myself sitting in the back of the cab with the window rolled down. Morning is a long way away. Zoe is curled up on my lap, sleeping. The driver stares at the road, silent as a corpse.
           Corpse, I think and shudder.
           “Can I smoke in here, bud?” I ask.
           “I see his eyes flash to me in the mirror and he says, “Yeah, whatever.”
            I reach into my jacket pocket and fish a cigarette out of the pack and bring it to my lips. Looking out the window, I watch the scenery go by. A dark field canopied by a sky filled with stars. The wind rushes through my hair and roars in my ears.
           Emily Ray Ann.
           God, how could you create something so fucking beautiful and then destroy it? How can you fucking live with yourself? You’re a fucking monster!
            I flick, flick, flick the lighter and then an orange flame dances. I bring the cigarette to it and puff.
            I prayed to God to give Emily a cure, a miracle. A shiver runs down my spine and I find myself clenching my jaw as my hand begins to tremble. I want to weep. I want to burrow under a rock and curl up into a tiny ball and let out all these feelings I’m feeling. I don’t want to project a positive attitude. I want the world to know what I’m feeling. I want to know what I’m feeling.
           God, I want my fucking little sister back!
           I sob and catch myself before another blurts out. I look to the mirror. The driver continues looking straight ahead, oblivious to the torment going on in the back of his car. I bite my lower lip and try to blink  the tears out of my eyes.
           Push the feelings down, I tell myself. Push. Push! PUSH!
           I gasp for air, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. I take a long pull and hold the smoke deep within my lungs. And then I exhale.
           “What’s your story?” the driver asks.
            I blink my eyes and look to the mirror. His eyes flash on me for a second and then go back to the road ahead. “What?” I ask, trying to stall for time. I look out the window, at the stars that are frozen in place.
           “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to realize you’re going through something.”
            I look down at Zoe and run my left hand over her soft coat. “Nothing,” I hear myself say and smile.
            Everything is perfect. Everything is fine. I’m the happy little center of the universe.
           “Always project a positive attitude,” I hear my mother say inside my head.
            I chuckle and it sounds false to my ears. I try not to think of the words corpse or dead. I try not to think of my little sister.
            I try to think of that girl from class and I smile again just in case he’s looking at me.
           “Yeah. Sure,” he says.
            And then silence follows and I can feel my pulse quicken, my stomach churning, my heart thumping against my chest and the silence seems so eternal and I want to scream and I want to cry.
            Zoe shifts on my lap and looks up at me briefly before lowering her head, snorting, and then falling silent.
           “Let it out, my man, or you’ll give yourself an ulcer . . . or a nervous breakdown,” he says.
            I chuckle again and shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic. This car feels too small for me and it’s shrinking and I’m growing and I’m filled with this feeling I can’t identify, can’t catalog.
           

            I blink my eyes and realize I’m standing before the ticket counter, looking at nothing in particular. The female clerk is starring at me, her head tilted to the side. She blinks her eyes. “Sir?” she asks.
             I snap back to reality and smile. “What?”
            “We have one flight to La Guardia,” she says.
            “I’ll take it.”
             She shakes her head and says, “I don’t think this is what you’re looking for.”
            “Why?”
            “Well,” she says and begins to tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, “That flight has two layovers. One at Seattle and then another at Atlanta. And that plane leaves in about thirty minutes. You won’t arrive at La Guardia until nine thirty six tomorrow morning, Eastern Standard time.”
             I shake my head and let out a sigh. I need a drink and a smoke. I need to go back in time. I need to walk right up to God, finger pointing in accusation, and curse him out.
           “I’ll take it.”
           “Okay,” she says and looks back down at the screen and begins to type again. “Will you be brining the dog in the cabin with you?”
            I look down at Zoe and say, “Yeah.”
            She nods her head again and continues to type. “Okay, that’s going to be an extra fifty dollars, sir. Do you have a carrier for her?”
            Fuck, I think and shake my head from side to side.
            Her eyes linger on me and she smiles. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to need a carrier. You can purchase one from us for forty five dollars.”
            I try to smile and nod.
           She smiles and says, “Okay. One way ticket with two layovers to La Guardia, a pet and a carrier comes out to . . . three eighty and sixty cents, sir.”
            I reach into my back pocket and bring my wallet out and hand my credit card over. She slides it and waits for the transaction to process. . .
           “Are you okay? You look a million miles away.”
            A weak grin comes to my face and I look down at Zoe. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired. And I have a long night ahead of me.”
           And a dead little sister to go home to, I think.

           The plane is experiencing turbulence somewhere over Utah or Nevada when my eyes snap open. My body tenses and I clasp the arm rests with a kung-fu like grip. Somewhere on the plane, a woman yelps. I look down at Zoe and see her looking up at me. I press my right hand to her side and pull her to my chest.
           I’m going to die. This plane is going to burst apart. The engines are going to fail, the wings are going to crumble and this plane will begin to fall.
           My stomach is doing somersaults and I lean my head back and close my eyes.
           The plane tremors violently and jerks to the side. I feel the liquor sloshing around in my gut and I know I’m going to vomit. I taste the bile rising in my throat and try to force it back down.
           And then everything is fine.
           “ The plane settles on a smooth course and the liquor in my stomach relaxes. I exhale. I need a cigarette, a joint, a shot of whiskey and a pint of Guinness. My eyes open and I see the stewardess walking up the aisle. She stops at my row and smiles weakly. “Can I get you anything?” she asks as she leans forward.  “Whiskey. Guinness. Now. Please,” I blurt. A genuine smile comes to her face and she says, “That’s going to be ten dollars, sir.”
           I blink my eyes and look down at my watch. It reads: 9:30 pm.
           I’m on my way to Atlanta now and my itinerary tells me that I won’t arrive there until 5:41 am. Which would make it... what in Mountain Standard Time?
           I’m lost. I’m confused. I think I know what a pinball feels like.
           And I’m starting to regret paying so much money just to get disorientated and I’m thinking about my dead little sister and I want to cry because everything is spinning out of control and by time I get home I would have flown all over the United States and not have gained a damn thing and my sister will still be dead and all I want to do is break down and cry because I’m not strong enough to cope with this!

           I blink my eyes and realize the plane is landing in Atlanta. There’s a roar and a bounce and I’m pushed back into the seat.
           I exhale and lick my lips.
           I think I’ve been blacking out – or blanking out. I can’t tell, and then, is there really a difference?
           I look down at my watch and see that it stopped at 11:11.
           I look down and realize that Zoe isn’t on my lap.
           The plane slows on the tarmac and I wonder if I left her at Seattle.
           “Zoe, heal!”
           Nothing.
           Not the normal jingling of her collar as she runs.
           I begin to panic and I really, really believe that I’m finally going to snap. My temples begin to throb and I can feel the blood pulse through my veins. My tongue feels like sandpaper on the roof of my mouth and I taste acid.
           “ My lower lip is trembling and I feel the mucus in my nose begin to run down my nostrils. I sniff and blink the tears trying to well up in my eyes.
           “Zoe, heel!”
           Nothing.
           Oh. My. God! What the fuck have I done? How could I be so fucking stupid?
           I’m sweating now and can feel the beads roll down my forehead, can feel them dripping onto my waist from my underarms, can feel them gathering on the back of my neck.
           My shoulders slump and I feel defeated. I lean my head back against the seat and groan. I’m done. I’m so done and I just want to stay in this plane and let it take me to oblivion, let it fly into the sun like Icarus.
           I feel something twitch inside my head. Does that make sense? I feel it twitch like a toe during a dream and a smile comes to my face and a chuckle escapes my lips.
           “Heel, Zoe!”
           It never takes three times for her to respond.

           I blink my eyes and realize a stewardess is shaking me awake.
           I blanked out again.
           “Sir,” she says, sounding a little agitated.
           I look at her, not understanding what’s happening.
           “We’re in Atlanta, sir. We need you to exit the plane now.”
           I look around and find that Zoe is still missing.
           “My dog. She’s gone.”
           The stewardess smiles and looks up the aisle. “She’s made friends with the rest of the crew. Don’t worry,  she’s fine. We fed her and gave her some water.” She looks back to me and says, “She heard you calling but we couldn’t let her run to you during landing. You understand. She could have gotten hurt. You should have kept her in the carrier.”
           I blink my eyes and feel the weight of a planet roll off my shoulders and shatter on the ground.
           I exhale.
           “Are you okay? You don’t look well.”
           I nod and say, “Yeah. Just a shock to the system.”
           She smiles. “Thought you left her back at Seattle, huh? Well, you didn’t. And at least that much is right in the world.”

           I’m outside of the airport in Atlanta and smoking a cigarette. I have about an hour and a half before I need to get back on the plane and head for New York. So I know I’ll be smoking a dozen more before I get back on.
           Zoe is doing her business in the grass next to me.
           The sky is still dark, but I think I see a splash of color in the distance to the east.
           I look up at a digital clock and the bright red  numbers tell me its 6:30 in the morning. I wonder what time it is in Colorado. What time is it in New York?
           I take another long pull and hold it in.
           I wish I could say I was feeling better, but I’m not.
           I feel numb. I feel disconnected.
           And I know that I’ll be home in several hours and that I’m really going to have to face the facts.
           My sister is dead. There is nothing I can do to change that. She will stay dead. There will be no resurrection. I will not open the door and hear: “Surprise! It was just a joke! Emily is fine! There was a miracle! She’s cured . . . and we won the lottery!”
           No.
           Nothing like that.
           My father will be sitting in his recliner, leaning forward, broken, breathing hard and trying not to cry.
           My sister will be standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall like she wants to burn two little holes into it.
           My mother will be drinking a glass of wine from a half empty bottle, looking at her tired hands and sighing.
           And then I’ll walk in, and they’ll seem happy for a second —just a second. And then the reality of the  situation and my arrival will set in like a fog and they’ll all withdraw.
           I exhale and look to the distant light in the eastern sky. It reminds me of a fire in the night. I look up and don’t see any constellations.

           I’m staring at a wall of monitors that show arrivals, departures and gate numbers.
           There are people standing around me, staring at the screens and not blinking.
           They all look helpless and confused and I can’t help but think of cows going to slaughter.
           I move away and walk through the terminal.
           I feel false.  I feel like I am but shouldn’t be.
           I should be dead, not Emily.
           And a girl passes me and our eyes meet for one second. She smiles. I do nothing but walk and look at her with a dead expression. The connection breaks and I continue walking.

           I wake up with a start and realize I’m in a yellow cab that smells of stale cigarette smoke and incense. I don’t remember the flight to Atlanta and think I may need to go see a doctor.
           Zoe’s sitting on my lap, panting, watching the New York cityscape flow past. The traffic is dense and the sky is gray. I think I can almost smell the exhaust fumes through the rolled up window.
           It’s cold. I know that by just looking out.
           I’m home.
           I exhale and lean my head back, letting my mind wonder, knowing that in less than an hour I’ll see my
family.
           There’s a strange feeling in my stomach and I don’t know how to describe it. Anticipation? Dread? A dawning horror? Some people may say I have butterflies in my stomach. I think I have vampire bats.
           I feel like gagging. That always happens to me when I think the shit is going to hit the fan. But, there are no more surprises.
           Emily is dead. There’s no changing that. And what could possibly be worse? No, the bags of shit have hit  the fan and splattered all along the walls and floor and ceiling. Then what? What is it I’m feeling? What is it  that’s gnawing inside of me?
           A horn blast brings me back to reality and I can hear the driver cursing from through the Plexiglas window that separates us.
           A genuine smile comes to my face for the first time in what feels like forever.
           I hear a chuckle escape my lips and really know I’m home.
           Finally.
           My stomach grumbles and I’m surprised. I didn’t think I’d be feeling hungry, or if I did, it would be followed immediately by sense of nausea.
           I think I can go for some Chinese food, or pizza from Maria’s.
           This makes me smile, but then I remember why I’m here. And that realization makes me feel guilty.
           My chin drops to my chest and I close my eyes.
           I feel Zoe’s tongue against my cheek and her wet nose trailing over my face like a slug.
           It makes me think of how Zoe used to do the same thing to Emily.
           She would laugh fit to split. Sometimes, I thought she would burst. And Zoe loved it. Her little finger tail  would wag so fast that it was just a blur.
           I’m standing before the front door and my fist is poised, ready to knock.
           I don’t think I can do this.
           I don’t think I’m ready.
           I know I’m going to walk in there and break down. I know I’m going to wail and curse and cry. I know that I’m not going to be strong enough.
           Push it down.
           And I want to let go. I’m so tired of hiding it. I’m so fucking tired.
           Push it down!
           I feel my chest heaving and the water building up in my eyes.
           PUSH IT THE FUCK DOWN! Be a fucking man! Be fucking strong!
           And I knock three times and I hear gunshots.
           A few silent seconds pass and I think the water main is going to break.
           The door opens and I see my mother.
          She looks tired and withered. I swear she’s aged about ten years. Her eyes are red and something tells me she just wiped her face dry.
           I bite my lower lip and feel it trembling.
           We stare at each other, not needing to share a single word.
           We’re family.
           And I feel a tear roll down my cheek and know that I can’t stop it. I won’t stop it.
           I don’t need to project a positive attitude.
           Not here.
           Not now.
           I'm home.