Purple

The strong odours of hairdye and cheap perfume lingered in the bathroom for days after Gladys had gone. I used to like choosing the makeup she would wear for the day, the shades and brands, the different brushes; but now I can’t walk down the cosmetics aisle without reliving that night.

Standing at the door watching my sister, I surveyed the whole room, taking in everything subconciously. The air of excitement and careless abandon. The tube of bright red lipstick standing open by the sink and the light reflecting on dangling earrings. The drops of moisture on the glass after Gladys had showered and the soapy warmth radiating from her skin. The quick flash of her phone camera snapping a photo in the mirror right before she left. The brush of her hand on my cheek as she went out the door.

Her purple hair.

I should have called Mum. I should have told her Gladys was leaving the house, leaving me alone, to go and meet up with her new boyfriend. I should have told her about the purple hairdye and the earrings. But I didn’t. I lay awake in bed that night after my big sister had gone, the quiet and the dark seeping to the back of my throat, suffocating me; my heart pounding because I didn’t want Mum to know. What if her work shift finished early and she came home and found the lipstick and Gladys was discovered? I rolled out of bed and went to return the little tube to its drawer quickly. I loved Gladys. I wanted to be on her good side even more than on Mum’s. So I was silent ... I didn’t tell on her. Maybe if I had called the police, it would have been alright. Maybe if I had gone next door and told Mrs Aster about Gladys, somebody would have found her in time. But I didn’t. I went back to bed and fell asleep.

*****

Someone found her sneakers down at the playground.

Funny that she’d bother getting all dressed up but would wear those old battered sneakers instead of the pretty heels Mum bought for her. That was just Gladys, I guess; so attentive to little details and blissfully ignorant of the important ones. These days I keep the shoes up on my bedroom shelf, like she’s coming back for them. Like she never really left.

A policeman tried to talk to me in the morning, speaking with a gentle voice and asking simple, childish questions as I sat in a stiff grey chair in his office with lowered eyes, pressing my knees together so tightly it hurt. I was still suffocating, as though the dark and silence had fixed itself in me and formed an immovable lump in my throat; I tried to tell him it was my fault, all my fault, that I knew I should have called Mum, should have persuaded Gladys to stay home, should have told someone ... but I couldn’t speak. I choked on my own words. Staring at the sneakers until my vision blurred, I tried to recall the fragrance of perfume in the bathroom and the touch of Gladys’ hand as she went out the door ... the expression on her face, the kind of eyeshadow she used, anything at all! The thoughts and images blended together in my head to form one word, filling my mind. It was in front of my eyes. It beat in a steady rhythm with my heart. It rang in my ears.

Purple.