One

They say there are five stages of
grief:
1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

Up until last year I didn't know there were lists like that.
I had no idea people actually kept track of these things.
But still, even if I had known, I never would've guessed
that just a few days before my fourteenth birthday I'd be
stuck in stage one.

But then you never think that kind of bad news will knock on
your door. Because those kinds of stories, the kind that
involve a stone-faced newscaster interrupting your favorite
TV show to report a crucial piece of “late breaking news,”
are always about someone else's unfortunate family. They're
never supposed to be about yours.

But what made it even worse is that I was the first to know.

Well, after the cops.

And, of course, Zoë.

Not to mention the freak who was responsible for the whole
mess in the first place.

And even though they didn't exactly say anything other than
“May we please speak to your parents?” It was the regret on
those two detectives' faces, the defeat in their weary eyes,
that pretty much gave it all away.

It was after school and I was home alone, trying to keep to
my standard cookie-eating, TV-watching, homework-avoiding
routine, even though I really couldn't concentrate on any of
it. I mean, normally at 4:10 p.m. both my parents would
still be at work, my sister, Zoë, would be out with her
boyfriend, and I would be sitting cross-legged on the floor,
wedged between the couch and the coffee table, dunking Oreos
into a tall glass of cold milk until my teeth were all
black, the milk was all sopped up, and my stomach was all
swollen and queasy.

So I guess in a way I was just trying to emulate all of
that, go through the motions, and pretend everything was
normal. That my parents weren't really out searching for
Zoë, and that I wasn't already in denial long before I had
good reason to be.

But now, almost a year later, I can honestly say that I'm
able to check off stages one through three, and am settling
into stage five. Though sometimes, in the early morning
hours, when the house is quiet and my parents are still
asleep, I find myself regressing toward four. Especially now
that September's here, putting us just days away from the
one-year anniversary of the last time Zoë shimmied up the
big oak tree, climbed onto my balcony, and came in through
my unlocked french doors.

I remember rolling over and squinting against the morning
light, watching as she pressed her index finger to her
smiling lips, her short red nail like the bottom of an
upside-down exclamation point, as she performed her
exaggerated, cartoonish, stealth tiptoe through my room, out
my door, and down the hall.

Sometimes now, when I think back on that day, I add a whole
new scene. One where, instead of turning over and falling
back to sleep, I say something important, something
meaningful, something that would've let her know, beyond all
doubt, just how much I loved and admired her.

But the truth is, I didn't say anything.

I mean, how was I supposed to know that was the last time
I'd ever see her?

Two

When the woman at the funeral home, the one in the long
floral dress, with the frizzy french braid, asked for a
picture of Zoë, my mom dropped her head in her hands and
sobbed so hysterically that my dad pulled her close,
clenched his jaw, and nodded firmly, as though he was
already working on it.

I stared at the toe of my black Converse sneaker, noticing
how the fabric was wearing thin, and wondering what that
lady could possibly need a picture for. I guess it seemed
like a weird request, considering how pretty much everywhere
you looked in our town you'd see a picture of Zoë. And since
my sister was always so elusive and hard to pin down in
life, it seemed like I actually saw more of her after her
disappearance than I had when she lived down the hall.

First there were the two “missing person” flyers taped to
just about every available surface. One a stiff, grainy,
black-and-white grabbed in a panic and copied from last
year's yearbook. The other, one of Zoë's more recent
headshots, depicting her as beautiful, loose, and happy,
more like the sister I knew, that also included a generous
reward for anyone with any information, no questions asked.

And then, as the days ticked by, her face started appearing
just about everywhere-in newspapers, magazines, and
nationally televised news reports. Even the makeshift
memorial, built by well-wishers and propped up in front of
our house, contained so many candles, poems, stuffed
animals, angels, and photos of Zoë that it threatened to
take over the entire street until my dad enlisted a
neighbor's help and hauled it all away.

The funny thing was, Zoë had always dreamed of being a
model, an actress, someone famous and admired by all. She
longed for the day when she could escape our small, boring
town, and go somewhere glamorous, like L.A., or New York,
just someplace exciting and far from here. And so, while we
were out searching, while we were busy smothering our doubt
with hope, I played this kind of game in my head where I
pretended that all of this was great exposure for Zoë and
her future as a famous person. Like it was the ultimate
casting call. And I spent those long, empty, thankless
moments imagining how excited she'd be when she finally came
home and saw her face plastered all across the nation.

But then later, in the mortuary, as I watched my parents
make the world's most depressing arrangements, encouraged
into credit card debt by the man in the stark black suit who
guided them toward the most luxurious casket, the most
abundant flowers, and the whitest doves-sparing no expense
at her memory-I sat wide-eyed, realizing the lucrative
business of loss, while wondering if my mom got the irony
behind Zoë's ambition and the woman's request, and if that's
why she was crying so hard.

But then, I guess there were millions of reasons to cry that
day. So it's not like I had to go searching for The One.

I didn't know why that woman wanted a photo, but I doubted
my dad, grief stricken and distracted, would ever remember
to give her one. So after they'd signed away their savings
and were headed out the door, I reached into my old blue
nylon wallet, the one with the surf brand sticker still
partially stuck to the front, its edges frayed and curled
all around, and retrieved the photo Zoë had given me just a
few weeks before, the one that showcased her large dark
eyes, generous smile, high cheekbones, and long wavy, dark
hair. The one she'd planned to send to the big New York and
L.A. agencies.

“Here,” I said, pressing it into the woman's soft, round
hand, watching as she did the quick intake of breath I was
so used to seeing when confronted with an image of Zoë for
the very first time.

She looked at me and smiled, the fine lines around her blue
eyes merging together until almost joining as one. “I'll be
doing her makeup, and I want to get it just right. So, thank
you-” She left that last part dangling, looking embarrassed
that she knew all about my loss, but didn't know my name.

“Echo.” I smiled. “My name is Echo. And you can keep the
picture. Zoë would've liked that.” Then I ran outside to
catch up with my parents.