What's Your Story? Submitted Stories

Last Song for Christy

Matt never did drugs. He spent his afternoons and nights riding his skateboard through backstreets of the small town that raised him. His friends would experiment with the usual substances, but not Matt.

Christy was his sister; six years older. She and Matt were close. They both liked tattoos and metal guitar riffs. Christy would paint incredible portraits and abstract images, and Matt would jam on his guitar. They shared stories, and they always said "I love you" before bed.

When Matt and I started dating, the first family member I was introduced to was his sister, Christy.

"See this tattoo on my wrist. Christy has it, too. We got them together." He lit up whenever he talked about her.

Matt was at the peak of his skateboarding career, and Christy was still painting. She was beautiful. They looked a lot alike-black hair, blue eyes. Christy was petite-her makeup dark and interesting-her lips, red and passionate. She looked the part she played-the artist, the once-rebel who survived hell and was now back, living life while revisiting the shadows of her past with each stroke of her paintbrush.

When Matt was in junior high, the police took Christy away. His parents wouldn't tell him why, but he found out on his own. Heroin. She had been doing heroin, and they caught her. She was only eighteen. She spent the next several months in rehab while Matt waited, guitar riffs, skate tricks-waited.

When she finally did come home, things were different. Christy seemed distant and Matt didn't know what to say. A few months later, they came again-the police. Matt was sleeping, and they knocked down the door. His sister was screaming as they dragged her away, this time to prison.

I asked Matt what it was like, how that affected him. I tried to imagine hearing her scream. I wondered how it was possible for Matt to sleep when he knew his sister was cold and alone in her cell somewhere.

"I couldn't," he said. "I couldn't sleep."

"Did you visit her?" I asked.

Matt was silent.

"Did you ever talk to her about it, tell her how much it hurt you, tell her that you couldn't sleep, tell her that you were afraid?"

There was a long silence. "She's okay now. She's been clean for eight years. She's great. It's over. The drugs, it's all over." Matt spoke to the wind when he spoke of Christy's past. His voice would fade out into oblivion and then he'd change the subject.

When Christy was finally released from jail and then rehab, Matt's family decided to move. They moved south, away from Christy's reputation and the backstreets where Matt had conquered curbsides and half-pipes in the small town by the sea. Christy was clean and never again did Matt wake up to his sister's arrests, or a cold sweat after the nightmares that plagued him while she was away. She had been clean for six months, and then two years, and then four. Matt went to high school and Christy moved back up north to go to school.

"Were you afraid?" I asked.

"Nope. She was going back to school. I was glad. She was going to pursue her art. She was so talented, you know," Matt whispered.

I knew. I had seen her artwork. It hung in Matt's room, in his kitchen and bathroom. She had even painted straight on the walls. Matt let her paint all over them.

Matt and I dated during my senior year. He was my first serious relationship. Christy came down to visit Matt and the family pretty often, and whenever she came down, Matt would rush to be with her. She was the woman in his life, more than I ever was. Christy and Matt were best friends. They were like nothing I had ever seen. Matt would light up when Christy entered a room. He was so proud of her. She was his angel, his big sister, and everything she said was amusing, brilliant or just cool.

I got the call a few months ago. Even though Matt and I had broken up over a year before, we were still close friends. The call wasn't from him, though. It was from another friend.

"Becca, look... I thought I should tell you. Christy died. She overdosed. Heroin. I'm sorry."

The air went numb, and the murmur of the TV in the other room muted. I dropped the phone and stared at the wall for what seemed like hours.

But she was clean. Ten years now! She was clean . . ." I mumbled softly, my voice tainting the wind that blew on that rainy afternoon. I called Matt. He was with his family up north, where it happened.

Matt told me, "She wasn't supposed to die. She was going to be married in a couple of months. They had the date and everything. We found this picture of her. She was wearing wings. You should see it; she looks like an angel."

He wasn't crying. I searched the blues of his eyes for a tear, but he was hypnotized. The shock. The impossibility of his earth angel lost somewhere in the universe. It was too much.

"The last time I saw her, she was so happy. I had my guitar and I was playing for her, and she was laughing. She was so beautiful and so happy. She was going to be a makeup artist. She would have been the best." Matt was smiling, and I took his hand.

She didn't have to die. She was clean for ten years, and then one day she started up again. Her body couldn't take it. She passed out, and they couldn't revive her. They couldn't make her come back.

Matt spoke during the funeral. His words were soft and eloquent, and he looked out at Christy's friends and family and told them how much he loved her, how much he will always love her. He showed his tattoo, the one that he and his sister got together. Some laughed. Some cried.

The picture that Matt had mentioned to me was perched behind the podium, between lilies and roses. Matt was right. She did look like an angel-red lips and blue eyes, wearing white and angel wings.

That night, after the funeral, Matt and I went down to the cove where he and Christy used to laugh. "How could she do this? Why? Why did she have to do this?" he asked.

He cried. I cried, too.

I talked to Matt the other day. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm okay," he said. "Most of the time. Sometimes I can't sleep. I'm waiting for Christy to come home or for her to call. Sometimes I have these nightmares. I play the guitar a lot, even more than I used to. I have to practice. I'm in a band now, and we play gigs and stuff. The last song of the set is always the best. That's the song I practice over and over again until it's perfect. It has to be just perfect because I play it for Christy. The last song is always for Christy."

CONTENT DISCLAIMER

The Brent Shapiro Foundation for Drug Awareness does exercises limited editorial control over the information you may find on FRONTLINE STORIES web pages. Opinions expressed on FRONTLINE STORIES web pages do not necessarily represent the official views of The Brent Shapiro Foundation for Drug Awareness.

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