It was Easter Sunday. My mom had an idea. “Why don’t we go to Hallmark and get your sister some cards and gifts.” We hadn’t heard from my sister “Sloan” in weeks. For all we knew we could be delivering these gifts to a headstone.. I’m sure the thought ran through all of our minds as my mom, brother and I loaded into the family van to take a family field trip minus one.

We got to the  parking lot at Hallmark. I remember the sun was so pure and brilliant as it shown down on the reborn spring flowers. It was the kind of day in LA that lets you know why the real estate was obscenely high for days like this are priceless. So why weren’t we happy or enjoying Easter Morning?

This was the 3^rd Easter we spent minus one family member after Sloan’s addiction to speed had ravaged her body, mind and spirit. We spent 3 years on egg shells on pins and needles fearing but expecting a middle of the night call asking us to identify a body or a knock at the door from a Burbank cop asking if we knew where our family member was. It was the 3^rd year that on a nightly basis my desperate mom and I would cruise the streets looking for her car, only to pull into our driveway at home with tears drowning us out of the vehicle. We never knew where she was. Anytime she did come home she’d validate or surpass our deepest fears.  The ghost of Sloan would enter the house always 10 pounds thinner than the last time, more hollow in spirit and presence, more depleted in looks and vibrancy. Where did she go? When or if will she ever come home?

Before she got abducted by her drug of choice she was the good girl, the best really. I was always kind of jealous at how much my mom would brag about her daughter.  Her daughter with the genius IQ, the girl so beautiful that every modeling agency in LA clambered to sign her. Her daughter, the most popular girl in school, which was a hard feat for a bi-racial girl in Burbank of all places. Her daughter, ASB president, yearbook president, “the girl that will cure the AIDS virus one day. Her daughter, my sister destroyed to pieces by a drug called methamphetamine.

I remember feeling hopeful when we entered the Hallmark store. Maybe if we say the right thing or maybe if she likes the gifts we give her she will choose us, not it. I walked to the sister/well wishes/get well aisle I looked through every card three times. We had to get this right. This had to wake her up. I found the card. A picture of sister’s in black and white holding hands, looking adoringly into each other’s eyes as they skipped through the park.

We took the cards back to the car so we could write our heartfelt message; the message that would let the light shine in. I wanted to say the perfect thing. I told her how much I loved her and how much I would be there for her if she would just come back home with us and get sober. I knew this would work this time.  I pictured her opening the cards and gifts, having a moment of epiphany, smiling, apologizing, then taking my hand and letting go off the death grip her addiction had on her. Did she know how much she’s missed?

I walked to the door with a smile on my face. Maybe that sun was shining on us that day too.  I suppose I really got my hopes up too high. My wishes that Easter Sunday did not come true. After we banged on the door for, it seemed like a lifetime, to the house she inhabited that week, my sister with a blanket draped over her shoulders answered the door. She’s alive. She seemed irritated and violated. Why didn’t you guys call first? She still hadn’t read my card yet, it wasn’t too late for a happy ending. We followed her back to this room… she fell onto it and started snoring before we could close the door. My mom kept gently budging her, she patted her leg, the way you pat a baby’s back that is crying or fussy. Sweety, we have some things to give you. She opened one eye and managed to sit erect on the bed. God, she looked worse than I’d ever seen her. Is this what they call rock bottom? She read each card and politely smiled at each one as if she was opening an ugly sweater on Christmas morning. Next was mine. She neatly opened the yellow envelope with balloon and hearts drawn I’d drawn on it. I was 14 after all. I watched her eyes as they tracked the words I had written. When she closed the card, She gave me a heartless shoulder hug and fell back into a deep sleep. We left to spend another Easter minus 1.  What else was there to do?