Misty & Dawn

“What’s your name, honey,” they ask.

“Misty,” I reply at eight.

“Mitzy?” they ask.

“M-I-S-T-Y,” I reply at nine.

“Mitzy?” they ask.

“Is your middle name Dawn?” they ask.

“No,” I reply at eleven.

“Mitzy?” they ask again.

“Yes,” I reply at fourteen.

I meet Dawn the second week of high school, and within a few hours, we establish a plan to navigate high school, boyfriends, marriages, and our first pregnancies, together. We are joined at the hip. Dawn sports expertly winged brunette hair and freckles surrounding a petite nose. Our taste and set of circumstances are eerily similar. While Dawn does have a Dad, it’s a father I could sooner live without.

Dawn’s parents had a tumultuous divorce and are now married to other partners. Dawn’s mom lives in the suburbs with her new husband and Dawn’s half brother. Dawn spends weekdays in the city with her dad, stepmom, and older step-sister, also named Dawn. It was a popular name in the ‘70s.

My Dawn’s mom, Beverly, is the first working actress I meet in person. It becomes routine for Dawn to include me on her mom’s weekends. Beverly lets us sit in on her acting classes at Los Colinas studios. I’m there the day a call comes for fellow student Lou Diamond Philips to star in an upcoming movie called ‘La Bamba.’ Dawn’s mom lives in a small apartment, and I’m grateful to have a friend who is navigating the same tightrope of fitting-in while not having the ability to keep up with the Joneses.

Dawn’s father is scary. He’s continually exasperated and doesn’t like having anyone but his uptight, trophy wife around. He gives older Dawn anything she wants to keep wifey number two happy, but little Dawn’s maternal unit is not in his good graces, and therefore neither is she. I wouldn’t believe the blatant Cinderella-esq treatment if I weren’t witnessing it with my own two eyes.

Dawn encourages me to try out for choir even though I can’t sing. I insist she join my drama class, even though acting isn’t her thing. We gossip, obsess over boys, and live for her step-sister’s boyfriend drama. We find older Dawn’s diary and know she’s having SEX. The intricate detail she uses to describe her escapades is more entertaining than HBO.

Nikki is thrilled to have me out of the house, and I barely have to ask anymore if I can go to Dawn’s. I seamlessly slipped into every aspect of her life. Older Dawn’s boyfriend owns a popular Mexican restaurant; it’s more accurate to say his family owns the joint. Either way, it means my Friday nights consist of dining at El Campo’s with all the guacamole I can eat. The rest of my weekend is spent at her mom’s in a swimming pool that turns my blonde hair green.

Dawn has asthma; I learn this the hard way. Like my scoliosis, it’s something she’s ashamed of and keeps hidden. After running around her mom’s apartment complex all day, I realize Dawn is paying no attention to my witty ramblings.

“Are you listening to me? You look white as a ghost,” I comment, knowing we’d just been in the Texas sun for 12 hours.

“I can’t breathe,” she summons.

“I’ll get your mom,” I jump up towards her bedroom door.

“No, don’t,” Dawn commands.

This seesaw conversation proceeds for ten minutes.

Dawn looks in distress; I grab for the door. Her distress increases at my actions, so I sit back down.

“I can usually calm myself,” she insists.

“I’m scared. I would really like to get your mom,” I say in a composed tone.

Dawn calms down and resumes normal breathing.

This scenario repeats itself a handful of times over the years, and only once does Dawn allow me to alert her mother, who quickly produces an inhaler and restores the peace.

I’m kicked out of choir due to my tone-deafness and shrill voice. Dawn pleads with Ms. Blake, the choir teacher, to allow me to return. Ms. Blake acquiesces with one caveat “I pride myself on encouraging every child in my choir to sing, but I request that you mouth the lyrics from now on,” she states, and I agree to her terms.

In sophomore year, Dawn suggests we try out for Junior Varsity Cheerleader, and I want to cry. My back! I can’t be seen doing high jumps in front of a crowd or wearing a cute outfit that comes up to my hips. Every day, I thank God that grunge is gaining in popularity and affords my scoliosis a tent of plaid.

I attend a meeting where the current JV girls describe the tryout process. Dawn has been in gymnastics since the age of four. When we practice cheers the following week, she’s a natural, and I am not.

A Varsity cheerleader breaks her arm just before nationals, and Dawn is called up to the majors.

I sit in a smelly gym without my best friend and compete for a prize I no longer want.

There are no more weekends in Los Colinas because Dawn has to practice with the Seniors. In fact, Dawn is always with the Seniors. She’s laughing down the narrow halls with them. She’s going to Chili’s and having chips and ranch with them. She’s at Northpark trying on matching James Avery charms with them. There isn’t a sacred best friend activity she’s not doing with them instead of me. They go on to Nationals and bring home a trophy. The win is attributed to Dawn’s impressive abilities, and everyone doubts they would have fared as well if “Becky” hadn’t broken her arm. Dawn’s a hero and popular.

I’m eating dust in JV practice sessions.

JV tryouts are in front of the school, and I don’t make the team. I’m humiliated and down a best friend.

I write Dawn a scathing letter about how she hated the girls she’s best friends with now. How I always knew she was fake, and that I’m glad I’m not like her or them. I add in vulgar language about the boy she has a crush on, just to remind her that I know her secrets. “Hope you don’t end up like your slutty step-sister,” I finish the purposefully, soul-crushing letter.

It’s just before Thanksgiving break, and I have no idea when I will see ‘Dawn the Popular’ in the halls. I call her dad’s house and reach older Dawn.

“I have a letter for your step-sister. Is she with you for Thanksgiving?” I inquire.

“She’s at her mom’s. Do you have that number?” older Dawn replies.

Yes, but the urgency of this note reaching Dawn is deferred. Her dad’s home is within stomping distance, but I can’t get to her mom’s, and the delay causes me to pause.

Dawn hasn’t done anything wrong, and she still treats me like a best friend. She just got busy on the fast track of being cool. I’m on the snail’s trail, and I’m drowning in envy.

My mom receives a call two days after Thanksgiving and begins yelling, “No.No.No!” into the phone.

Dawn is in a hypoxic anoxic coma following a severe asthma attack on Thanksgiving day.

I go back to school and shuffle around like a zombie. Dawn is all anyone can talk about, and I’m inundated with questions I don’t have answers to.

Dawn’s mom calls to tell me what I already know in my gut. Dawn had an asthma attack and waited too long to alert anyone. By the time they gave her the inhaler, it was too late. She also tells me people can come out of a coma when they hear familiar voices. She wants me to come to the hospital and talk to Dawn.

“Yes!” I exclaim, suddenly feeling full of purpose.

“Her step-sister says you wrote Dawn a letter. Bring that”, she says hopefully.

“Oh, I don’t know…,” I stammer.

I go to school the following day and shout from the rooftops that I’m visiting Dawn. I have our choir class sing into a small recorder that I swipe from my mom. Drama class records a cheery soliloquy. I’m invited to sit with all the cheerleaders to record a message. We laugh, feeling optimistic about Dawn returning and hanging out with us soon. I press record, and everyone takes a turn verbalizing well wishes. Someone begins singing ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ and we all join in.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away

Pro-tip — ‘You Are My Sunshine’ takes a dark turn when your best friend is in a coma.

Later that night, our phone rings.

“Misty, this is Dawn,” the phone says.

Oh, my God. She’s out of the coma already. I stand up, and I’m unable to speak.

“Dawn’s sister, Dawn,” her step-sister states.

God damnit.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m okay. It’s rough over here,” she offers.

“I can imagine,” I say.

“Listen, I know her mom said you could go to the hospital. You are the only one. We’re not letting any other friends visit. Please don’t talk to anyone about what she looks like. We want everyone to remember her full of life,” she drops on me.

“People come out of comas,” I say.

“She’s brain dead Misty. She’s not coming out of the coma. She’s hooked up to tubes, and you might want to rethink seeing her this way as well,” older Dawn extends.

“Evil Knievel came out of a coma after 29 days,” I state.

“Just don’t tell everyone what she looks like. You’re lucky we’re allowing you to see her,” older Dawn says before getting off the phone.

A week later, I’m walking up to Dawn’s room and see her mom beside Dawn’s bed. She sees me and rushes up to give me a hug. She takes my hand and walks me into the room.

“Dawn honey, look who’s here to see you,” she says.

Dawn has tubes large and small running out from every part of her head and chest. Her breathing machine is loud and rhythmic. I hold Dawn’s hand and try not to show my shock at the lack of warmth in her fingertips.

“Hi, Dawn,” I say timidly.

Whirling of machinery is her only reply.

Dawn’s mom shows me flowers and cards strewn about the small room.

“I’ll let you two have some time alone,” her mom offers.

“Hi,” I say again once we’re alone.

“Everyone is worried about you. I’m worried about you. Can you hear me? You’re supposed to wake up before our Christmas concert. You know Ms. Blake wants you there instead of me. Will you wake up for me?” I ask and glance around the room.

“Do you know what a rock star I would be if I came in here and you woke up?” I laugh for the both of us.

“I have a letter I wrote for you before Thanksgiving. Dear Dawn, you are my best friend. I love you. I’m so proud of all you’ve accomplished in our short time in High School. I’m glad everyone has been able to see the wonderful person I’ve known all along. I look forward to seeing you cheer in every game I attend. You should be at the top of the pyramid because that’s where you are in my heart,” I finish strong.

I play the recordings for Dawn but cut the tape off before ‘You Are My Sunshine’ begins.

I sit with Dawn a while longer, and I can feel she’s not with me. I’m in a room with machines and nothing else.

I go back to school, and I put on a brave face. I say all of our good wishes are working.

Our choir’s annual Christmas program takes place on the Friday night before winter break. While we’re practicing, a call comes in to let us know that Dawn has passed.

Thirty minutes later, a group of us are still huddled up crying, when Ms. Blake says, “the program will still take place, and if anyone is too upset or afraid they might cry all night, please gather your things and leave.”

She’s looking at me.

I’m not leaving, lady. In fact, tonight I’m singing.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

I feel full of life as we stand on risers and sing to the audience made up of parents. My choirmates and I hold each other’s hand while belting out holiday classics to a plethora of beaming stage lights.

Silent night comes, and tears stream down my face. I’m unable to wipe them away because I don’t want to let go of anyone’s hand. A few of the parents in the audience know about Dawn’s passing, and their faces mirror my own.

I turn to my left and see I’m not the only one with tear-soaked cheeks. No one is sobbing, and we’re hitting our marks, so Ms. Blake can only watch as her Christmas program doesn’t leave a dry eye in the house.

The following day JV cheerleaders pick me up to attend the viewing. We hold hands and are laughing a little as we step into Dawn’s room. The casket is open, and thankfully, Dawn’s hair and make-up reflect her aesthetic. She looks beautiful.

We move closer to see if she’s breathing.

As we leave the viewing room, I stumble and cry so hard I can’t catch my breath. Why are 15-year-old girls viewing their friend in a casket?

Everyone attends the funeral. There is overflow. I’m invited to sit with Dawn’s mom, her husband, and Dawn’s half-brother. Dawn’s father sits in an alcove on the right of the pews. He requests a screen to hide from plain view.

The preacher begins, and Dawn’s father begins moaning. He’s crying so loud we can barely hear what the minister is saying. A grown man who just lost his daughter sobbing and screaming from behind a divider is not something you want to witness. I can still hear the pain emanating from him that God awful day.

I become enraged when the minister lists everyone Dawn is survived by and accidentally refers to her half-brother as her step-brother. I wanted the person attempting to comfort us about Dawn’s untimely passing to at least know her family.

I slip into bed and reach my arm out past the edge of the mattress.

“Dawn, please hold my hand. I can’t sleep since you passed away, and I need to feel your presence. Please,” I plead.

I would lay with my arm outstretched for hours, praying for weight in my limp hand. Every night, just as I was about to give up, I would feel a grasp of my hand.

“What’s your name, honey?” they ask.

“Misty,” I reply.

“Mitzy?” they ask

“M-I-S-T-Y,” I reply.

“Mitzy?” they ask.

“Is your middle name Dawn?” they ask.

“Yes,” I reply.