*This is a true story, though the name has been changed in respect for my friend's privacy.

Ariel painted a solid wooden cube for me for my eleventh birthday. Each side portrayed some aspect of me in her eyes. A big yellow “S” on one side, a cross on another, a goofy face with glasses, a bright sunshine, and some other things that escape me at the moment. She was artistic and creative, and terribly complicated, even at that young age. I knew she had a sadness about her, but I didn’t know why. It was beyond my perceptions at that age to know that she was being sexually abused by a family member. I thought… she’s just sad. So I’ll make her happy. We made the woods our playground, swinging from vines, catching tadpoles in milkjugs, and hiding from the neighborhood boys in massive ferns. If we weren’t outdoors, we settled ourselves someplace quiet with sketch pads and drew women in wild and fanciful dresses, or detailed layouts for underground bomb-shelters. We talked about God, and the boys at our school, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. She ate chili with my family on Christmas day; she hunted Easter eggs at my cousin’s house. My grandmother was “Nanny” to her. Ariel was my sister, in all the ways that counted.

So the day she missed school, I immediately knocked on her door when I got off the bus. Her stepsister answered the door. “Go away.” she growled at me. I was used to her animosity. I didn’t understand it, but I shook it off like I always did. I wasn’t here for her. I was here for Ariel.

“Where’s Ariel? Is she sick?”
“Ariel doesn’t want to see you anymore,” she said viciously.

“What-“ I sputtered, “What’s wrong?”

“She tried to kill herself. Because of you!” Her words were shards of glass in my heart, cutting with a fury. I was mute before her anger, shocked and scared.

”Why?” I managed a horrified whisper.

“Because you keep trying to make her go to church and she doesn’t want to go anymore.”

I turned and fled home, escaping into my room before I crumpled to the floor. My heart broke in a way I’d never known. I did indeed ask Ariel to come to church with me every Sunday, and she came a lot. I desperately tried to remember if I’d pressured her in any way. I was sure I hadn’t, but what else was I to believe? I knew it didn’t seem right, that Ariel would feel that way, but the weight of the possibility was too great. I was bowed under with the guilt that I might have caused my friend, whom I loved like a sister, to want to end her life. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense.

We were eleven. How was this possible? How could I possibly undo whatever it was I had done?

My mom heard me, and opened the door, mistaking my sobs for laughter and she asked cheerfully, “What’s so funny in here?” I remember how absurd that sounded to me, how relieved I was to hear my mother’s voice.

In my mind, the gap between that instant and the next time I saw Ariel is nonexistent. But, I know that it was at least a week before I was able to see her. The bandages on her wrists were frightening and too adult for my childish mind. My gaze slipped away from them, to the pale glow of her skin, the hollowness of her eyes. I was grieved by the misery that radiated from her. The sadness I had known was there all along, had taken root, had claimed Ariel. But all I could think when I saw her was that we would fix it, we would wipe out that pain and she could be happy again because she was alive. My young heart had never known such despair and such relief mingled together.

Ariel never told me why she did it. I know it wasn’t because of me, for she grasped my hands in her weakened grip that day and assured me that all was well with us. As I got older, I had suspicions about the reason, but she could never fully voice it to me. I didn’t press her, because in my heart, I knew why she’d done it. I wish I had known then though, because I would have helped her, I would have done something.

Her stepsister, in her own pain and confusion and God knows what else, had wanted to hurt the one thing that was good in Ariel’s life. I dare not judge her for that bitter moment, because I imagine her circumstances weren’t much better than Ariel’s. I forgave her for it, the same way you forgive an animal for lashing out at you when it’s in pain. Suffering will make you do things you’d never do otherwise. I understood that, even then.

Besides, her attempt failed. Ariel remained a dear friend of mine for many years after that. She never lost the haunted look in her eye, never fully returned from that complicated and distant place. But, she also never lost her artistic and soulful way of living. She walked in dark places, but she painted the light into her life. Her art has depths to it that astound me, just like her spirit does.

I still have the cube she painted for me so long ago. I pull it out every now and then, surprised by its weight after all these years. I look at myself through her eyes, what she saw in me, how she defined me, what our friendship meant to her. And I am grateful all anew. Ariel may have been the one who needed an escape, who needed a friend. What she doesn’t know though, is that in the process, she taught me how to be a friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without her, without that cube. Without that day.

That’s a gift I’ll never forget.