I’m mourning the loss of my beloved friend who once made me laugh so hard that I puked, which in turn made her laugh so hard she fully pissed herself. I loved her massively, even when it hurt.
I told Kyla three years ago that I couldn’t be in her life if she was using. It became too painful for me; too scary, too overwhelming to miss her so acutely while she was sitting across the table from me. Do you know what I mean? She looked, smelled, sounded like my Ky, but the light in her eyes wasn’t hers. There were so many times I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her demons released their hold on her, but their grip was stronger than mine.
In the shock of her death, I writhe: I was wrong, cold hearted, terrible, I never should have told her that, did she know I was only trying to help her? Did she feel abandoned?…she never would have left me, I failed her, I wish I understood then…it takes two years for the frontal lobe of an opioid user to return to normal, I could have moved her in with me for those two years, if I did that she’d still…there’s no one else like her…was I ever as close to anyone like I was to her?
Last night in my dream we were sitting on a couch in some unfamiliar apartment that felt like home. It was dark, our faces lit with the blue glow of a television at 3 o’clock in the morning. We were sitting under a blanket, she had a glass of white wine in her hand. I was weeping, barely able to get my words out, pleading with her.
Me: Please, please stay. You can’t go. Please?
Kyla: I can’t Ay. There’s no point in talking about this again.
Me: But so many people need you. What about Kim? What about Mom?
Kyla: Ayala it’s fine. You’ll all be okay. It’s done. I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to, so let’s just be together right now, okay? Stop.
I wanted to write about her to honor her, to give this deluge of grief form, to conjure her. I’ve never written about losing someone, so I feel inept, but I do know I can do hard things. Like the Tracy Anderson Method, cleaning my humidifier, and holding it together as I hugged Gina at her beautiful daughter’s funeral.
I obsess: of the hundreds of memories that span two decades, which ones do I pick to paint her clearest? Do I even share my grief or should I hold it in, protect it? Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t write at all. But then I think…Ky would say, “No, Ay! Write about me! And include pics where I look really good.” We both love attention. Unlike me, she never thought twice about asking for it. She felt no shame in demanding love.
Kyla loved giving me printed photos. When she dropped me off at the airport for my semester abroad, she presented me with a folder full of 8x11 photos. Of herself. She also included a couple of 8x10s of us. As she squeezed the life out of me she said, “hang these up as soon as you get to London so you don’t miss me too much. And so your roommates know you have friends.”
It’s late afternoon on a hot summer’s day at Germonds Park, one of the town’s public pools that is overtaken by my camp for July and August. We occupy the far corner of the grounds– a steep, lush hill shaded by massive oak trees. I’m sitting on my towel, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen, gnawing on a frozen Charleston Chew as light peaks through the leaves above me. I’m listening to my sweet friend Allee show Christina D. how to do a box knot with lanyard amidst the ambient noise of summer at the pool.
From the corner of my eye I notice an unfamiliar girl marching up the Campers Only™ hill– tall, damp brown hair, wearing a patterned one piece, denim shorts, a scrunchy on her wrist; there is a smaller blond girl trailing behind her. From a hundred feet away I can feel her presence radiating. “Who’s that?” I ask the girls. They say in unison, “That’s Kyla McCarthy.” By their tone I glean that she’s a little scary.
She’s up the hill and moving in my direction. As she passes by the boys stare at her and turn their heads. She’s talking loudly to the girl behind her. All of a sudden she stops, and loud enough for everyone to hear, says, “Where’s Ayala?”
Terrified, electrified, I raise my hand as I stand up (lol.) I’m holding my breath as she sashays over to me, throws her hands on her hips and assesses me with glowing green eyes. “Hi. I’m Kyla. And you’re Ayala.” She pauses long enough for me to hear my heart beating and then, “so I think we should be friends.” She hugs me as she says, “This is my sister Kim. Do you have a pen so I can give you my phone number?”
The miraculous nature of friendship. Two people coming together for no reason other than they get the sense that they should be friends. Becoming friends with Kyla, being friends with Kyla, was a lot like falling in love– intoxicating, unforgettable, thunderous.
It’s winter break of ninth grade and we’re delirious from seven consecutive sleepovers and one metric ton of Trolli Peach Gummy Rings. We’re in a Ranch One in Manhattan after Kyla’s effervescent, beautiful Mom, Gina, took us to TRL (brag) and I order fries and a Coke. Kyla orders nothing. The second the cashier hands me my fries, she drops her claw into my fries and snatches up a handful. In an overtired, maniacal teen haze I snap:
Me: KYLAASTOPPPPPPPPPPPPPAAAA
Kyla: Oh my God why are you freaking out?
Me: BECAUSEYOUALWAYSDOTHIS!! IMHUNGRYANDYOUDONTCARE!! WHY DIDN'T YOU GET FRIES IF YOU WANT THEM!!
Gina intervenes: Ayala! Kyla! Enough. No sleepover tonight. You two need a break from each other.
Me and Kyla: NOOOOOO MOMMMMMM YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO US!!!
We held hands and cried in the back seat of the Saturn™ the whole way home, begging to not be separated. Gina dropped me off. Kyla called me the second she got home.
Kyla: This is so unfair! I miss you!
Me: So unfair! I miss you too!
Kyla yells to Gina: MOM! Can Ay come over tomorrow?...What? I will, I promise. No I will I swear!...Ay you can come over tomorrow. We can watch Simply Irresistible again. I’ll make crab dip. Ask your Mom now so I can go clean my room.
We’re sixteen in my childhood bedroom. It’s a late afternoon in May. I’m sitting at my vanity table in a lavender swivel chair as Kyla goes in on my face with the precision of a makeup artist at the MAC counter, which we love. She’s getting me ready for my boyfriend’s prom–my first love, who she introduced me to, of course.
Me: How much mascara does it take?! I can’t keep my eyes open for this long.
Kyla: Well do you want one eye or two? Stop blinking.
It was important to her that I felt beautiful. That was one of her things. If she loved you, she poured her confidence, her staggering beauty, into you like honey. Her generosity was endless. And yet, there I was in Ranch One…
Kyla was fun, electric, overwhelmingly loving, bold, and as I intuited, a little scary. She held nothing back, she was supremely loyal and protective, she didn’t gossip, she rarely complained, she was completely unashamed to be exactly who she was. She wasn’t worried about taking up space, about speaking her mind, about asking for what she wanted. She had high expectations of her loved ones and let you know immediately when you didn’t meet them– you never had to wonder, even for a moment, exactly where you stood with her. She could be annoying, difficult to love, and impenetrably stubborn, but she knew that this didn’t make her, or anyone else, any less worthy of love.
In our junior year of high school, Kyla was in a car accident that crushed most of the bones in her left foot and ankle. She spent months at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan and despite all of the trauma she was enduring– painful surgeries, an external fixator, a catheter, missing home, school, volleyball, normal teenage life– she continued to not only laugh but to make everyone around her laugh. Her doctors and nurses loved her. Like that day on the hill, her presence radiated. Her hospital room was consistently full of gifts–flowers, balloons, cards, stuffed animals. Someone sent her a massive basket of candy from Dylan’s Candy Bar. She let me eat most of it. Generous.
At her funeral, her father Garry said, “There’s no shame here. Kyla’s story is like so many others…a bad car accident, an injury, and a lot of pain. Doctors pumped her full of Oxycontin and she didn’t stand a chance.” Kyla’s final years contained an ocean of pain– more than anyone should ever have to endure. All who loved her tried to save her from drowning– scooping water out of her ship with a bucket, over and over, but the water kept coming in, relentlessly.
When I close my eyes we’re kids again. Time bends and I’m there as I’m here. I hear her laugh, I smell her parents house, her clothes, her perfume; I see her walking through all the doors of all the spaces and places we’ve made memories. I feel her sweaty hand in mine as vividly as I feel my fingers on this keyboard. I smile. Gina said she remembers every single aspect of Kyla’s life, crystal clear. I see now, whether she meant to or not– Kyla left us with an eternal parting gift. The way she lived her life with such unabashed boldness– showing all of herself; like a model, a muse, sitting before a painter. The memories I have of her— a work of art.
I’ll miss her forever and I will keep talking to her always. She’d be so mad at me if I stopped. And I’m still a little scared of her. What I wouldn’t give for one more sleepover.
Kyla Lynn McCarthy 10.8.86 - 5.29.22
Rest in eternal peace Ky, but also please haunt me.
Ayla, that is the most beautiful tribute to Kyla. I am so very sorry for your loss..my heart breaks for you! Losing someone you love so much is one of life’s hardest truth’s—yet one of the greatest gifts. Without experiencing such deep connection and love, we don’t truly live. You have the gift of knowing how much love you both shared. Thinking of you.
Didn’t take much reading of your writing before you had me in tears, did it?
Thank you for sharing this beautiful dedication to your lost friend. I’ve lost a few myself, and though I’ve written to some of them, I’ve never shared it. Perhaps I’ll reconsider that. Thank you ❤️.