[Creative Nonfiction | Issue 10]

Andrya Allen

a portrait

Anya. The word floats across the room, easy and familiar. My husband’s voice calls me back to
my dim, dark living room. But I’m not really here. I’m on Backpage looking at a portrait. She
glows through the screen and she is not my sister. I scroll into the night and search for a face
that's both part of me and lost to another world. It’s been 12 years since I’ve seen Janelle. My
sister is gone and I am praying my phone will call her forth for one last portrait. The last
Backpage photograph I saw of her was liminal, empty. Around her the vignette of a motel room,
empty soda bottles, styrofoam, purses, clothes, the leg of a man in the corner. Another woman
in the background, my sister looking into the camera, chin angled down, her long hair cascades
past her shoulders down to her skirt. I’d like to see her leaning forward under the weight of her
toddler on her back. The tribal sun casts two sides of her face, one shadowed and one silvered.
Hear her call me Squirt, say I’ve got something to show you. Reach her hand back to me and
beckon. You coming? I want to call her name easy and familiar like my husband calls for me.

The world's quiet slumber wraps around my shoulders, a solitary vigil. I tap on the screen in a
whisper. On Backpage, another portrait flickers in the blue light. I am looking for proof of breath
in her lungs or the forced smile for the camera that’s become familiar. I search for Janelle
transformed—beyond the reach of those who would dim her light, glowing, radiant with a power
reclaimed, a spirit in pursuit of happiness. I know I won't find this on Backpage. What am I doing
there? Maybe it’s the comfort of her existence I seek, a reassurance that the world has not
swallowed her whole. I'm reaching out across the unknown, trying to understand, to remember,
and to hold on to a sliver of hope.

Janelle Deonne. Janelle Deonne with the two dimples in her cheeks. Janelle who made cheese
toast in the closet with me. Janelle started tricking at the A&W. Janelle dropped out of school,
married, had babies, and overdosed again. Janelle, who at the gas station, either fell asleep or
overdosed and lost her kids. Janelle can't keep a job. Janelle turns the knob three times, scrubs
her elbows until they bleed. Janelle with sepsis in the hospital. Janelle could die. Janelle goes to
church, asks God to save her, to keep her family safe.

Tonight I don’t find her portrait. I open Instagram, tap her face and send her a message. “Hey. I
love you. Do you have somewhere safe to go?” My message goes unseen.

__________

About the author

Andrya Allen writes on the pursuit of happiness, with work featured in the New York Times. She is an entrepreneur in Pensacola, Florida, where she lives with her husband and two children. YOu can find her on Instagram @andryatho.