And her blood-red hair said it: “Yeah, I'm cool.” Emily spoke tall with a smile. She walked with conviction, though stumbled on sidewalk cracks, routinely overlooking the wrinkled Los Angeles pavement. I imagined I could find her stumbling in her bridesmaid dress or falling into a casket, all the while laughing as if it were appropriate. To her, this life was a joke. She was the giggling schoolgirl at the end of MacBeth. She flirted with somebody's uncle for attention. Yet Emily preferred to remember the sad songs Dad played back on the farm, where it still snowed in the winter, and the dogs would always welcome her home.

Los Angeles was a different story. Every guitar struck an up-tempo lie and there were no dogs, just the hairless rats that pretended to be, like their owners, and all the other nameless surroundings. The lights were bright and hot when the sun wasn't, and Emily stumbled into the dry cleaner's, open late, sweating through her tank top and blue jeans.

Jillian greeted her with concern, running to her but grabbing a towel first. Emily clenched her side, red like her hair, and pooling on the floor and out the door through the streets where no one stopped to help. And the towel didn't stop the bleeding either. Eyes cold, Emily held her friend's hand.

Three years ago I sat with my sister, clipping Sadie's toenails, while Dad played his guitar to the tune of John Denver out on the porch. It was a job for the two of us, since Sadie would bark and yelp and try to pull away. I wasn't rough like Emily and so she held the dog while I worked the clipper. “It's a sweet, sweet dream,” sang Dad.

Emily told me the nature of women, how I'll fall in love with one some day, and she'll break my heart. She said women are stupid where their best interests are concerned-they always forget about the nice guys like me. But she said I'm lucky, because most men are more stupid. Better to be smart and sad for a while, she told me, rather than hurt in the end.

Later Emily and I put together Chipotle corn while Dad grilled fajitas. Our dinners didn't smell like Mom's anymore, and I remember Dad telling me how us Ludman men were doomed, “'til the day we die”, to lose the women we love.

Jillian pushed together a row of chairs to support her friend. Emily smiled, watching the overhead fluorescents blurring away, though desperately trying to keep them sharp and bright.

Jillian took her voice to Emily's ear. “hold on, I'm getting help.” She cradled the phone. “No, a knife wound, on the left side.”

Emily coughed, sweating incessantly, never stopped smiling. As she turned the towel red her eyes grew hollow but her face was, in every moment, blooming roses. Color revealed secrets in her cheeks and her tongue-she would bite on every noise in the room. No cloudy days, no rain, no darkness ever in her smiles.

Grandma died of a rare cancer before I was born. Mom was in a car accident. Grandpa's an American. He never came for Mexican night. He's a proud, lonely man. Dad was the opposite. He taught me a few songs. “The Sound of Silence”, “Crying”, “Tears in Heaven”-Emily's favorites. They were the winning sound of her.

Emily laughed at me when I slipped my elbow accidentally into the tub of margarine. We never used it, just left it out every meal. No one buttered bread. The corn didn't need it. We cooked well enough to avoid condiments.

And after dinner we'd walk Sadie and go for ice cream. Once, on Mexican night, we tried making fried ice cream, but it didn't work. Always stick to the good old routine.

In Los Angeles, my sister rested on a row of chairs in a seedy late-night dry cleaner's. In the morning she'd rest beside me in a hospital bed. I'd ask her how she got there, who would hurt her when I loved her so much. I'd cry. I'd hold her hand. She'd smile and tell me not to worry. She'd tell me I was a good brother, that she couldn't ask for anything better. And I'd ask her why she moved away.

Emily and I would talk the most when folding the laundry. She said I was lucky, that I wasn't like most guys. That most girls go for the “bad boys”. She told me I'd find love and Dad told me I'd lose it. That the world is a bitter place, but I'd be okay.

And now I was worrying about her, in a white, flowery hospital room, with sun in the windows. We watched television for hours before Dad came to get me. Soon he and I would be heading home. No worries.

I was the good guy. I'll lose someone, someday, who loves me very much. And her blood-red hair said it.