The third message is from my mother too.
“I’m at the Coliseum. It’s 9:53. It doesn’t look as if the concert has let out yet. So I will drive around the neighborhood a few times until it gets out. Then I’ll see if I can spot you. But please call me as soon as you get this. I want you to call me!”
I brace myself for the fourth message, but to my surprise it’s from Lola.
“Hey, Cleo. We’re just stopping for lunch now. Mom’s been letting me drive. Last night was so cool. And, oh yeah, Mom says your mom called her a couple of times last night and that she
sounded a little worried, but I reminded her that your mom worries about pretty much everything.”
Lola laughs.
“Anyway, I miss you already. And I’ll try to call you next time we stop, since Mom refuses to let me talk and drive at the same time—even if we’re on the most boring straight stretch and there’s not a car in sight. Later!
”
And that’s it.
“You have no more new messages,”
the electronic voice informs me. I just hold the phone in my hand, staring at it like it’s a living thing, like it has the secrets of life inside it. Then I consider replaying my mom’s messages again, just so I can attempt to fully wrap my head around exactly what happened last night. But I cannot bear to hear her voice again. Not like that. So frustrated, angry, hurt... and disappointed. I don’t want to hear the desperate tone of her voice as she begs me to call her back. Besides, I’m pretty sure I know what happened last night... and why.
I know who’s to blame for my mother’s death.
Suddenly I feel like I’m going to vomit again, except nothing’s left in my stomach. Even so, I dash for the bathroom and, clinging to the toilet seat, dry heave until it feels like my internal organs are about to come out—and maybe I wish they would. Then finally I collapse, exhausted, on the hard tile floor, curl up into a ball, and just cry.
I wish I were dead.
S
ince I can remember, I have always been afraid of the dark. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of or something I openly admit to. Lola always had her suspicions, and my dad sort of knows, but my mom was the only one who ever really seemed to understand. Without saying much or making a big deal, she always made sure there were night-lights throughout the house. If a bulb burned out, she would quickly replace it.
But as evening comes tonight, I go around and turn off every single night-light—the one in my bedroom, my bathroom, the hallway, the kitchen, the laundry room. I turn them all off. And then I turn off all the other lights in the house too, until the whole place is pretty much black. Black like I feel inside.
I slowly pick my way through the house now. Finding my way into the living room, I go over to where the streetlight seeps through the cracks in the blinds on the front window, but I close the blinds tight, blocking even that bit of light out. And then I just sit there on the couch... in darkness, in the silence. And before long I discover that my fear of the dark is gone. Completely gone.
But instead of feeling relieved, I am disappointed. Almost as if I’ve been cheated, like one more piece of my life has been stolen from me. Or maybe it’s simply been replaced. Because instead of fear, the only thing I feel now is a deep, dark, heavy sense of sadness. It presses down on me like a boulder crushing the life and breath right out of me. I don’t know how I can survive this much pain.
Every once in a while I am jolted by the jangling sound of the phone, but I still have the volume on the answering machine turned down so I can’t hear any of the messages being left. And anyway, it’s like they’re all the same, expressing shock and regret over and over like my parents have dozens of close friends and relatives when I know for certain they have few. But it’s like everyone is suddenly my mom’s very best friend.
Neighbors and people from our church have brought over food. Like they think I can eat. I just nod and take the dishes, listen to them expressing sympathy, and then without asking them into the house, I close the door, take the food into the kitchen, and shove it into the refrigerator. I wouldn’t bother to do that except my dad might be able to eat when he comes home.
I’m fairly certain I’ll never be hungry again.
I feel dead inside. Dead and hopeless. I wish I could pray. I know I
should
pray. But it’s like I don’t know how to do that anymore. Like the very act of speaking to a God who could allow something like this to happen is impossible, unfathomable, ridiculous. What would I even say? Would I shake my fist and accuse him of sleeping on the job? Or would I tell him I’m sorry, confessing that my lies cost my mother her life? Would I beg God to take it all back? To turn back the clock and bring my mother back to life? Would I bargain with God? Offer to do what, give what? Even if I could think of something worthwhile, what good would it do? God won’t reverse time.
I jump when the doorbell rings. Leaping to my feet and crashing into the heavy oak coffee table, I knock off a bowl of silk flowers and fall onto my knees. I have no idea who is at the door, but for the second time today I get the idea that it could be my mom out there.
I suddenly think that all the events of the day could be just a big mistake, a misunderstanding, or even a hallucination on my part. I feel sure that my mom has come home and she can’t find her key, and she’ll be standing out there with a sweet but sheepish smile. I flick on a light, rush to the door, and, without even checking to see who it is, fling open the door, fully expecting to see my mother. Ready to hug her, welcome her home, and confess to last night’s indiscretion and beg her forgiveness. Instead it’s my mom’s “slightly functional” sister, Kellie. Clutching her purse in one hand and a hankie in the other. And her eyes are puffy and red.
“Oh,
Cleo!
I heard the news a few hours ago. I tried to call your house several times. And then I decided just to drive over. It’s so upsetting!” She grabs me in a bear hug, holding me so tightly I am nearly smothered by her bulky form and overpowering perfume.
After I manage to extract myself from her embrace, I reluctantly let her into the house, which is still mostly dark. Not wanting to explain why the lights are all off, I go around and flip them on, and she follows me, talking the whole time about how awful it is, how unbelievable, until we’re both standing in the kitchen.
“I just don’t understand it,” she says sadly. “Of all people... that something like this could happen to my dear sister. Really, she was one of the sweetest people on the earth.
Why Karen?
”
I just shrug. For lack of anything else to do, I fill a glass with water and take a sip. It’s lukewarm and tastes metallic, but I don’t really care. I slowly sip, focusing on this water as if it’s the only thing in the world.
“How are you doing?” She comes closer to me, peering into my eyes as if she expects to spy an answer inside my head.
Again I shrug. “It’s been pretty hard.” My voice is hoarse and doesn’t even sound like me.
“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She comes in for another hug, but I move away, putting the island between us.
“Dad’s on a trip,” I say stiffly. I glance at the clock and am surprised to see it’s almost nine. “He should be home in a few hours.”
“Well, I came over here to take care of you,” she announces like she thinks I’m five years old and she’s Mary Poppins. “I just know that’s what Karen would want.”
I really want to protest this plan, to tell her I don’t need anyone to take care of me, but I simply don’t have the energy. So once again I shrug. Then I tell her I’m very tired and want to go to bed.
“Did you eat dinner? I could fix you—”
“Neighbors brought food.” I nod to the fridge. “It’s all in there. Help yourself.”
“Oh...”
I turn away and, without even saying good night, go directly to my room and close the door. It’s not that I don’t like Aunt Kellie. It’s just that I don’t want her here. With my clothes still on, I climb into bed and slowly count backward from ten thousand.
When I wake, it’s dark and silent and I’m not even sure what woke me. But I am wide awake. I look at my digital clock: 2:47. But I know I can’t go back to sleep. So I get out of bed and, tripping over the trundle that is still out, catch my balance on my dresser, then step on a tortilla chip, feeling it crush beneath my bare foot. I can feel all those little pieces being ground into the carpet. Kind of like my life.
I tiptoe out into the hallway and, seeing that the light is on in the kitchen, wonder if someone is still up. Maybe my dad. But when I reach the kitchen, no one is there. Suddenly my stomach clenches. What if something happened to him? What if his plane crashed? Or what if he got mugged on his way out of the airport?
I tiptoe back down the hallway, down to the master bedroom, and silently crack open the door and peer into the darkness. I can’t see a thing, but I do hear him snoring. I can’t believe what a relief it is to hear that sound. I close the door and go back out into the living room, where I sit on the couch and just stare blankly at the floor.
I realize that until this, I’ve had a relatively easy life. Nothing really bad has ever happened to me before. Oh, I thought it was hard when I broke my arm the summer I was eleven. It was torture not being able to go swimming, and it seemed to take forever before my cast came off, but eventually that summer came to an end. I was able to return to ballet lessons... and life went on.
But this is different. I can’t imagine there will ever be a conclusion to this excruciating pain. There is no light at the end of this black tunnel. And I truly don’t even care whether or not my life goes on. I simply don’t have the energy for it.
I try to remember the things I used to feel passionate about, wondering if anything will ever be worth caring about again. Ballet used to be so important to me. And I had been over the moon about dancing the lead role in June’s ballet recital. But now I know I can’t do it... don’t want to do it... don’t care.
And I used to care about school, making good grades, going to college next year. Now it’s unimaginable. Even Daniel Crane, the nicest guy and my major crush who doesn’t seem to know I exist, seems uninteresting to me now. Boring even.
I begin to walk through the silent house, absently wandering from room to room, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Or maybe I’m having an out-of-body experience, like I’m not really here at all.
Is this how it feels to be dead? Maybe I really am dead. Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe it was me who was murdered last night. After all, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surely it was me who was killed. Not my mom. She would never make a mistake like that.
Yes, I decide, I’m the one who is dead. And now, because I’m not welcome in heaven, I am a ghost destined to walk and haunt this house forever. Yes, it all makes sense.
“B
ut I really think Karen would want us all to go to church today.” Aunt Kellie says this for what seems the umpteenth time. I’m not sure if she thinks we’re deaf or just dumb. But I’m pretty sure we’ve already made ourselves clear on the subject.
“Then
you
go to church.” Dad refills his coffee mug. “Because I am not going to church today, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the last I want to hear of it.”
“Sorry,” I say quietly to her. “I just don’t feel like going either.”
Aunt Kellie sighs loudly. “Okay, if you’re both sure...”
Dad turns to me. “I hope I’m not influencing you the wrong way, Cleo. I know your mother probably
would
want you to go to church.”
“I think she’d understand given the circumstances.”
He nods sadly. “Yeah...”
The lump is back in my throat again. Seeing my dad standing there in his bare feet and faded plaid bathrobe, unshaven, dark shadows beneath his eyes, gray messy hair with an ever-widening bald spot... well, he just looks so lost and gloomy. And I don’t think he’s any more pleased than I am that Aunt Kellie seems determined to park herself in our midst.
She fixed breakfast this morning, but Dad and I both barely touched it. And as she went on and on about what a saint her sister was—and we did not argue—I could tell it was only making Dad feel worse.
As far as I know, my parents never had a romantic fairy tale kind of marriage, but they did like and respect each other. My dad has always traveled a lot for his work, and my mom always tried to make his times at home as easy and comfortable as possible. She’d fix his favorite foods, pick up after him, and when it was time to leave again, she would pack his suitcase with freshly laundered and neatly pressed clothes. She even ironed his boxers.
In fact, Lola was always telling me just how easy my dad had it. Quite a contrast from her mother, where all work was supposed to be shared fifty-fifty, although Vera always complained it was not balanced.
“Your mom totally spoils both of you,” Lola would often tell me. I know she was partly jealous and partly amused. But it was true. My mom did spoil us. She cooked, cleaned, did laundry, shopped for groceries, and baked cookies, along with a million other little unseen things I’m afraid both Dad and I never appreciated enough.
“I’ve got some things I need to attend to today.” Dad clears his throat in a way that tells me these are not pleasant things. I suspect he is going to speak to the police, perhaps identify the body, or maybe make funeral arrangements. I do not know and I do not want to know. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?” he directs to me.