Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (2 page)
The rest of the school day is interminably long. Janet's words weigh heavily on me. That if I knew, I could have prevented it. Wracking my brain, I try to figure out if there is any way I could have done that. Those thoughts ricochet and pound through my head and put me on edge. I'm sick to my stomach over the matter. There are tears and drama from the students, and I'm annoyed by it. I would not be annoyed if the tears were for Tristan or his parents, as sucky as they are. Those tears are well deserved. No, the tears and the drama are the normal high school stuff, amplified to maximum volume. Girls who you know never gave Tristan the time of day are weeping, saying how "deep" he was and how he was "misunderstood." I heard from more than one girl that she could have rehabilitated him and put him on the straight and narrow.
Blech.
I couldn't wait to get to the nursing home after school. I go almost every day to see my dad. He has been there for over three years now—actually almost four—and I hardly ever miss a weekday. I take the weekends off, generally, as that's when other family flock in there. I try to avoid them as much as possible. I'm the one who is there for my dad day in and day out. Today is no different and totally different all at the same time. My dad was the one person who I really, really talked to about the whole premonition, death prediction thing. He knew about it, before the stroke stole his ability to walk and talk. No one was sure of how much he even understood now. I didn't know either, but I always felt better just talking to him.
How I wish that one day, just once, he would answer me. I know it won't ever happen but a girl can wish, can't she?
Dad had the same sort of clairvoyance about things. Not about people dying, but about mentioning the obscure only to have it surface. I am the only one with the death connection, I think. Maybe it's because he never said mean things about people like I do. Nonetheless, I wish we could talk about it. He would understand how I feel about the whole Tristan situation. I just wish I could hear his voice, telling me that I'm overreacting about it. That's probably what I miss the most. His voice.
Dad was my ally in the family. He buffered me from my siblings, and then from Mom, who inevitably took their side against me. He balanced things out. Not totally even, but at least it wasn't me against everyone else. Like it is now. So every day, I go in and tell Dad about my day. I complain about Mom and Brady and Jenna. I tell him about Rob, and Therese's escapades with her three-year-old tyrant twins. I talk to him about news stories and goings on in the town. I check in with the nurses who report any changes to me, not that there ever are any.
"Dad," I say, flopping down in the blue Barcalounger next to his bed. "You would not believe what happened today. I'm getting really freaked out about it. No, check that. I'm already really freaked out about it. Janet, the PE teacher, mentioned a kid yesterday. I don't really—didn't really—know the kid, but I'd had his older sister a few years ago. I made an off-the-cuff comment about the kid getting himself killed, and today the school secretary comes in and tells us this kid was just shot by the police."
Dad, sitting up in his wheelchair, looks at me with that vacant stare that constitutes his predominant facial expression these days. My blue eyes are the same as his. I used to think that having the same feature connected us in some way. I can't tell if there is anything going on in his head. I choose to think there is. A little trail of drool runs out of the left corner of his mouth. His left side is totally paralyzed, although he doesn't move his right side much either. I've heard the word 'catatonic' batted around. Brady, my asshat brother, has referred to him as a vegetable. I wanted to punch him for that. I want to punch Brady a lot. He deserves a good ass kicking. Someday.
I wipe the corner of Dad's mouth and try not to let it bother me. Dad had always been larger than life. Boisterous and funny. His sense of humor was irreverent, and his laugh was infectious. Sort of a contradiction considering he was a funeral director. He could be very serious, but his humor usually surfaced and had a way of putting the bereaved at ease. The stroke stole that from him. From us. At least he's well cared for—the only thing about this situation that can be considered lucky. Dad had his stroke during a minor medical procedure. He has an abnormal clotting disorder, which means a filter needs to be used during any medical procedures. His doctor knew but didn't put the filter in. It was malpractice, clear and simple. So Dad was taken care of here in the nursing home, and Mom got to stay in her house. She was financially set while Dad could be looked after as well.
The money is part of the issue in our family. When is it not? When this first happened, Brady and Jenna hovered around Mom, flitting and floating, looking to gain her favor and hopefully her cash. I couldn't care less about money. I would give everything I own to have Dad back. Brady and Jenna, not so much. Although they know they have to wait for Dad to pass before any money is disbursed, they don't act much better now. Their behavior disgusts me and diminishes my already-low tolerance for them. Mom's caught in the middle, but for some reason, always seems to come out on their side. Especially Jenna's side. It's as if she can do no wrong in Mom's eyes.
"Dad, what if this kid's death is my fault? What if I thought it, and it came true? What if I could have—should have—done something to stop it? Can I channel this? Should I go to psychics or mediums or tarot card people and see if they can help? Are they all quacks? Am I a quack?"
Dad says nothing, of course.
Helga, a buxom nurse who represents her name well, bustles in, interrupting my plea for help. She has been at the nursing home for years and years and years. She's not my favorite nurse, but I know she takes good care of my dad, and that's all that matters.
"How're you doing today, Sadie?" Helga is not usually outgoing or friendly. I must look sufficiently distraught to garner kind words from her.
"Not great. One of our students died today. Hard day."
Helga shakes her head, muttering. "I heard about that. It's all over the news. Such a shame. What a waste. I'm so glad my son is grown up and past all that trouble. His biggest problem is finding time for all his work and finding someone to settle down with. I'm sure you know what he's going through."
Helga's looking at me with that expectant look. As a thirty-five-year-old single woman, I get that look a lot. These mothers want to set me up with their single sons. You know, the ones who can't hold down steady jobs and have set up permanent residence in their mothers' basements. They don't care what I want. I have Rob, anyway. I'm not in the market for anything—or anyone—new. I shift gears, stuffing all the bad feelings about Tristan down into a little box inside. It's better that way. For my sanity, at least. Onto another topic.
"Oh yeah, this is a hard time of year to be single. My boyfriend—we've been together almost two years—is taking me away for Valentine's weekend. I'm so glad I have him, and I don't have to try to find people to date anymore. I'd hate to still be out there."
"Well, you're lucky you found someone. I just hope he takes good care of you. You're good to your dad here. Most young people don't stick around like you do. I hope my son finds someone nurturing like you someday."
As she's turning to leave the room, I blurt out, "Well, if I suddenly find myself single, I'll let you know and you can introduce me to your son."
She looks over her shoulder and smiles. It's a rare occurrence and doesn't fit her face well. "Okay Sadie. I'll remember you said that."
When she exits, a chill runs over me. I have Rob, so I have nothing to be afraid of. Yet for some reason, I have a bad feeling about this.
"I really wish you could stop focusing on those kids and focus on me for once," I tease Therese.
Her voice, coming over the speaker of my car as I'm driving to the library, is dripping with sarcasm, as usual. "Oh sure. Let me just duct tape the kids to their chairs for a minute so I can address your crisis of the day."
"Who says I'm having a crisis? I just want your attention." I signal and wait to turn left. The dashboard clock tells me I have seven minutes before the tutoring session starts.
"Sadie, you can have my attention in fifteen years when these hellions move out."
"Deal. I'm holding you to that." Therese always makes me smile. It's probably why we've been friends since the second grade. We can talk three times a day or not talk for three months, and we pick right back up where we left off.
"Okay, they're playing with Play-Doh. You have about ninety seconds to talk. Go."
"Just coming from the nursing home. No change." I add in quickly, before she can ask. I know she's going to and I hate that she does. Because there's always no change and there never will be any change. "Just a rough day at school with that kid getting shot."
"Oh, that's right. Did you teach him?"
"No, I had the sister a few years ago. I would have had him next year. I guess he's the only one in the family who had any promise. Such a shame."
A roar erupts in the background, and I know my time is up. Therese shouts over the kids, "Gotta run. Call me after you go shopping tonight. I wanna know what you get for the weekend!" And with that the call ends, and my radio resumes blasting.
Today is a busy day. I want to just go home and curl up in bed and not think about what happened, but I can't. It's Thursday, which means I tutor. Seeing as how I'm unmarried and a teacher, I apparently have tons of free time. At least that's what people outside education, namely my mom and brother and sister, seem to think. I do get done with work early—two-thirty. On the other hand, I'm at work between six and six-thirty every morning. Not to mention the hours I put in after school and on weekends preparing and grading. When school lets out, I visit Dad. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, I tutor from four-thirty on. I got suckered into tutoring because of all of my "free time." In reality, it's a cash cow and has helped tremendously. Fifty bucks an hour? Please and thank you.
Tonight I have to run to the mall after tutoring to get stuff for my weekend away with Rob. And when I say stuff, I mean sexy, romantic stuff. We're leaving tomorrow right after work, going to a romantic B&B for Valentine's weekend. I want to surprise him with something nice and risqué. Of course, finding the right things will be difficult considering I'm the one who will be wearing it. I'm average height, average build. I'm not fat by any means, but I'm soft. Yeah, that's a good way to describe it. I try to watch what I eat, but my schedule doesn't leave a lot of time for exercising. I try to do something active every weekend. Sometimes, being lazy just wins out, which doesn't always make me the best lingerie model.
I'm also terribly shy when it comes to this sort of thing. Like, I hate buying even regular bras and underwear. God help me if I have to buy tampons and there's a male cashier. And condoms? Forget it. I have chosen not to have sex rather than to have to go to the store to buy them. Un uh, no way. Can't do it.
This weekend is different. It will be different. Rob and I have never been away together before, despite the length of our relationship. We've taken things slow, but at our ages, how slow can you really take them? After last fall, I think it's time that we move our relationship out of its holding pattern. Despite the fact that our classrooms are next to each other, we keep our relationship on the QT. Like, the waaaay QT. I'm not sure that even some of the faculty realize we're together. Since I go to the nursing home after school, and he moderates several clubs, we don't leave school with each other. Actually, I don't see him that much during the week. Tuesday nights, when I don't tutor, we usually try to hang out together. And weekends of course, when I'm not busy running inane errands for my mom. Rob doesn't really care for my family and makes every effort not to spend time with them.
I can't say I blame him.
It's not like our relationship is a secret—we just don't like to publicize it. The town is not that big, and with both of us being teachers, things could get messy. I feel like people are too up in my business as it is. I don't need them analyzing my romantic escapades. He's against PDAs of any sort, so even when we're on a date, we look more like friends than lovers. I kind of—not kind of—really hate that. Not that we need to be one of those gross couples or anything, but a little hand holding every now and again would be nice.
I finish up my last tutoring session at seven-thirty. Normally, if I'm going to go to the mall, especially on a mission like this, I'll go to the mall a few towns over. Less chance of running into people I know. Considering the time, I know that I need to go to the mall in town. They don't have a Victoria's Secret but I should be able to find something at the department store there. It is Valentine's Day after all. They should have something appropriately sexy. Something that will blow Rob out of the water.
Sliding into a front-row parking spot, I think the gods must be smiling on me for once. I can get in, get what I need, and get out. Making a beeline for the intimate apparel department, I am totally lost once I get there. I would love a corset and garters but realize that I would have absolutely no idea how to go about putting them on. And in all reality, Rob wouldn't know how to take them off. He has enough trouble with undoing my bra hooks. He's pretty clumsy in that department. Then I see it—the perfect thing. It's a red, sheer baby doll with a built-in push-up bra and G-string. I could certainly do without the butt floss, but I guess my sensible cotton granny panties might just spoil the look. I yank it off the rack and head into the dressing room.
Damn, I look good, if I do say so myself.
Even in the dressing room mirror, with that horrendous lighting, I look pretty hot. Well, except for my gray roots, that is. When did they grow back in? I just colored my hair. Oh wait, that was around Christmas. I guess I am due again. I look at my watch and hurry to get dressed. Now I have to stop by the Target to pick up a box of hair color. It's after eight and I still haven't eaten dinner. I left my house fourteen hours ago. At least I'll have this very sexy, very flattering negligee for the weekend. Rob is going to love it.
I pull my shirt back on and walk out of the dressing room, holding the hanger delicately, as to not harm the wisps of fabric that make up the garment. And standing right there is my boss—the high school principal. He's there with his wife. Maybe he won't see me. He looks up from his phone and right at me. He's seen me. There is no avoiding this. And even worse, his eyes dart from my face to my intended purchase.
"Hello Sadie."
"Oh, um, hi John." He's standing there, right by the cash register. In order to check out, I'm going to have to walk right by him and put the sex clothes up on the counter. I drop my hand to my side, hoping to camouflage the negligee. I know he's seen it. My face has got to be as red as the cloth. I do the only thing I can think of. I hang the hanger on the nearest rack and hightail it out of there.
I'm in my car before I can breathe again. Of all the people to run into—my principal! I pull into Target, just wishing I was home and in my jammies. But my gray hairs won't go away by themselves, so I head into the store.