Shattered (20 page)

“Until recently.”

“But you’re turning it around now. You’re going to learn from this. And you’ll be stronger for it. You won’t let it ruin your life. It’s not going to define who you are, Cleo. You are going to make your mother proud.”

“And my father?”

“He’ll be proud, too. In time, he’ll be proud. In the meantime, you need to remember that you have another father, a powerful heavenly father, who loves you even more fiercely than your mother ever could.”

“I haven’t been able to pray... not since she died.”

“But now you’ve confessed your sin to me, Cleo. And you need to confess it to God, too. Pour out your heart to him. He’ll forgive you and cleanse you. And he’ll give you a fresh start.”

She offers to pray with me, and we bow our heads right there in the kitchen. And I confess all that I’ve messed up to God. I even tell him about how I was so angry at him, how I blamed him, turned my back on him, even though I knew it was my own selfish fault that I was so miserable. By the time we say “amen,” I do feel different. And I feel like God’s forgiven me.

As for my dad... I don’t know.

. . . . . . . .

Not only does my father not offer any forgiveness, he is not speaking to me either. He leaves for his next trip without saying a word, not even good-bye. But somehow, even without pills, I survive the next few days. This is mostly due to Aunt Kellie.

First she takes away my cell phone, and then she keeps her promise—she stands by me as I experience withdrawal. Actually she spends more time sitting with me. She sits by my bed as I experience chills and fever and shaking. And when I start crying and can’t stop, she holds my hand. Then she holds my hair away from my face as I barf my guts out into the toilet.

By Wednesday afternoon, the physical symptoms subside some. Except for the shaking—that still comes and goes. But now I am so conscious, so aware, so raw—all I want is something to take the edge off... a little relief.

But when Aunt Kellie catches me with my hand on the phone (I don’t think I really planned to call T. J., but I’m not totally sure either), she removes the phone from the jack and hands me a notebook and a pen.

“Write about your feelings,” she instructs me. “It’s good therapy.” Then she takes me into the kitchen, where she makes me chamomile tea and toast. “Things are getting better, Cleo, and you’re doing great.”

And then she puts her hands on my head and prays for me to be healed. This is something new to me, but it feels amazingly good and it gives me hope.

I write out my thoughts and my fears and my feelings, filling up page after page of my journal—most of it’s about Mom. And Aunt Kellie keeps on cooking things she thinks I’ll want to eat. Sometimes she reads to me from her Bible. And she prays with me. This continues for three days. Three long days.

“I thought going through all that, you know, losing Mom and everything... was the hardest thing I’d ever go through,” I tell Aunt Kellie on Saturday evening as I’m getting ready for bed. We think that Monday I should return to school. “And it really was... actually it still is. But I think the past three days might’ve been the hardest part yet.”

“You know, Jesus spent three days in the grave,” she tells me as she brushes my hair. “And then he rose from the dead.”

“Do you think I can do that?” I sigh. “Rise from the dead?”

“All things are possible with God.”

I know what I’m experiencing is a relatively small form of withdrawal. Because my aunt tells me about others she’s known who went through some major withdrawal from extremely addictive substances like cocaine or methamphetamines. Even so, this feels hard enough for me, and I’m thankful I wasn’t even more addicted to those stupid pills. And now when I say, “Never again,” I’m pretty sure I mean it. Just the idea of chills, fever, shaking, and vomiting makes me want to stay far, far away from that crud.

As Aunt Kellie drives me to school on Monday, I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain. Even though I still feel a little shaky around the edges, I’m ready to return to my former life. But I never could’ve done it without Aunt Kellie and God, plus my journal and a couple of very honest phone calls with my old friend Lola, who now knows the whole story.

“I can’t believe everything you’ve gone through,” Lola told me last night. “I wish I’d been there for you. I mean, I was actually feeling sorry for myself because I was having a hard time restarting my life without my best friend by my side. I can’t even imagine how you’re doing it—especially with all the crud you’ve been hit with. I think I’d have been totally devastated.”

“I was devastated,” I admitted. “But I’ve been learning how to rely on God more.”

“That’s great to hear. You have no idea how much I’ve been praying for you, Cleo.”

“I can tell.” And then I asked her to pray for my first day back at school—drug free. “I know it’s going to be hard.”

“You’re going to do fine,” she assured me with far more confidence than I could muster. “I just know. And trust me, I’ll be praying!”

By the end of the school day, I feel certain that she was praying. Not only that, I almost feel like I’m becoming myself again. Okay, a different kind of myself. Or maybe I’m just becoming more of a complete person.

Daniel and the others show me sympathy, thinking that I’ve been home with a bad case of flu. And part of me wants to tell them the truth, but the rest of me isn’t ready for that just yet. So I suppose I might seem a bit distant... disconnected. But I’m doing the best I can.

Amanda isn’t a bit happy to see me back at ballet. In fact, she actually thought I’d quit for good. But I’m more determined than ever to do my very best in the recital—without pills. So unless I break a leg, literally, I will be dancing the lead. Not only do I want to make my mom proud, but Madame Reginald as well. Especially after she’s been so understanding.

“You’ve been different today,” Daniel tells me on Thursday when he meets me after ballet and, as usual, we get coffee. “You seem quieter.”

It’s funny because something about being in school, dancing in ballet, standing up to Amanda, and keeping my promise to Madame makes me feel stronger somehow. I think I’m ready to tell him the truth.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “In fact, there’s something I’ve been wanting to explain to you.” I feel nervous and yet strangely calm at the same time. I want to confess to Daniel about what I’ve gone through, starting with the night my mom was murdered until now.

This could end our relationship, but I’m so tired of lies that I’m willing to take the risk. I just want to be free of all this—as free as I can be anyway. Not only do I admit to him that I blamed myself for Mom’s death, but I also confess how that guilt pushed me to use drugs.

“It’s humiliating to tell you this,” I say finally. “But if we’re going to be together, you deserve to know the truth about me.”

“Wow.” He slowly shakes his head with a stunned expression. “Wow...”

“I know, it’s pretty creepy. And I realize that this might change how you feel about me. I mean, in a way, I deceived you too. I deceived everyone. Mostly myself. And as hard as it is to admit what I did—especially to say those words out loud—it’s a huge relief to have it out in the open.” Maybe the truth really does set you free.

To my surprise, he chuckles. “It’s funny, you know, because Geoff made a comment after that night we went to the movies. The next day, he texted me saying he suspected you were high on something. But I texted him back, saying he was nuts and you would never use drugs.”

“But he was absolutely right.”

“Are you going to tell him, too?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why he needs to know everything. Not that I want to hide it. And I don’t mind if you tell him. It’s up to you, Daniel.” “I don’t see why he needs to know either.” “And really, I’ll understand if you don’t want to be with me now.”

He laughs. “Are you kidding?”

“No.” I stare at him in wonder. Is this even possible? Does Daniel still like me?

“So are you saying you don’t want to be
with me
now?” He looks slightly worried.

“Of course not.” I can’t help but smile at him. I had so hoped this would be his reaction, but I was prepared for the worst. And I told myself that if he wasn’t who I thought he was, I’d be better off without him anyway. Still I’m relieved.

“It’s good to see you happier, Cleo.”

“It’s weird. I
do
feel happier. Not exactly happy-happy. I mean, in some ways it feels like I’m still in the early stages of the grief process. But according to the book I’m reading, that’s normal. When you use something to block your emotions, it’s like you get stuck. It’s better to just experience the pain... deal with it... get beyond it.”

“Are you going to that grief group?”

I nod. “I’ll be there. Saturday morning.”

“And my offer’s still good. I’ll go with you if you want.”

“I appreciate that. But I’m okay to go on my own. Unless you want to go for your own sake.”

“No, I’m pretty much okay.”

We talk some more, and as he drives me home, I feel like life is on its way back to some kind of normal. And that actually feels pretty good. Like I might have a life again. An authentic life where I face even the hardest kind of truth and don’t use chemicals to escape. And sure, it’s a challenge, but the reward—a deep sense of peace and wholeness—seems to be worth it.

By the weekend, and after my first experience with the grief group, I feel even more hopeful. I think I’m starting to heal, and the pieces are slowly being put back together again. However, there’s one part of my life that’s still broken.

My dad is still angry at me.

He’s home from his trip now, and I’m trying to stay out of his way, mostly in my room, since my very presence seems to aggravate him even more. On Sunday night, he made an excuse to take his dinner to his office, claiming he would work while he ate. But I know he’s just trying to avoid me. And that hurts a lot.

I even wrote out a long letter of apology to him last night. I left it on his desk this morning before church, which he also “excused” himself from. I have no idea whether or not he’s read my letter... or if he’ll respond. And really, I can’t blame him. How do you forgive someone for being part of the reason that the love of your life is gone?

Just thinking of this still slices me to the core. I realize my mom made her own choice that night. I can accept that I had no control over that. But at the same time, I’m fully aware that if I hadn’t disobeyed her wishes for me to stay home, she never would’ve made that choice.

“I know your mom was having a hard time letting you grow up,” Aunt Kellie tells me as I help her clean up after dinner. As it often happens now, our conversation drifts toward my mom. It’s like I’m still processing a lot of things. “And I’m sure most other girls your age would’ve been allowed to do things that Karen wasn’t comfortable with.”

“That’s true.” I nod. “Lola’s mom pretty much lets her do as she pleases. Her theory is that Lola’s going to make mistakes, and she’d rather she made them while she’s living at home than when she’s off at college.”

“That seems sensible. But in your mom’s defense, she was like a pendulum.”

“Pendulum?” I pause from rinsing a plate.

“You know how you swing a pendulum one way and it naturally has to swing back to the opposite side?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, your mom was swinging in the opposite direction of her upbringing. Our parents failed miserably at protecting their children. Your mom was determined to protect you from everything and anything. As negligent as our parents were, your mom was kind of obsessed with your safety and well-being.”

“I know.”

“I remember talking to her a few months ago. I asked her how she was going to do when you went away to college.” Aunt Kellie sighed and shook her head. “It seemed like she didn’t even want to think about it.”

“She never wanted to
talk
about it either. It’s like she was in denial, like she honestly believed that I was never going to leave this home.”

“It would’ve been hard on her.”

“And me too,” I admit. “Now it’s like it can’t happen soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure that Dad can’t wait until I’m gone.” I start feeling weepy now. But I know that’s normal, and I need to let the tears fall. I need to feel this pain; it’s the only way to get better.

“He’s going to come around, Cleo.” Aunt Kellie hands me a paper towel for my nose and gives me a hug. “You just need to be patient.”

“Yeah... I know.” And I’m trying to be patient, but I’m worried that he’s never going to get past this thing—he’s never going to forgive me. I’ve heard of people who carry a grudge for years, getting more and more bitter and closed off. I hate to think of that happening to my dad. Not just in regard to my relationship with him, but I hate to think of him being so miserable with others as well. For his own sake, I wish he could forgive me... move on.

But the fact that he’s still avoiding me and planning to leave for another business trip tomorrow—not that I blame him—sends a pretty clear message that he wants to keep distancing himself from me. Even so, I’m praying I’ll get the chance to speak to him before he leaves. Another week of being cut off like this feels unendurable.