Shattered (7 page)

I just shrug. “I don’t see why not.”

He nods as he dumps the contents of his mug into the sink. The black coffee leaves a dark streak on the white porcelain, which he doesn’t even rinse off. Mom wouldn’t like that. But she wouldn’t say a word either. She would simply scrub it clean and white just as soon as Dad was out of the kitchen.

“Did you check the messages on the answering machine?” I ask him. “There were a lot of calls yesterday. I turned the volume off because I got so sick of hearing them.”

“People mean well,” he says in a flat tone.

“I guess.”

“And I wrote down a couple of messages from this morning,” Aunt Kellie informs him. “They’re by the phone.” She points to me. “One call was for you, a girl named Lola. She said she’d called your cell phone, but you didn’t answer. So I explained about your mother.”

“You told Lola?
”

Aunt Kellie blinks at me. “Was there a reason not to tell her?”

“No,” I snap at her. “Except that Lola is my best friend and if anyone was going to tell her about this, it should’ve been me.”

“Then maybe you better call her. She sounded pretty upset when I told her...”

But I am already on my way to my room. Grabbing my cell phone, I see that Lola has called me several times. I hit speed dial, and she answers on the first ring.

“Cleo!” she cries. “What happened? Is it true what your aunt said?”

“It’s true,” I say quietly.

“Oh, Cleo!
” And now Lola is crying, which makes me start crying. And for several minutes we both just sob on the phone.

“I wish I was there with you now,” she says in a broken voice. “I told Mom that I wanted to get on a plane and fly right back there, but she won’t let me. She says we can’t afford it.”

“That’s okay. There’s really nothing you could do around here anyway.”

“I could hug you,” she says in a slightly hurt tone. “And I could be there for you... and listen.”

“Yeah... I know.”

“How did it happen, Cleo? Was it like your aunt said? Was she really
murdered?”

“
Yeah. It happened on Friday night. The night you spent here.”

“Wow, and we never even knew about it.”

“They didn’t discover her—her body until Saturday morning.”

“Did her death have anything to do with the bachelorette party?”

“No, it happened after the party. Mom was in her car. The police think it was a carjacker.”

“Oh, that’s so horrible. Unbelievable. I’m so sorry, Cleo. Is there anything I can do? I mean, besides pray for you. I’ve been doing that all morning.”

“Thanks.”

“I can’t even imagine what you must be going through right now.”

“Yeah... it’s been pretty surreal. It actually kind of felt like I was going crazy last night.”

“I’ll bet. Are you better now?”

“I think I’m a little saner today.” Okay, that might be an overstatement, but no sense in worrying her too much.

“Well, I’ll keep praying for you and your dad, too. I called the church prayer chain too, but someone there had already heard the news and they’ve been praying for you guys since yesterday.”

“Oh...”

“I just can’t believe the timing, Cleo. That the same day I move away, you find out your mom’s been killed. That’s just so weird.”

“Yeah, it’s been hard. I should probably go now,” I say, even though I don’t really need to. “There’s a lot to do today.” Another lie. Lie upon lie upon lie. If my lies were bricks, I might be able to build a house. Or a box. Or a prison cell.

“All right. But call me if I can do anything,
okay?
Even if it’s just to listen. You know I’m a good listener, Cleo.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.” Then we say good-bye, and I turn off my phone. I really don’t want to talk to anyone today. Not even Lola. And the reason I don’t want to talk to Lola is because I’m not being completely honest with her. I didn’t tell her how and why my mom died. Of course, she didn’t ask. Not specifically anyway. But it would’ve been coming. And then what would I say? More lies? Or would I just try to avoid answering? And how is that different from outright lying?

It is a slow and steady torture knowing it’s my fault my mother was murdered, but it would be even worse if I had to admit this to anyone. I cannot imagine how my dad would react if he knew the truth. Or Aunt Kellie. They both loved Mom, maybe as much as I did. How can I ever tell them, or anyone for that matter, that I am the reason she is dead? For now... and maybe forever... this will remain my deep, dark secret.

After “haunting” the house last night, I feel completely exhausted today. Drained. So I go back to bed. Sleep would be a welcome escape. As I close my eyes, I remember how my mother used to read fairy tales to me, and how much I loved the story about Sleeping Beauty. I’m not even sure why since the passive princess mostly just slept while the prince did all of the work to rescue her. Maybe it was because she looked so serenely beautiful in the illustration, peacefully sleeping as thorns grew over the castle.

As I feel myself drifting off, I wish I could sleep for days, weeks, months on end. Is it possible to lull oneself into a coma? I would like that.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Cleo, Cleo... wake up.
Wake up”

Still wrapped in thick slumber, I feel like I’m trying to emerge from a pudding-like fog, but I feel certain I can hear my mother’s voice calling me. And I want to wake up. Yet when I open my eyes, it’s not her. It’s Aunt Kellie.

“You don’t want to sleep your life away, honey.”

I don’t? I close my eyes and turn away, pulling my comforter tightly around me.

“Come on, Cleo. I know you’re sad. We’re all sad. But sleeping won’t help.” She peels my comforter away from me, and I sit up and glare at her.

“Just leave me alone,” I snarl.

“That’s not what your mom would want.”

“How do you know what she’d want?”

“You know how much your mom loved you. It would break her heart to see you suffering like this.”

“Mom is gone.” I grab back my comforter.

“I know.” She sits on the edge of my bed. “But you’re still here, Cleo.”

Tell me about it. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

Now she stands and I think maybe she’s going to go. But instead she bends over and starts making the trundle bed. I just watch her with narrowed eyes, thinking,
Fine, let her make that
bed. And then she can get out of here.
But she doesn’t stop there. The next thing I know she is straightening my room, acting as if I’m not even here, as if she hasn’t totally invaded my space.

“Just leave that stuff alone,” I tell her as she gathers up my dirty laundry.

“Your mom wouldn’t want you living in squalor, Cleo.”

“My mother isn’t here!”

“But I am,” she says calmly. “And since you seem unable to get up and clean your room, I will—”

“Get out of here!” I yell now. “I can clean my own room.”

With one brow arched, she just looks at me.

“Go on!” I get out of bed and snatch the dirty clothes from her. “This is my room. I will take care of it.”

She nods. “Okay then.”

I stand there just glaring at her. I’m stunned at how much rage I feel toward my aunt. It’s like she’s the devil—and I hate her. I know it’s totally irrational and it would make my mother sad to know this, but it’s how I feel. And at the moment, my aunt and I are having a silent stare down, but I’m pretty sure I can win.

I give her my best snooty expression now. Holding my dirty laundry, I stand there with narrowed eyes, taking her inventory in exactly the way some of the snottiest girls at my school might do. And although I hate when that’s done to me and I’ve never done it to anyone else, it’s like I can’t stop myself. Like something in me is terribly broken. And despite knowing it’s wrong, I don’t even care that I’m treating my aunt like this. I look at her like she’s something smelly stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

But seriously, I’ve always wondered how this woman can possibly be a relative when she looks and smells like an alien from another planet. Planet Frumpy. Aunt Kellie is a few years younger than my mother, but I’ve always thought she looked much older. Prematurely gray and overweight, she’s dowdy and homely and dresses like a bad advertisement for a ValueMart clearance rack. And yet she seems totally oblivious to her appearance. It’s like she’s completely clueless as to how pathetic she looks. Even when my mom used to take her shopping, trying to help her, Aunt Kellie resisted. I suppose she simply doesn’t care.

It could be the result of not having a daughter, someone who could point out this woman’s fashion faux pas. Because, seriously, I never would have allowed my mother to leave the house looking like
that.
But then Aunt Kellie never had kids. She married this old dude who is about twenty years older than her, and I’m pretty sure they sleep in separate beds. Not that it’s any of my business, but I overheard my mother talking to her before. And it always sounded pretty sad. Anyway, to say my Aunt Kellie is a loser is not really an exaggeration.

Finally our stare-down comes to an end, and I assume my aunt has decided it’s useless to reason with me. After she leaves my room, I firmly (as in hint-hint) slam my door. I wish I had a dead bolt. Maybe I’ll get one if this woman continues to impose her presence upon us, which I’m sure is possible since she seems to think we need “looking after” as she puts it.

I throw my dirty clothes back onto the floor, give them a kick to splay them about in a messy way, then get back into bed. Aunt Kellie might be my mother’s only sister, but that doesn’t earn her the right to tell me what to do or how to live (rather
not
live) my life. And the sooner she figures this out, the better off we’ll all be.

If I had more nerve—and who knows it might be just a matter of time—I would say, “Go home, Aunt Kellie. You are so not wanted here!”

O
n Monday, I refuse to go to school and no one questions this. Aunt Kellie defends me, saying I’m still “in mourning.” Like maybe I should be wearing a black veil or something. Whatever. But by afternoon I am pacing around the house and feeling somewhat insane, not to mention sleep deprived since I was unable to sleep last night—and for some reason I can’t sleep today either.

What if I’m unable to ever sleep again? What if the punishment for what I’ve done—my own personal hell—is to be forever awake and conscious of my guilt? My guilt that I can never, ever confess. My guilt that will have to accompany me to the grave.

At first, I’d been surprised that my dad hadn’t questioned why my mom was in the city on Friday night. He never voiced any curiosity over what it was that put her “in the wrong place at the wrong time,” as the police had said. But last night I heard Dad talking to Aunt Kellie. He was in his office and unaware I was listening. And really, I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but I was sitting in the living room with the lights out and with his voice raised like that, I couldn’t help but overhear.

“This is all due to that stupid bachelorette party,” he ranted. “If Karen hadn’t gone to that idiotic bash, she would still be here right now.”

“You can’t blame a party for what happened to Karen,” Aunt Kelly told him.

“I can if I want to! And why, pray tell, does a woman in her late fifties feel the need to have a
bachelorette
party in the first place? For Pete’s sake, it was Trina’s
third
wedding. She could’ve just quietly gotten married and let that be the end of it. But, no, she’s got to plan some ridiculous shindig in the city, gathering all her old girlfriends around her like she thinks she’s Sarah Jessica Parker. Then she keeps them out late at night, and I’m sure there was a lot of drinking going on, too.”

“But Karen doesn’t... I mean, didn’t ever drink.”

“No, that’s just my point. Trina and her childishly selfish bachelorette party. Karen shouldn’t have gone to it. She was
never
like that! It was Trina’s bad influence—Trina is to blame for all of this!”

“Oh, Hugh. You’re just hurting.”

“You bet I’m hurting! Trina’s partially responsible for Karen’s death. If she hadn’t insisted on having that senseless party, my wife would still be alive today. Can you deny that, Kellie?”

“It’s not fair to blame Trina. She never—”

“It’s not fair that I have lost my wife! In fact, after she gets back from her honeymoon, I’ve got a mind to call up Trina and tell her just that.”

“Oh, Hugh!” Aunt Kellie switches to a scolding tone now. “You wouldn’t dare. Really, how would that make Karen feel?”

“She can’t feel anything, Kellie. She is dead.”

“Karen is not dead. She is alive with God in heaven. You know she was a believer, Hugh. How can you talk like that?”

“Maybe I should blame God then,” my dad challenged her. “Why did he let my wife die a horrible death like that? Why?”

“God doesn’t control people. If humans make wrong choices, like to murder someone, God doesn’t stop them.”