Spiral (5 page)

“Are they okay?” I ask hesitantly, although I know by everyone’s reaction that this is a stupid question.

A police officer steps forward. “Son, I’m sorry to say your aunt and uncle were killed in the crash. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I’m stunned into silence and stare at the cop, slack-jawed.
Killed
. He definitely said killed. Those two people that were here tonight, singing songs and laughing, they’re gone. Dead.

No,
killed
.

The cop pats me on the shoulder, and I know I don’t deserve the sympathy.
Aunt and uncle?
I met them once, at the wedding, for about six minutes.

I didn’t even speak to them tonight, didn’t even know their daughter was famous actress, and Cherie was such a tornado of mean that I made a special effort not to spend more time with them than I’d had to. Now I’ll never have a chance to see them again. No one will, not even their daughter.

Suddenly, that thought arrests my mind. “Where’s Cherie?”

Mom coos at me, “She’s in the other room, honey. The officers brought her here; she’s too young to stay alone. Maybe you can talk to her? I’m sure she’s very upset and might want some company.”

I nod stiffly and follow my mom as she points toward the living room. I don’t see Cherie at first, as if she blends with the expensive furniture that no one is supposed to sit on. Not only is she perched on one of my mom’s fine satin sofas, but she’s holding a glass of water. Food and beverages are supposed to be another no-no in this room. Clearly, tragedy knows no rules.

“Um, hi Cherie,” I call softly.

She looks up at me, stone-faced, her green eyes slicing through me. Her features are so small and delicate, like a China doll. Her cheeks are ashen and her eyes are a little glassy, as if there is a giant waterfall of tears on the brink of gushing through them. Despite all of this, she still manages to look glittery like Hollywood with her trendy clothes and her sparkly makeup. She’s dressed markedly different from the Cherie I saw at dinner, not as prim and proper but more risqué. Had she been out somewhere when this happened?

“Hey.” She mouths the word more than she says it.

“I’m…”
I’m really stupid
, I think as I struggle to find the right words to say. “I heard what happened. I’m really sorry.”

And just like that, her face crinkles, her dam breaks, and she’s in tears. Full-on, face-in-hands, body-quaking, sobbing. I stumble over myself and my words.

“Oh, uh, okay – I – I’m sorry,” I sputter and make my way to her side.
What did I say?
She was fine a moment ago!
I look around; I don’t have a tissue or a napkin or anything I can give her.

She doesn’t need it. She swivels and buries her face into my chest. At first, I’m frozen and incapable of thought. Cherie Belle is practically in my lap, hysterical and latching onto me like I matter. My stomach twists. What do I do? Am I allowed to touch her? My inner-gentleman, the one who’s used to handling crisis situations, is oddly slow to respond. I make a careful hoop around her small body with one arm.

“How?” she whimpers. “How could this happen?”

You must mean: how could this happen in a world as perfect as yours?
I’m shocked at my own rude thought. I shake it from my head.

“One minute, I’m talking to this guy, and the next I’m being escorted in a police car back here!”

I should be ashamed of the twinge of jealousy I feel as my mind runs away with another mean reaction.
What guy? Where is he now? Why am I stuck picking up the pieces of this night and not him? Where’s that girl she brought to dinner with her – isn’t this her job?

I look around. “Where’s, um…”

“I can’t even find Danika,” she murmurs into my shoulder. My shirt is now wet with her tears, but I don’t care. They’re celebrity tears, which are probably like Holy Water or something. “I’ve texted and called – stupid idiot! What am I paying her for if she can’t even be with me at a time like this?”

My thoughts exactly.
“Oh, so she is your assistant,” I conclude.

“How can I go on without them?” Cherie cries into me. “Oh, Daddy!”

I hesitate, digging into my mental rolodex of things people used to say to my mom when she’d cry like this in our mandatory post-Dad family therapy sessions. “You’ll find the strength.” The reasoning fits, so I go with it. “You’re a strong, brave person, and you have a lot going for you. A lot of people love you. You’ll be okay.”

“No! No, I won’t!” she hiccups, pulling away from me to reclaim her breath. “Oh, God…why? Why did this happen?”

I shake my head, spilling more memorized lines. “No one knows why God lets these things happen, but we can’t let them break us. We just have to keep going.”

She quiets.

I’m good at this,
I think proudly.
All those months of therapy were good for something.

Wrong. All wrong. She looks at me like I have four heads. “How could you act like this is no big deal?”

I’m a sputtering, fuel-less engine again. “I – I didn’t mean – it’s just – ”

She’s angry with me. If she could grow spikes and a tail, she would. “I just lost not one but
both
of my parents, and you tell me to move on?!” Holy God is she mad.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never…” I stop and think. I’ve never had someone close to me die except my grandparents, and that was years ago. Well, then Dad left, so maybe that’s kind of like losing someone.

I turn that thought off like a light switch. “I’ve never lost someone before,” I tell her. “Maybe I should get Chloe or Claudia…their mom died, you know.”

She’s looking at me funny again, and I realize she probably already knew that. Her eyes narrow into slits. “You just made all that up?”

I shrug sheepishly. “Kind of. I’m sorry.”

She sniffs and drags her sleeve beneath her nose. “You’d make a pretty good actor.” She looks longingly at the window.

Thank you, a different topic, no more crying!
I nod slowly. “Yeah, but I’ve got a perfect face for radio.”

She turns, and a ghost of a smile plays on her lips at my joke. My insides are pretzeling as I ponder how to keep her on this path and not the crying one. I’m great with jokes, not good with crying.

“Don’t be silly; you are definitely pretty enough.”

Pretty
? “Pretty?” I ask, almost offended, although I’m not really sure if I should be offended. I would prefer “hot,” “handsome,” or “heartthrob.” Pretty is a word reserved for girls. But Cherie Belle just called me pretty, so that’s probably a good thing.

“Yeah, like little boy pretty. Trust me, they like that at my studio; I could set you up with an audition.” Her chest falls suddenly and she slumps. “Oh my God, I can’t go back to work like this! This is going to be all over the news – I’m going to have to give all sorts of interviews…”

I watch her collapse into the couch, silent tears running down her cheeks again. People think of the weirdest things when they’re devastated.

“Do you have to go back to work?” I ask meekly. “Maybe you could just take a break and stay home.”

She looks at me. “Stay home with
who
, Jack?”

She remembered my name. Even says it like we’ve been friends for years. I’m a little shocked, but I don’t let on to her. I try to think about her question instead. There is the glaringly gray area of who her guardians are now.

“Your grandparents?”

Cherie rolls her eyes and takes a sip of water. “I can’t live with them; they’re in an assisted living community.”

“Well, if your mom and dad had a will, then…”

Waterworks again, and this time I can only blame myself. The conversation of wills, legalities, her life being in the hands of others; these were all things she had not yet thought of and normal kids shouldn’t know about. My dad’s exit from our family opened a whole world of things to me that only adults have to know. Cherie’s not there, yet. She’s not there yet, but she will be soon because her parents are dead.

At sixteen. On Christmas Eve – even if she is Jewish.

I hear wailing upstairs.
Britney
! I curse to myself and jump to my feet.

“What’s that?” Cherie practically spits.

My mother calls out, “Jack? Jack, is that your sister?”

I look from Cherie to the stairs and start to inch my way toward them. “I, um, I have to get my little sister. I’m not there, and if she wakes up and I’m not there – you see, she sleeps with me, at night. Like, not in a weird way but, like, she climbs into bed with me – ” It is sounding worse the more I babble.

“Go. Just… go,” Cherie insists, closing her eyes as if the sound of Britney’s crying is nails on a chalkboard to her ears.

I race up the steps and burst through the door, probably scaring Britney even more. Her face is warped with anguish, but she still holds her arms out for me to pick her up.

“I’m sorry, Brat,” I mumble into her hair, holding her close. “I’m here.” She still cries for a little in my arms, but the screaming has stopped.

Now the whole house is awake. I hear Brenton race down the stairs, shouting, “Santa!” Claudia and Chloe are brushing their teeth in the bathroom next door.

Oh, no,
I think.
Now they’ll start crying, too.

I close my eyes. Part of me wants to return to Cherie and sit with her. I don’t know if the terrible twins will be nice, or if Brenton will pester her about her show.

I look down at Britney, who twists a lock of her hair between her fingers and stares vacantly, listening to the sounds of the house. She’s my obligation right now. Cherie has plenty of people to worry about her tonight.

Maybe Danika will finally see her text messages and come running,
I think, slinking to my door and closing it softly. Then I carry my little sister back to bed and lay down with her tucked inside of my arm. She nuzzles me and sucks her thumb, a habit Mom’s trying to break. I let her be for tonight. I’ve officially had my fill of teary-eyed females for one evening.

W
ith Christmas abandoned and nothing worth getting up for, I stay in bed even after Britney leaves me. I stare at my cellphone as it charges on my nightstand, secretly hoping one of my friends will call and give me a reason to leave the house. They’re all busy with family stuff, though. I know I could be busy too, but not with the open-presents-and-have-breakfast kind of family stuff. I do my duty and shovel the driveway and the walk, but I watch movies and sports highlights on my laptop and altogether campout in my room afterward.

My mom finally demands my presence for dinner at six o’clock. Cherie doesn’t join us for the meal, opting to instead stay hidden in the basement/makeshift guest room of our house. While the adults sniffle and force smiles at the table, the kids use manners to pass the plates of food around. It feels like I’m caught in a strange dimension where the twins care and our parents aren’t forcing conversation. We don’t open our presents, which are still sitting under the Christmas tree/Hanukkah bush, sad and lonely. We all help to clear the table, and Claudia loads the dishwasher. Chloe carefully puts the leftover food into plastic containers. Brenton brings plates of food down to Cherie and Danika, ever the grateful servant.

My mom almost cries just from how nice and civil we are to one another. The twins hug her. Britney hugs Jim when he starts to cry. I take out the garbage, lower my head, and retreat back to my room.

Mom comes by with a soft knock on my door later. “Can I come in?”

I get up from bed and unlock it, swinging the door open. I don’t make eye contact but go right back to my bed. I pause my fifth movie of the day and avoid her gaze, waiting for her to speak. I don’t want to see her eyes rimmed with red, her nose pink and swollen. It bothers me to see my mom sad; it brings me back to a time I don’t want to remember.

“How are you doing?” she asks, sitting on the foot of my bed.

I check my empty email inbox for the twelfth time. “I’m fine. How’s everyone else?”

She shrugs and sighs. “As good as can be expected, I guess.” She tugs on the leg of my sweatpants then sighs when I won’t look up at her. “Hey.”

“What?” I don’t mean to groan it, but I do.

“I know why you keep hiding in here, Jack, but it’s not going to make it go away,” she says.

“I’m not hiding,” I reply. “I just don’t feel like being around a bunch of people crying all day.”

“Jack, don’t be insensitive,” she chastises. “I didn’t raise you to be that way.” That’s the dreaded Mom argument that she always uses on me – as if I’m making her fail some test by not being perfect. I roll my eyes.

“I’m not being insensitive. I just don’t have anything to say.”