Becoming Death (4 page)

“Mom of the year has got a new man in her life? Strange, but it was only a matter of time, I guess.”

“Of course, Clarissa had to tell me on the drive home that she’s met him and she gives her approval. I didn’t even know the guy existed until yesterday.”

Aaron tapped his chin. “Well I can’t help with that, but I could ask Marcus to have a look at your car.”

A smile crept over my lips. “You mean tall surfer Marcus with the long hair and the great abs?”

Aaron’s gaze flicked upward. “If you mean my brother, yes. He’ll look at the Beetle for free if I ask him.”

I placed my fist in front of my teeth. “It would be great to see him again. It’s been months. When should I call him?”

Aaron waggled his finger at me. “No, you won’t call him. I will. You have to get over this stupid crush you have on him. He’s married now.”

I sat back on the couch, defeated. “Fine, ruin it for me. I just wanted to admire the view anyway.”

Aaron stroked my shoulder. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Anyway, what does Marcus have that I don’t? You get all the joy of living with a Rodriguez brother, and you don’t have to worry about other women mobbing me for attention.”

I smiled at him.

“So with the Beetle out of commission, do you have any more interviews tomorrow that you’ll need a ride to, or are you finished with your ordeal?”

“Nope, thank God. I don’t think I could face any more rejections right now. All I want to do is take a shower, nuke some ramen and watch endless cat videos online until I pass out.”

Aaron rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you have a bath, read your comic and I’ll make you something slightly healthier to eat. How does pancakes sound?”

“Amazing!” I said, jumping up from the sofa.

“See, living with the Rodriguez brother that can cook does have its advantages.”

“It does, but the other brother has rock hard abs to make me forget his flaws.”

“Better make that a cold shower in that case.”

I returned from my bath feeling almost human to find the kitchen filled with the heavenly scent of fresh chocolate-chip pancakes. My stomach growled at the thought.

I found Aaron in the kitchen. “You are never going to believe this. Riga Tony captured Ethan just when he and Skye were about to hook up.”

“Darn that evil pasta.”

I glared at him before laying my head on his shoulder. “Are they almost ready?”

“Two minutes to go. Are you finished fantasizing over my brother?”

“If I have to be.”

I watched him, noticing a smile crossing his lips as he flipped the pancakes. “You always look so happy when you cook.”

“It relaxes me. I need it after this week’s exams.”

“How much would your dad freak if you became a chef instead of a doctor?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t joke about that in front of him. You’ll give him a heart attack. He’s doing double shifts at the hardware store just to pay for my tuition.” He shook the spatula at me.

I held my hands up. “It was only an idea.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go choose a movie. I’ll bring the food out to you when it’s ready.”

I squeezed his shoulders before heading back into living room. I plopped myself in front of our DVD collection and looked for a suitable choice. I dismissed half of my movies as being not guy-friendly before setting on a zombie comedy. As much as I enjoyed the jokes, the gore and blood was a little much for me, but Aaron would like it.

Aaron carried through two plates of pancakes and set them on the coffee table. “Did you find something?”

I waved the DVD box at him for approval.

“Perfect,” he said. “I’m relieved you didn’t take total advantage of the situation and force me into a chick flick coma.”

“I still have time to change my mind…” I told him, sticking out my tongue as I loaded the DVD into the player.

“And I could still eat both plates of pancakes.”

“Mine,” I said, picking up my plate and cradling it against my chest as I joined him on the sofa.

Sundays meant one thing in the Clark family: brunches at my mother’s house. Every Sunday, my mother would gather my sister, my aunt, my grandmother and me into her dining room to try to out-do the previous week’s meal. My mother had toyed with the idea of being a chef when she was my age, but her love of numbers had won out. Every week, my family gathered as her guinea pigs to see what she had whipped up, knowing full well that the table would be filled with more food than most families ate at Thanksgiving and every one of us would be sent home with a stuffed container of leftovers to get us through the rest of the week. Not that I was complaining. After all, it was free food.

With my car out of commission, my only form of transport to get across town was my pink kiddie bike complete with a tacky plastic flower basket mounted on the front. I spent most of the ride with my knees banging against the handlebars and dishing out sarcastic comments to ten-year-olds trying to make fun of me. I clutched my chest, trying to get my breath back as I parked my bike in the driveway of my parents’ house. I was three hours early but with good reason. I wanted to get the lowdown on my mother’s new man and also grill her about that mysterious trunk stashed in her living room.

I knocked on the door and waited patiently for my mother to answer. After hearing no sounds inside, I decided there was no harm in letting myself in, so I dug my key out of my jeans pocket and opened the door myself, locking it behind me once inside.

“Mom, you here?”

My voiced echoed in the empty hallway so I stopped to listen intently. The empty house was cold and uninviting. My spine tingled as I wandered into the living room. I rubbed my palms over my bare arms. Once again, I was drawn to the sofa. My eyes locked on the immaculately clean cream piece of furniture and I instinctively lunged towards it. The trunk my mother wanted to remain a secret may have been disguised, but I knew I was meant to find it, to open it. As my fingers touched the leather, I paused. The whisper of my name seemed to echo in my ear.

“Is someone there?” My eyes darted around the room, checking for an audience. “Mom? Clarissa?”

I was met with only the sound of my own heavy breathing, so I reached down to remove the leather cushions. My chest tightened awkwardly as I stare at what my search had turned up.

Nothing.

It wasn’t there.

My mind raced with thoughts. Had I imagined it? Could I be crazy? I know what I had seen before— right? I pushed at the fabric stretching across the sofa frame and felt the padding underneath.

Rubbing my chin, I stood.

She’d moved it.

For the first time in my life, I wanted Clarissa to be right, for this trunk to have nothing to do with me—but, deep down, I knew she was wrong. Something didn’t add up. I felt drawn to it like a smoker desperate for their next cigarette. Whatever my mother was hiding, it was something dark.

I needed to open it.

I had to open it.

My heart pounded so fiercely inside my chest that I was certain, or at least mostly certain, that if I didn’t find it soon, I’d die.

Scanning the room, I noticed only one thing was different. The rug had been moved. I crossed the room, kicking it away and exposing a loose, sorely sticking up floorboard.

Bingo.

I found an unknown strength as I pulled away the boards with my bare hands. My fingers were raw by the time I’d finished—but I’d found it. My breathing grew heavy as I allowed myself to run my fingers over the carved letters spelling out my name. A pale smear of blood stained the wood. My fingers fit snugly into the grooves as if I had clawed these letters with my own nails.

“Clark.” The word came out in a deep voice I didn’t recognize as my own.

My fingers shook and, angrily, I told myself to calm down.

I lunged forwards and pulled at the heavy lock guarding the trunk’s secret. The rust scraped my skin as I pulled harder and harder. Blood dipped down my wrists.

I gritted my teeth, then let out a snarling, “Open, open right now!”

It didn’t budge.

I slammed the lock down against the wood and kicked my heel into it. “Open! Open!” I snatched up a vase from a nearby table and shattered it against the lock for extra measure. That didn’t bother to work either.

I paused, staring down at my hand that was now covered in cuts and blood. The sight made me flinch. I wiped the blood on the bottom of my “Riga Tony is a loser” t-shirt. With my other hand, I pushed back my hair and rubbed my forehead, trying to initiate a moment of sanity.

What had I done? Where was this feeling coming from? I searched for answers but my mind was cloudy—the only thing running through my head was: “Key. Find the key.”

The words echoed in my mind until I found myself chanting them aloud. “Key… key… key… Where is the key?”

I walked to my mother’s desk and yanked the drawers from their runners before dumping the contents onto the rug. Kneeling on the floor, I sifted through the contents in desperation.

“Nothing!” I growled softly. Standing, I kicked the paper and pens in front of me.

Where was it? Where would she hide it?

I took the stairs to my mother’s bedroom, two at a time, gripping the railing tighter the higher as I went. Dizziness was over-taking me, but I couldn’t stop until that trunk was open.

I tore into her bedroom, ransacking anything that could be a hiding spot. I ripped through my mother’s closet looking in every shoe, my father’s old golf bag and her gardening gloves. How long had she been hiding this secret? Maybe my whole childhood had passed with this dark secret looming overhead. Or maybe it had started more recently than that. Had my father known? What could she have to hide?

I picked up the wooden jewelry box my father had given my mother for their first anniversary. My breathing slowed as I ran my fingers over the flower patterns painted on the top. I had always admired it. I opened the lid and the soft melody played, causing time to stop. I closed my eyes, taking in the sound while remembering a simpler time when my family was whole, happy and had no secrets to hide. After exhaling until the last notes wound down and left my mind, I neatly turned the box upside down, emptying the keepsakes inside before tossing it onto the floor.

No key.

As I started to cross the room to rip apart my mother’s bedding, I tripped over the waste bin she kept next to her dresser. Righting the bin, something inside clinked.

Something metallic.

Frozen in place, I lifted the bin to my ear and shook it again just to be sure. When I am rewarded with the familiar sound, I know the smile spreading across my face is too wide to be considered normal, but who cared? I had it!

My breath quickened as I lifted the empty bag from inside the waste bin. There, resting neatly at the bottom of the bin, sat a golden key—my key. I picked it up and dropped the bin onto the floor. This had to be it. Cradling the key in my palm, I examine the letters G.R. engraved into its bow.

My curiosity reared its ugly head, littering my focus with thoughts of who G.R. was or used to be… and what the letters could stand for if, on the odd chance, they didn’t actually refer to a person. Gripping the key tighter, I silenced the rambling thoughts and forced my thoughts back to the task at hand.

Screw G.R.—I had what I needed.

I ran down the stairs with excitement. I had it. I would be able to open the trunk and find out what my mom was hiding. I reassured myself that I needed to do this, but I couldn’t help but pause in front of the trunk wondering if this would change our relationship. Anything could be in there: proof that I was adopted, information about a secret second family or, knowing my mother, stolen recipes. If only my mom had given me some sort of explanation, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to ransack her house, bloodied my hands or feel like she was the enemy.

It was her own fault.

I pushed the key into the rusty lock with both hands.

The gold key fit snugly and made a tiny click as I turned it. I didn’t fight my widening grin. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the lid—and the sound of the door unlocking broke the silence around me.