Instinct (17 page)

My mother’s
voice rises in parting and she joins us in my room. “I’m afraid to take you
home,” she says brightly, holding a sheaf of papers that I assume detail how to
care for a recovering hypothermic patient.

“When can we
leave?” I ask patiently, ignoring her first statement.

“As soon as
they get that nasty IV out of you.” She turns her falsely cheerful smile on Jake.
“It was so nice of you to check on her, Jake. Derry will need her friends;
she’s been through a lot.”

I suppress the
hysterical laugh bubbling up from the knot in my throat. The thought of Jake
being my comforting new friend gives me a giddy sensation of unreality, both
appealing and disquieting at the same time.

“Where’s
Cole?” I ask, wondering why Jake is here without his brother, the one that
could reasonably be considered, if not a friend, at least an ally.

Jake’s face is
stony as he returns his gaze to me. “He couldn’t make it,” he replies shortly.
My skin buzzes uncomfortably.

“My father
told me to tell you to call him if you need anything,” Jake says, turning back
to my mom. She glances away to hide the satisfied smile that pulls at her lips
before thanking Jake and telling him to come visit me later, when I’m feeling
better. Before I have the chance to contradict her, Jake is gone, throwing one
last inscrutable look my way. My arm is still warm where his fingers brushed.

The next few
days are a blur. Mom brings me home and promptly quarantines me in my room, not
allowing me to go outside or return to school for fear that I will somehow
relapse. I don’t bother arguing with her. I find I don’t have the energy to do
anything but lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying that whole night
over and over again in my head.

Every now and
then I hear the front door open and close, indistinguishable conversations
taking place beneath me. My mother comes up every so often to check on me and bring
me food, but I only get out of bed to use the bathroom, preferring to remain
cocooned in my nest of blankets, shutting out the rest of the world until the
thought of Nicole doesn’t hurt so much.

On the evening
of the third day since I came home, Mom enters my room, placing a steaming mug
of tea on the bedside table before standing over me, hands on her hips,
clucking disapprovingly.

“I’m afraid
you’re broken,” she says bracingly, gritting her teeth to make an entirely
unconvincing smile.

“What?” I ask
wearily. She sighs and passes a hand over her face. I look at her more
carefully and am surprised to see strain written all over her features. Her
eyes are red and puffy, dark rings around them so deep she looks bruised.
Everything about her seems to droop and a stab of guilt pricks at me.
Resentful, I push it aside, unwilling to add any more to the sea I’m already
drowning in.

            “I said it’s time
to get up. The viewing is tonight, and you need to be there.”

Her words are
like a slap to the face. I shoot her a dirty look and bury my head in my
pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her voice.

“I’ve already
seen her,” I retort, knowing if I ever actually get out of bed, out of the
house, see other people, I’ll be forced to acknowledge the fact that the world
hasn’t stopped spinning, that time didn’t just stop the moment I saw the shadow
from the bridge.

“Honey, I know
this has been awful for you. But you have to get up. You can’t just stop living
because of what happened. You need to start moving on,” Mom says gently,
cradling my head in her hand before she stiffens and her voice resumes its
usual brisk tones. “Get up, get a shower, and meet me downstairs in half an
hour. No more wallowing,” she commands before exiting the room, the sound of
her footsteps in the hall determined and sharp.

I lay there
for another ten minutes, refusing to process what she has asked of me, refusing
to even consider complying. Finally, more out of a habit of obedience than an
active decision to do so, I roll out of bed and stumble into the hall bathroom,
turning the hot water on full blast in the shower, still trying to reach the
frozen core that hasn’t budged since I found Nicole.

Twenty minutes
later I am downstairs, dressed in black, my still damp hair twisted into a
sloppy coil at the nape of my neck. Mom shakes her head when she sees me, but
gives her best attempt at an encouraging smile and herds me out the door before
I can change my mind.

There is only
one funeral parlor in town, just a few minutes from the high school. At one
point it was a huge old Victorian home, no doubt some pastel color frosted with
all the usual frills and gables, but now it is stripped of all fancy and
painted in weather-stained ivory with black shutters. The huge wraparound porch
is enclosed and filled to the brim with people waiting in line to get inside. I
shudder, wondering if they are all here for Nicole. I can’t help but think of
how alone she felt, how desperate she was to find a friend and wonder where
these people were then.

“I don’t think
I can do this,” I whisper, more to myself than to Mom. She reaches over and
squeezes my hand.

“You can,
sweetie. And you need to. C’mon. Let’s get through this,” she insists,
maintaining her firm grip on my hand and tugging me forward. Unless I want to
make a scene I have no choice but to follow her, so I grumble under my breath
and trudge alongside, each step more uncertain than the last.

We join the
crowd at the back of the receiving line after establishing that yes, everyone
is here for Nicole’s viewing. I look around at the faces of those in line and
smother a sense of disgust. They are nothing but ghouls. They are buzzards,
here to pick at what’s left of Nicole to feed their own sense of self-importance.
Just ahead of me I see Tasha chatting animatedly with one of her clones and a scorching
bitterness pulses at the back of my throat. My skin hums discordantly, and the
insincerity hovering around me like a poisonous fog is suffocating.

Tasha spots me
and her eyes gleam with wicked satisfaction. She waves her hand and gestures
for me to join her. I glare back at her in astonishment, wondering how she
could possibly think I’d be so stupid. When I don’t respond she frowns and
mutters something to her companion before pushing her way through the crowd to
reach me. Mom’s hand is steady on my back, clearly stating her intent to make
me suffer through this no matter what.

“I’m
pretending to care so I can get attention,” she says breathlessly, halting
beside me as though it is completely natural. I continue to glare at her and
her smile falters, eyes darting back and forth anxiously.

“Who’s your
friend, Derry?” Mom asks gently. I glance at her and then at Tasha, ignoring
the friendly, sympathetic smile she wears and remember the vicious glint in her
eyes when she tormented Nicole, how easy it was for her to destroy my friend
without a second thought.

“She’s not my
friend,” I reply coldly and turn my back on Tasha, irritation flaring when Mom
hisses her disapproval.

“Derry,
really,” she says, fingernails pressing into my back.

“She’s the one
who started all the rumors about Nicole on Facebook. She made Nicole’s life
miserable,” I answer, my voice devoid of all emotion. Angry red colors Tasha’s
face as she glances around to see how many people overheard. Everyone around us
has stopped talking and is watching our exchange with unabashed curiosity.
Several adults look at Tasha with disapproval, but most of the onlookers are
our classmates, and they are moving their eyes back and forth between us like
watching a tennis match.

“That’s so not
true,” Tasha says loudly, avoiding my eyes and whatever unwelcome truth they
hold for her. Why she is bothering to deny it now when for months she had no
problem letting everyone know what she thought about Nicole is beyond me, but
it’s clear from the expressions of those around us that everyone knows the
truth.

“Yes it is,
Tasha. Everyone knows. I’m not sure what you’re doing here,” a smooth, cool
voice says behind me, and fierce nausea erupts in my stomach, threatening to
bubble over and turn me into a slobbering mess on the floor. Mom’s hand on my
back steadies me, but nothing has prepared me for my reaction to the sound of
that voice.

“Whatever. I
was just going to pay my respects, but…” Tasha mutters defensively before
pushing through the line to get to the exit. Any relief I might have felt in
her departure is drowned out by Nicole’s voice replaying my ear.

“I was right
about him,” she had said.

“Are you
okay?” Phillip asks, stepping into my line of vision. He is as beautiful as
ever, blond hair shining even under the dim lighting, vivid green eyes focused
on me with concern. I wonder how I never noticed the cruel tilt to his mouth
before, how the top lip is just a hair too thin, too severe.

Unable to
answer, I just nod and watch him carefully, wondering if he is thinking of the
way I looked in the road the night Nicole died.

“Hello, I’m
Derry’s mother, Salinda MacKenna,” my mother says, extending a hand for Phillip
to shake. When his hand clasps hers, I have to control a violent impulse to smack
it away, to prevent him from touching her, to prevent him from contaminating
her.

He turns to
look at me again, eyes searching mine for an answer to an unasked question.  My
stomach churns and I can feel a fine trembling dancing over my skin that has more
to do with fury than fear. His clear green gaze meets mine and certainty
settles under my skin, leaving me quiet.

Phillip killed
Nicole.

“I heard about
what happened to you, that you found her. I’m so sorry,” he says, his tone
holding just the right blend of sympathy and unhappy disbelief. I find that my
lips curl up to give him a grateful smile.

“Thanks. The
whole thing has been pretty upsetting,” I say smoothly even as I wonder where
the words are coming from. I am disconnected from my own mind, as though the
practical part of me has now taken over, shunting my emotions to one side until
there is time to deal with them.

“I’m sure. If
you need anything at all, I’m here for you,” Phillip says, his voice kind, but
he can’t put false warmth into his eyes. They are reptilian and detached.

“That’s so
nice, isn’t it hon?” Mom asks anxiously. I realize that she must be able to
feel the tension in my back, like a bowstring ready to snap.

“I know this
isn’t the time, but I’d like to talk to you soon.” Phillip lowers his voice and
steps closer to me. I bite down on my lip to keep from cringing.

 “About…well,
the police asked me a couple questions, and I just wanted to clear something
up.” He stops, waiting for a response, but I am absolutely incapable of speech.

“Maybe another
time, Phillip,” my mom says, disapproval tightening her voice. For a second, I
glimpse a snarl on Phillip’s well-shaped lips, but the impression passes and he
smiles apologetically and steps back.

“Of course.
Sorry. I’ll see you at school, Derry,” he promises.

“Looking
forward to it,” I reply quietly, that impassive voice in my head coming to the
rescue again. He nods and turns away, back to the group he was standing with a
bit behind us.

My shoulders
slump from the effort of maintaining control during our conversation and the
rest of the wait to get inside passes without incident. I barely notice where I
am until I am next in line to see Nicole, the white coffin suddenly huge, vast,
taking up the entire room and sucking all the oxygen from my lungs.

“Go ahead
honey, I’m right behind you,” Mom whispers, giving me a little shove. I stagger
forward and fight the primal scream that is clamoring in my throat as I look at
her, frozen again, unmoving, all the life drained from her smiling face.

They have clothed
her in a blue silk dress I’ve never seen before, and her hair is back to being
lank and dull, resistant to the mortician’s well-meaning efforts to curl or
shape it. Her lips are unnaturally pink and pushed awkwardly into mimicry of a
smile. My face is suddenly wet and I angrily brush the tears away, absurdly
furious that they have tried to mask the true expression Nicole’s face had
held. This complacent smile, these closed eyes and over-blushed cheeks are a
selfish attempt to diminish Nicole’s last moments, to deny the panic she must
have felt before the water claimed her. Beneath those tightly closed lids I
know her eyes are still stark with terror, still urging me to hurry, to make it
in time.

“I don’t think
Nicole’s death was an accident,” a bass rumble says behind me and I turn
abruptly to see Detective Radcliffe talking to Nicole’s mother, his hat in
hand. She nods and presses a tissue to her face, allowing her husband to put an
arm around her. He is stony-faced and silent, never making eye contact with any
of the mourners who offer him sympathy. There is no life to him, as though he
is a living, breathing statue, caught by the sun and turned to stone.         Tearing
my eyes away, I wonder what Radcliffe really said, but am more interested in his
deeply held conviction.  Without another glance at the shell that was once my
friend, I walk over to Beverly, who gives me a hateful glare as I approach.

“I am to blame
for my daughter’s death,” she says spitefully, her voice low and mean. I don’t
know what she really said, but it must have been shocking because Radcliffe
gives her a startled look and glances at me with sympathy.

“Now, Mrs.
Sharp. There’s nothing this young lady could have done. It was an accident,” he
says placatingly, but Nicole’s mom doesn’t take her eyes off me. Her husband
stares straight ahead, unseeing.

“I thought she
was so much better,” she whispers miserably, finally dropping her gaze.      Guilt
hardens inside me, shifting and morphing into something less familiar. A cold,
clean sense of purpose, knowledge of what must be done to ease this woman’s
suffering. There is little I can do for Nicole now when I have failed her so
ruinously, but I can at least spare her mother the pain of thinking that Nicole
took her own life.

“She was better,
Mrs. Sharp. Nicole didn’t do this to herself. She would never have killed
herself. She wouldn’t do that to you,” I say with as much conviction as
possible. Beverly looks up at me, eyes narrowed and unconvinced. She dismisses
me with a wave of her hand and pointedly looks past me to the next person in
line. My face burns with the rejection.

“Miss
MacKenna, it’s good to see you out, though I wish it were under better
circumstances,” Radcliffe says, distracting me from my dark thoughts.

“Thanks,” I
mumble unthinkingly before focusing my attention on him, remembering what I had
heard him say.  “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I was going
to ask you the same question,” he says, drawing me aside to a small nook with
couches. There is a group of students from the high school occupying them, but
a sharp nod from Radcliffe sends them scurrying.

“We’re going
to need to you to come down to the station tomorrow to sign an official
statement. We’ve held off as your mother requested because of your trauma, but
we really need to get things wrapped up now.”

 “What about
Phillip? Has he been questioned?” I demand quietly, my voice uncompromising as
a rock.  My rage is powerful, and I can almost feel it stretching long fingers
toward the detective, wrapping around his mind to yank out the truth. He frowns
at me uncertainly and begins to speak.