ShameLess (2 page)

The alcohol swirls around in my head, mixing with the depth of misery curdling there. I literally feel sick, as if I could throw up at any minute. My eyes are blurring. I blink.
No!
I shake my head, slightly, forcing myself into the reality of the here and now. Once more, I flash my headlights, only this time frantically blinking them.

At first, I did not notice the sudden rainfall beating against my windshield. Its drops strike down, forcibly snapping my drooping eyes wide open. I change the wipers onto the fastest setting and suddenly notice Elle is slowing down as she approaches the first turn on Waggoner’s Bend, also known as Dead Man’s Bend because so many accidents happened here over the years. She is still several feet from entering the curve, so if I can reach her in time, I might make her pull over at the park-n-ride. I hit the gas, increasing my speed. Rain pelts against my windshield as my cell phone vibrates from inside my purse. I ignore it and continue driving forward.

Elle is almost at a standstill now. Panic quickly sets in. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as goose bumps instantly appear on my arms. A combination of hard raindrops and thick fog forms on the mountain. Her right turn signal starts blinking.
Thank God.

Relieved she is definitively pulling over, I start to slow down as well and edge off to the side of the road. She parks but remains inside the car. I pull in beside her, and try to unbuckle my seatbelt, but the sound of my cell phone vibrating grabs my attention. I reach inside my clutch and, upon pulling it out, note that it is my dad. I mute it, letting it ring straight to voicemail.
I’ll call him back after I talk to Elle.

As I raise my head, I shoot my eyes back to Elle’s car and release a piercing scream, “Noooo!” Large, bright white headlights are coming right at us. Within seconds, a speeding semi slams into both of us, pushing us directly over the edge of the steep mountainside.

It is a shocking moment of intense shrieking as metal meets metal, and the heavy rain continues to explode against the night. Both of our cars move downward, smashing into the embankment – side over side, thrashing into various trees along the way.

Coming to a complete rest at the bottom, I cannot feel much of anything. I can barely focus at all. I can feel the rush of adrenaline consuming my entire body, and I fight against the pain trying to hold me, wanting to stop me, and struggle to find my cell. Thankfully, it remains in my purse now lodged between the seat and console. Somehow, despite a brief struggle to free it, I call 9-1-1. I am blood soaked. What else is wrong, I am not sure. My head is throbbing, and I hurt all over. Yet, I manage to make the call. After that, I only remember hearing Elle screaming before everything goes black.

I awaken some days later in the hospital. My eyes will not fully open fully. They are swollen shut at half-mast, and I can feel how bloodshot they are. Hooked up to IV’s, racked with utter pain, I cannot even speak because of the dryness of my mouth.

My mother is clearly an emotional wreck with tears flowing freely down her face. She says, “Ren, Sweetie. Thank God. Oh, thank God you’re okay.” Her shaky voice confirms for me the reality of my situation. Inside, I want to move, but can’t. I try to open my mouth to talk to her but have to fight against the feel of cotton in my throat. Mom has already pushed the call button for the nurse but reaches for the water on my bedside table, adjusting the straw for it to bend as she slides it between my lips.

“Here. Easy, S’renaty,” My mother warns with a very calm, soothing voice as I start drinking.

I breathe out a slow whispered question, “Elle?”

My mother’s face goes tens shades of white, and she immediately drops her eyes away from mine. Fighting the tubes, I reach for her hand. Again, I ask her, “Elle?” in a more demanding tone with several gasped breaths.

“Honey, don’t worry about that right now. You need to get better. Let’s talk about that later, okay?” Tears still run across my mother’s cheeks. I suddenly feel her attempt at distraction. My instincts tell me that I am not going to like what I am about to learn.

“Mom. Tell me.” I pressure her through a raspy voice as I gently squeeze her hand into my own. Full strength eludes me, but my point remains clear.

At first, she does not make direct eye contact. I know she would prefer we wait. My dad enters the room at this exact moment. “Hey, there’s my girl.” His voice is firm but loving. He doesn’t reveal his emotions with the exception of his stiff body language, which shows his trained professionalism. My dad is an FBI profiler, and always has a strong presence, despite his gentleness with me. I have always been a daddy’s girl. Right now, though, I feel more like his case, than his daughter. His dark irises catch my mom’s before moving to meet mine.

“What’s all this seriousness about?” He asks while leaning down to place a kiss on my forehead. He swipes a few tangled strands of my dark hair out of the way.

“Elle?” I dryly mouth motioning to my mom for more water.

“Oh Ren, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Elle didn’t make it.” His strong hand holds mine, but their strength doesn’t help relieve the tightness in my lungs as I start gasping for breaths. Tears flow from my eyes while I wrestle with the truth of his words, and the pain they cause me. I do not remember much after this except for the sound of my monitor sounding its powerful beeps across the room.

Many days later, I awaken once more. Intense pain no longer present in my physical body, but its existence now claims my emotional self. I am numb as I open my eyes and look around the room. No longer in the hospital, I am now lying in my own bedroom and I can’t even remember how I got here. I just know I am glad I am. Well, for the most part. As my eyes scan the room, I instantly detect every single picture of Elle and I has been removed. Every. Single. One.

I find a shiny silver bell on my nightstand and reach for it without further thought and ring it – loudly! My mom rushes in as if she had actually been waiting, and, knowing her, she probably was. “Ren, is everything okay? Do you need something?” Her panicky voice alarms me as she approaches me, but I reject it in exchange for the anger boiling inside.

“Where are they? What did you do with them?” My weak voice demands a response. I am shaking with pure emotion as I scuffle with the covers to free myself of their constraints. I struggle to sit upright in bed, and lean back against the headboard. Reality and memories flood my mind as tears flow from my eyes. I try to swallow. I try to breathe. I try to accept the words that last fell from the lips of my father, the last real memory I have. All I can do is reveal the emotions purging from my soul and meet their release.

My mom immediately cradles me in her arms. She says nothing but her love proves everything. It speaks volumes as she rocks me like a baby, back and forth, placing kiss upon loving kiss atop my head. She runs her fingers softly through the long dark strands of my hair, soothing me, quieting me, but allowing my heart to grieve.

Eventually, she slowly moves away and takes a sharp breath before speaking, “S’renaty, I am sorry. I didn’t think you would want to see all of them still sitting around. I didn’t do it to hurt you, sweetie. I was only trying to help. I’ll put them back if you want...” Her words trail off, in deep tender serenity. I say nothing as I keep my head upon her shoulder, letting my body talk by sobbing into her upper chest. “Ssh…it’s alright. It’ll be alright.”

As the rest of that morning unfolds, my mother spends the whole time comforting me, holding me, and explaining everything. My dad pulled strings to have me discharged earlier. He hired a private nurse to help my mom with home care needs. Money and a position with power can manipulate most things, I guess. I will never accept this grey area of life with him. Don’t get me wrong; I am happy to be home. Of course, I missed Elle’s memorial service since I was recovering and heavily sedated. Apparently, from what mom shared with me, it was a closed casket. She and my dad, along with the majority of the people of our small town had gone while I was still in the hospital. I don’t pry for more. These words provide enough detail for me. Actually, it is more than I am able to take.

With my head propped against my mother’s warmth, and my body wrapped in her love, I open my eyes and see the reflection of my half of the ‘best friends forever’ necklace shimmering in the beams of sunlight coming through my bedroom drapes. It is hanging where it always has, over the photo of Elle and me at my eleventh birthday party at the beach. The picture was taken the day she got it for me. Both of us are wearing our party hats as colored balloons with their matching curled and spiraled strings hang around us, providing the perfect backdrop. I can’t take my eyes off them.

My mother missed this
one
photo. She missed the necklace, too. It may only be half of one heart illuminated by the sunlight, but in this particular moment, it illustrates the clarity and depth of my pain. Ironically, it is exactly how my heart is now without her. It is only half of what it used to be. It is only half of what it should be still. My heart will never be whole again.
Best friends forever, Elle. I love you. Always have; always will.
My mind projects the words to her without saying it aloud. Overwhelmed with agony, I clench my eyes shut and hold onto my mother. I cannot bring her back. I cannot go back in time and change the outcome. The present moment is all I have now.

My heart bleeds as my eyes overflow with the pain pouring out from the depths of my soul. I will never be the same. I am the reason Elle sped off that night. This is entirely my fault. It should have been one of the happiest moments of our lives together and of our senior year. It turned out to be the worst. I killed my best friend.

2 years later

A large, dark wooden bookshelf spanning one entire wall, located opposite from where I lay is the only adornment in the stark, white office. Lounging back in a mahogany leather chaise, I stare around at each of the thickly framed pieces of Monet inspired artwork. Today is no easier than any other day I have been here. Dr. Bradford, or Doctor Charles F. Bradford, III, is a friend of my father’s and a highly qualified psychiatrist. He is part of a Special Forces unit, dealing specifically with behavioral analysis. He has worked on many cases with my dad’s team over the years. I have been coming here regularly for the past two years to talk to him about my grief because my mother insisted I see him. She forced my father to agree with her and demanded he arrange the visits. “He will be able to help her.” I can still hear the escalated sound of her voice as I lay here reflecting. Her words still join dangerously with the twisted emotions in my head as I mull over the past couple of years.