Shattered (13 page)

“What’s going on?” Aunt Kellie emerges from the kitchen wearing oven mitts and a worried expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry. I was actually just happy.”

“Oh?” She looks so startled by this statement that I suddenly feel very guilty. Like who do I think I am to feel this happy? But instead of attempting to explain, I tell her I need to use the bathroom. And she tells me that dinner is ready. I go to the bathroom, but while I’m in there, my mind is occupied with one thing.

I want a pill. And yet I am determined not to give in. I am done with that.

I go to the kitchen, where my aunt is removing a big pan of something yellow from the oven.

“I thought we’d eat in the kitchen tonight,” she tells me. “I know your mother liked the dining room, but your dad’s working late tonight, and it feels too big for just the two of us, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I nod. “Absolutely.”

Soon we are seated at the island, and Aunt Kellie bows her head and says a blessing, and I pretend to pray along with her. Then she spoons a big glob of some kind of macaroni casserole onto my plate. “Dig in. This is my famous triple-cheese macaroni-and-cheese dish.”

“Oh.” I timidly dip my fork into the gooey-looking pasta. My aunt definitely does not get the concept of low carbs and low fat. Something it took me a couple of years to train my mother to understand. But tonight I decide I don’t care about it so much. In fact, I surprise myself and her by indulging in a second helping.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says happily. “I’ve been worried that you’re not eating enough. You don’t look well.”

I just ignore this comment. It’s something I’ve heard a lot from her in the past few days.

“How was ballet?” she asks in an obvious attempt to create a conversation.

And, really, I don’t know why I’m so hard on her. Well, other than the fact that I’m almost eighteen and do not feel the need to have a babysitter like her twenty-four/seven.

“Okay.”

“So... you’re glad you went?”

“I guess so.” I finish off my last bite, pushing my plate away.

She smiles triumphantly. But then she begins to inquire about Daniel, and I tell her I want to go downstairs to practice ballet.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Cleo.” She stands and starts clearing the dishes. “I’ve been worried that you weren’t practicing enough. In fact, if you go down and get to work on it, I’ll clean this up.”

That comment makes me wonder if she expected me to clean up after dinner. But I don’t ask. As I go downstairs, I remember how Lola was always surprised when she ate at our house. She couldn’t believe my mother never expected me to help in the kitchen, or anywhere else, for that matter. Lola often told me I was spoiled. And I suppose she was right, but being spoiled by my mother came with its own price. Not that I want to think about that.

I’m tempted to call Lola right now. I’d so like to tell her all about Daniel and the things he said to me today. But at the same time I’m worried she’ll mention my mother and want to talk about that. So I decide that instead of calling, I’ll shoot her an e-mail before I go to bed. That’s been our main form of communication lately. And, for me, it’s simpler... safer.

I flip on the overhead fluorescent lights in the basement. Then I just stand there, staring at my starkly lit image in the mirror. But all I can see is a ghostlike girl and a blank, empty face with two dark holes where my eyes should be. It’s like my soul is gone. Like all I can see is wickedness, hypocrisy, deceit. This is not me. And I don’t want to be this girl. I want to erase her and start over.

I turn away and change into ballet shoes, then attempt to do some stretches, warming up, doing the normal things. But I feel like the life and energy have been sucked out of me. Like there is nothing left. And all I can think of is my mother and how she is gone and never coming back, and how much I miss her, and how it’s my fault she’s gone. How I have ruined everything—not only for me but for my dad and my aunt and who knows how many others. I feel like I’m the most worthless person on the planet, like I do not deserve to be alive. I feel like I’m being suffocated by all these heavy layers of guilt.

Trying to shut out this pain, I do a series of plies, focusing on perfection, feet turned out, knees turned out, slow and graceful... demi... grand... but as I go into an arabesque, all I can think about is my mother, how she created this room, how she hand laid each board of this wooden floor, and all I want is to run upstairs and get a pill.

I hold the arabesque, balancing on one leg, the other leg at a right angle, shoulders squared, stretching the line of my body from the tips of my fingers to the pointed toe of my extended leg.
I do not want to take any more pills.
I must quit. I
know
I must quit. Taking pills like that is not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. It’s not what others expect of someone like me.

I switch legs and do another arabesque, this time reminding myself of this new relationship with Daniel. For that reason alone, I know I must quit the pills. He wouldn’t understand my need for something like that. I want to be free of that habit. I need to live my life without that kind of a crutch. But my balance is off, and I stumble to keep from falling. Then I just stand there, feeling like a complete loser. Like I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure as a daughter, as a ballerina—I will be a failure as a girlfriend. And although I keep telling myself that I will quit the pills, I know I will fail at that as well.

Because something deep within me is whispering dark tales. I try not to listen, but the voice grows more intense... louder... until this evil inner demon is screaming at me that I’m going to give in, that I’m going to take the easy route. I’m going to use everything and anything I can to block this pain.

As I turn off the lights, all I can think about is my shrinking stash hidden in the tampon box. All I can think about is how good it will feel when this pain is gone.

B
y Friday morning, only one week since my mother’s death, I know that the only way to survive my life will be with help. And the help I need comes in the form of medication. And really, I rationalize as I wash down a pill with lukewarm tap water, that is what people do to treat pain—take pills. Whether it’s physical pain or emotional pain, there is always a pill to help with it. And that is simply what I’m doing. Yes, it’s a crutch, but if a person can’t walk on her own two legs, sometimes a crutch is needed.

Somehow accepting this as a fact feels liberating. As I carefully dress for school, taking time with my hair and a bit of makeup, I feel like I finally have some control over my life. And I feel confident that I can control my use of self-medication. My only problem is that I have one Vicodin pill left. But I also have the phone number of a guy named T. J. And I’ve already left him a message, mentioning that Drew gave me his number.

As promised, Daniel picks me up for school in his blue pickup. And feeling like an actor in a movie, I smile at him, act like I’m a normal girl, and manage to make some small talk as he drives us to school.

Then as we go into the building together and he walks me to my locker, I can feel eyes on me and I can hear some comments about Daniel being with me. But as far as I can tell, no one is mean or catty. My only explanation for their surprisingly good manners is that I’m still getting a sympathy pass.

So goes the day. Daniel and I meet up when we can here and there, and by lunchtime, I even feel accepted by Daniel’s friends. It’s like I really am a different person. I sit at their table and attempt to be congenial, try to fit in, and at the same time marvel that I am welcome here. What would Lola say? Beneath the surface I am aware that the price I’ve paid for this kind of acceptance is steep—very steep. But with the help of another pill, I am able to soften the sharp edges of that reality.

I’ve already checked my phone messages and know that T. J. has returned my call. His message is short, and I can tell he’s suspicious. I can’t afford to risk calling him back until I’m certain no one is around to overhear me.

After school, Daniel asks me if I want to get coffee again. And despite the nagging need to call T. J., I agree. But after we get to The Coffee Station and order our coffees, I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I quickly call T. J. and he tells me that Drew backed up my story.

“So where do you want to meet?” he asks. “Someplace public but private, if you know what I mean.”

I think hard, then finally suggest we meet at the small park in my neighborhood at five o’clock. He tells me to bring cash and not to be late. As I close my phone, I can’t help but think how weird and shady this rendezvous sounds, but really, what choice do I have?

By the time I rejoin Daniel, he’s already picked up our mochas and is waiting at the same table as yesterday.

“Is this our table now?” I ask in a teasing tone.

He smiles. “Maybe so.”

And now, determined to focus the conversation away from me, I ask Daniel all kinds of things about himself. Fortunately he doesn’t seem to mind this attention, and the more he talks, the more I like him. And I’m surprised to discover that although we plan to attend different colleges next fall, they are only twenty miles apart. And already Daniel is talking about how we can meet up, like we’ll still be together then. It all feels so wonderful, but at the same time, it feels like I’m in a bit of a fog. Yet it’s a nice, warm sort of fog.

“Any big plans for Easter this weekend?” Daniel asks me.

“Really? It’s Easter already?”

“Yeah, it actually came late this year. I mean, May’s just over a week away. Can you believe that?”

I shake my head. “I guess I’ve kind of lost track of the time lately.”

“Not me,” he says. “I’m already counting the days until graduation.”

“Graduation...” I try to wrap my head around that.

He reaches across the table, putting his hand over mine. “It’s probably going to be hard not having your mother there.”

I sigh. “A lot of things are going to be hard. And I appreciate how understanding you are about... well, everything. But sometimes it’s easier not to talk about it too much. You know?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I get that.”

We talk some more, but our coffees are gone now and I’m thinking I need to figure out a way to get some cash so I can pay T. J. Then I come up with an idea. “Hey, do you mind if I run over to the bank down the street?” I glance at my watch. “I just remembered I need to take care of something before the weekend.”

“No problem.”

I grab my purse and hurry out, thankful that he didn’t offer to come with me, thankful there’s a branch of our bank nearby, even more thankful that I have my own savings account. And while my savings are supposed to be for college, if I can’t survive my own life, I probably won’t be much use at college anyway.

My hands are shaking as I fill out the savings withdrawal form. I have no idea how much these pills are going to cost, but I suspect they won’t be cheap. And worried that I could run short, I decide to take out five hundred dollars.

But when the teller counts out my cash, I start to feel a little freaked—like what am I doing?

“Planning a big weekend?” she asks cheerfully.

“Yeah,” I lie. “My friend and I are going shopping.”

“Ooh.” She grins. “Sounds fun.”

I put the cash in my purse and hurry back to the coffeehouse where Daniel is talking to a couple of friends, Geoff and Leah. “Hey, we just decided to see a movie tonight. It’s an indie film at that new theater in the city,” he tells me. “Can you come?”

“Sure.” I’m surprised at how easily I say this, and it doesn’t escape me that this would not be nearly so easy if my mom were still alive. Not that I want to think about that.

Daniel makes a plan with the others about where we’ll meet up, and then I tell Daniel I should probably get home to take care of some things first. But as he drives me home, all I can think is that I’m about to meet up with a drug dealer. And what would Daniel think if he knew?

“See you around six?” he asks me on the porch.

“Sounds good.”

He smiles, and my heart does a little flip. As he waves and leaves, I still can’t believe that this is real, that this is my life. But as I go inside, I realize that my life has a lot of very strange elements in it... a lot of striking contrasts. To my relief, Aunt Kellie doesn’t seem to be here. And I almost wonder if she’s finally come to her senses and decided to move back home. Except I know she promised my dad she’d stick around while he goes on his next trip, so that means at least two more weeks.

It’s still about fifteen minutes until five, so I pace around the house, arguing with myself about what I’m about to do.

Finally it’s five minutes until five. With a wad of cash in the pocket of my jeans, I head out, walking quickly to the park. T. J. told me he’s tall with dark hair, he’d be wearing a denim jacket, and he’s easy to spot. But my legs feel jittery as I make my way toward him, still telling myself I don’t have to do this. Except that I do have to do this.

“I’m Cleo,” I say quickly.

“Hey, Cleo.” He flashes a sleazy smile. “You’re a very pretty girl.”