Shattered (18 page)

“Like I want to go home.” I look hopefully at him. “If I can just get some rest, I think I’ll be fine. I mean, I haven’t really been sleeping that well, you know, since my mom was killed.”

“That’s understandable, too.” He writes something on a prescription pad. “I’ll prescribe something to help calm you down.” He holds out the paper. “But only if you promise to get yourself into some grief therapy.”

“I promise.” I nod. “I think that might help.”

He hands me the paper and smiles. “Just give yourself time, Cleo. Some people take more time to get over these things than others. But you’re going to be okay.”

I want to question this, but at the same time I just want to get out of here. And I cannot believe this clueless MD is actually giving me a prescription for Xanax! Not that I plan to point out his ignorance. And even if I did, I don’t get the chance. The doctor is needed in another room where victims of a bad car wreck have just been brought in.

I try to act normal as I go out and rejoin my dad and aunt. They look surprised to see me, but I show them the prescription and explain my promise to get some grief therapy as well as some rest. And amazingly, this seems to do the trick. At least with my dad. My aunt still looks a little skeptical.

“I’ll drop you ladies off,” Dad says as he pulls into the driveway, “and I’ll go fill this prescription.”

A part of me wants to tell him to forget it, I don’t need more pills, but another part of me is eagerly rubbing her palms together. I don’t get me.

I thank Dad, then hurry into the house, but before I make it to my room, Aunt Kellie puts a hand on my shoulder and stops me.

“We need to talk, Cleo.” Her voice is very firm.

“I need to sleep.”

“You can sleep later,” she says a bit more gently. “Right now, we need to talk. Where would you like to talk?”

I shrug.

“Your room?”

“Okay.” I continue on to my room, sit on my bed, and wait as she pulls out a chair from my desk and makes herself comfortable.

“I’m fairly certain that you have something you need to tell me,” she says with her eyes locked onto my face.

“What do you mean?”

She leans back into the chair, pressing her lips together.

“You’re the one who wanted to talk to me,” I remind her.

She nods. “That’s true. Well, let me tell you a little bit about how I grew up. And how your mom grew up.”

She starts talking about her childhood and her dysfunctional family. Some parts sound familiar, like I knew the kids’ names all started with K and my mom’s parents were a little flaky. But it seems it was worse than that.

“Due to some work injuries, our dad worked off and on, mostly off. And both of our parents drank all the time. When I was ten, our mom left us. Our dad went on a binge that lasted for years.” She shakes her head. “Karen—your mom—was only twelve, but she tried to take over as the mom. She used food stamps to get groceries, cooked and cleaned, and tried to keep us kids in line. And it wasn’t easy. Kenny was actually a couple years older than Karen, but he didn’t spend much time at home. And he dropped out of high school and went to Vietnam when he was seventeen... came home in a pine box. That was hard.”

She removes a tissue from her pocket, twists it in her hands. “Then there was Kevin. He was two years younger than me. Poor Kevin. He was a sweet kid, but he got involved with a bad bunch. Was hooked on drugs by the time he was fourteen.” She pauses, studying me closely. “So don’t let my age fool you; I remember what that was like. I remember the ups and downs with him, the moodiness, the tiredness, the anger, the hopelessness. He was my favorite brother, and I still remember that look in his eyes and the way his pupils would change—from big to pinpoints. There was even a smell about him.” She sighs sadly. “It’s all painfully familiar to me. Some things you never forget.”

I look down at my hands in my lap. They are trembling, and I’m longing for a pain pill... or that Xanax my dad is picking up for me. Anything to block all this out.

“I don’t like to point fingers or make false accusations, Cleo, but I’m pretty sure you’ve been using something, too. The signs are all there.”

I still don’t respond, but I feel like my insides are shaking now, like the truth is written all over my face.

“During my senior year, Kevin died of a heroin overdose,” she says quietly. “He was only sixteen. Just a little younger than you.”

She’s trying to shock me with this little history lesson, and I must admit that she’s gotten my attention, but I’m determined to keep my emotional distance. I will remain aloof.

“Did your mother ever tell you about any of this?”

I barely look up, barely shake my head. “Not really.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

For some reason this intrigues me. “Why not?”

She shrugs. “I think she wanted to protect you from all that. She wanted your world—and her world—to be perfect and safe and lovely. Nothing like the world she grew up in.”

“Yeah... I guess I kind of knew that.” A lump is growing in my throat. It hurts to think of my mother like that, imagining the messed-up family she came from and how hard she worked to hide it from me, to protect me.

“And then there was Special K,” Aunt Kellie says wistfully.

“Huh?”

“Your mother never told you about Special K?”

I frown. “The cereal?”

“No. Our youngest brother, Kyle. He was only four when our mom abandoned us. Kyle was a sweetheart, but he had Down syndrome. He was in special-ed classes, so we called him Special K. I guess that’s not very politically correct, but he liked the name and we meant no harm.”

“Special K?” I try out the name. “Where is he?”

“He passed on too. Although of all my brothers, Special K had the best life. He went into foster care in grade school, then got adopted by a real nice family. As an adult, he lived in a sort of halfway house. He passed on a couple years before you were born. Your mother used to visit him all the time. She’d take him places and buy him things. Sometimes I wonder if that wasn’t the reason she finally decided to have a baby.”

“Why?”

“Because after Special K was gone, she needed someone to need her like he had.” Aunt Kellie shrugs. “But I could be wrong.”

“I know she hadn’t really planned to have kids. She waited a long time to have me.”

“And you were the happiest thing in her life, Cleo. Did you know that?”

I look back down at my lap, but my vision is blurred by my tears. The ache inside me feels unbearable, like I’m being pulled so hard from side to side that I’ll split right down the middle. I want to tell the truth, I want to confess everything I’ve done wrong... but if I do this, I will lose everything.

“You can talk to me, Cleo. There’s not much I haven’t heard or seen in this world. I seriously doubt there’s anything you can tell me that would shock me.”

I look at her with teary eyes.
“Really? Nothing?”

“
I don’t think so.”

I don’t believe her. I’m certain she would be horrified to know that I’m the one who’s responsible for her sister’s death. To learn that I’m as guilty as the low-life drug-addict murderer would surely rock her world.
That
would shock her.

M
y aunt is just about to give up on me when my dad knocks on the door. “I have your prescription,” he says as she opens it. “Oh?” He looks curiously at her. “What are you doing in here?”

“We were talking.” Aunt Kellie points to the bag in his hand. “I think maybe I should keep that for Cleo.”

Dad looks confused, and I don’t know what to say. But my aunt doesn’t seem to budge as she holds out her hand for the little white bag.

“Why?” Dad asks her. “Shouldn’t Cleo take care of this herself?”

Aunt Kellie turns to look at me. “What do you think, Cleo?”

“I... uh... I don’t know.”

“I just think we want to be safe,” my aunt says. “Cleo hasn’t really been herself lately, and I’m worried she might forget and accidentally take too many of these pills, Hugh. That could be very dangerous.”

His brows arch and he nods. “You’re right, Kellie.” He seems relieved to hand her the bag. “I’d appreciate your help with this.”

“And while we’re all together, there’s something we need to tell you about,” she continues.

Suddenly I feel certain she’s going to expose me by sharing her suspicions about my recently acquired drug habit, but instead she explains that there’s a phone message he needs to hear.

“A phone message?” He frowns. “Is it from the police? Have they found the murderer?”

“No, but it might be something the police would be interested in. I saved it for you.”

I wish I’d had the foresight to erase Trina’s message. How easy would that have been? Of course, my aunt would probably just call Trina, and then I’d have to explain how the message was deleted and I’d be buried even deeper in my mire of lies.

I listen as my dad and aunt go down the hallway. When they’re a safe distance away, I get into my secret stash, pull out a pain pill, and pop it into my mouth, swallowing it dry. Then I hurry to where they’re both standing by the answering machine as my dad searches for Trina’s message.

Finally it’s playing, and I hang in the shadows, listening to the words again. Then after Dad hits Replay, I hear it for the third time. And it sounds even more suspicious.

“That’s so strange,” Dad says as he picks up the phone. “It just doesn’t make sense. I’m going to call Trina right now and see if I can get to the bottom of this. Maybe that woman is delusional.”

I listen as Dad leaves a message for Trina, but I’m relieved that she’s not around to fill in any more blanks. Dad turns to me as soon as he hangs up. “Did your mother call you that night, Cleo? The night she went to Trina’s party? Did she call to check up on you or anything?”

“I... uh... I can’t remember exactly.”

“You
can’t
remember?” He stares at me like he questions my sensibility. “The night your mother was murdered, and you can’t remember?”

“Well, it was Lola’s last night here. She and her family were moving the very next day. So I was at her house for a while, and I’d told Mom I was sleeping over there, but then Lola decided we should spend the night here because her house was pretty much a wasteland by then.” I frown like I’m trying to remember the evening correctly, but I’m really trying not to say too much.

I’ve decided that the trick with lying is to leave out details, keep it simple, don’t say too much. The problem is that when I get caught—and it feels like that moment is getting closer—anything and everything I say will be used against me.

“So did your mother call your cell phone?”

“My cell phone was dead that night.”

“Did she call the house?”

“I don’t think so. Lola and I watched a movie and fell asleep. Later on, I figured Mom had come home while we were asleep, but then she was gone the next morning, and I assumed she’d gone out or something.” At least that much is true.

“And your mom didn’t leave a message anywhere?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t the police have her cell phone?” Aunt Kellie says suddenly. “That would show what calls were made. Or the phone company records, they would show when any calls were placed.”

Dad nods. “That’s true. Tomorrow I’ll check with the police. I should probably see about picking her car up, too.” He looks at me. “Do you still think you want it?”

I take in a shaky breath. “I... uh... I don’t know.”

“I keep thinking this will all finally come to an end,” Dad says sadly, “and then maybe we’ll be able to move on with our lives. But I suppose that until the murderer is taken into custody... or maybe until after the trial is over... then we’ll still have to keep dealing with—with all of it.”

I feel sick now. Like I’m really about to throw up. I hurry away, going into the bathroom and locking the door. I sink onto the tile floor in front of the toilet and just cry. I want this to end, too. I want it all to end. The pain, the lies, the sadness—why can’t it just go away? And if it won’t go away, if I’ll never be free of all this, why should I go on living? What does my life consist of anyway? Endless nameless pills? Feeling out of control, teetering on the edge? Creepy drug deals with T. J.? Hiding, lying, wishing I were dead? What’s the point?

A tapping on the door brings me back to reality. My twisted reality.

My aunt calls my name, asking if I’m all right.

“I’m fine,” I say grumpily, using the edge of the bathtub to push myself to my feet. “Just peachy.” I unlock the door and emerge. “There.” I attempt to move past her bulky form. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

“Not so quick.” With highly arched brows, she holds out the slightly dog-eared tampon box in front of me. “Care to explain this?”

“In my room,” I say quietly as I hurry past her, waiting until she joins me, then I close the door. “Why are you snooping through my things?”

“I simply came in here to look for you. I saw the box on your bed and realized you were in the bathroom. I thought perhaps you needed this. I mean, you’ve been pretty moody; I thought maybe it was that time of the month...”