Shattered (21 page)

W
eek two of my “recovery program” begins with my father slipping off to the airport without saying a word to me. Granted, his flight was very early Monday, and I could tell myself he didn’t want to disturb my sleep, except that I know better.

Aunt Kellie keeps saying, “Just give him time... he’ll come around.” And I assure her I will do that. My question is, How much time? Will he come around by the time I leave for college? Get married? Have children? Grow old? Die?

The grief group continues to be a pretty good thing. But after Saturday’s session ends, an older woman named Margie approaches me, encouraging me to have a “conversation” with my mom. Naturally, I feel skeptical.

“It made a big difference in my own recovery,” she explains with a wide-eyed intensity that scares me a little. “Once I sat down and just talked openly with Kristen, I started to find some closure.”

Now I know that Kristen is her deceased daughter. In her thirties, she was tragically killed in a car wreck that involved a teen who was texting and driving. But this idea of actually speaking with the dead is hard for me to grasp. And I’m pretty sure that seances are not acceptable in most Christian circles. And it’s especially disturbing when Margie makes it sound as if Kristen is actually engaged in the conversation.

“So... how do you do that exactly?” I ask out of cynical curiosity. Is this woman for real or just desperately imagining things?

“Well, it involves timing. You can’t just force it to happen.”

“And you actually
heard
your daughter speaking to you?” I question. “Audibly?”

She laughs. “No, no, it’s not like that at all, dear. Forgive me if I made it sound weird. It’s just that the experience felt so very real to me, and the impression I got of hearing her”—she pauses to tap her chest—”in here, inside me, was so incredible and genuine. I just knew it was Kristen. But no, I didn’t hear her audibly speaking to me. I guess you could call it more of an impression. A bit like the way you feel sometimes when God communicates something to your heart. Does that make sense?”

I nod. “I guess so. But maybe I’m worried about what my mother would say to me. I mean, she was trying to help me when she was murdered. What if she partially blames me for her death?”

Margie seems to consider this. “You have to remember she’s on the other side now. She sees things in a more complete sort of way. I know you believe in God, Cleo. Do you believe in heaven, too?”

“I guess so. I mean, I want to believe in heaven, especially for my mom’s sake. But it’s kind of mind-boggling.”

She smiles. “Yes, it’s boggled my mind too. But there are a lot of things about God that are difficult to comprehend.”

“That’s true.”

“All I’m saying is you should be open. And pray about it. I feel sure that eventually you’ll get that opportunity to converse with your mother. I’ll be praying for that for you, too.”

I want to be open to that, but as Aunt Kellie drives me home on Saturday, I’m more concerned about having a conversation with my dad. He got home from his trip very late last night. I still haven’t seen him. But because I sneaked into his office and checked his calendar this morning, I also know he leaves for another trip tomorrow evening. This time it’s Michigan for two weeks. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of time to snag a conversation with him. But he must’ve read my letter by now. I’m surprised he hasn’t at least responded to it. Even if he’s still mad, it seems like he’d say
something.
Or maybe he didn’t want to read it. Maybe he threw it away.

“Your dad picked up your mom’s car this morning,” Aunt Kellie tells me in a slightly sober tone. “He brought it home just before I left the house, and it looks like it’s in good shape. He must’ve run it through a carwash or something.”

“Oh... I thought maybe he’d decided against it.”

“Apparently not. And he dropped the car keys on the kitchen counter and said to see that you got them.”

“So he’s letting me use her car?”

She just nodded.

“I’m not even sure I can do that now.”

“Your mother would
want
you to have her car, Cleo. She loved that car, and she was always telling me how safe it is. And I took a peek inside it, and it’s just as clean and neat inside as outside. But then it was always like that, wasn’t it?” She shakes her head as she glances at the messy interior of her own vehicle. “For sisters, Karen and I were as different as they come.”

“But you both have some nice qualities that are similar.”

She smiles. “I hope so.”

“I’m worried that Dad is never going to forgive me,” I quietly admit to her as she turns down our street.

“He certainly is taking his time.”

“Tell me about it.”

She chuckles. “It reminds me of when he and your mother were courting. We thought he was
never
going to pop the question. But you have to give it to him; once he makes up his mind, he usually sticks to it.”

“I just hope he hasn’t made up his mind to be angry at me forever.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Oh!
” I let out a little gasp when I see Mom’s car parked in the driveway. It’s almost as if she’s come home... although I know that’s not possible. As my aunt parks in front of the house, I feel a clutch in my chest, like my heart physically hurts to know that car was the last place Mom was before her death.

“I know,” Aunt Kellie says quietly. “I felt the same way when I first saw it.”

I get out and cautiously walk around Mom’s car, just staring at it like I think it’s a living thing about to speak to me, to tell me some secret. I briefly consider Margie’s suggestion that I have a conversation with my mother, but I don’t think I can get inside of that car to do it. Not right now anyway. Maybe never. Besides, even if I could communicate with her, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what she might have to say.

. . . . . . . . . .

To my dismay, my father left for his next trip without saying a word to me. Aunt Kellie was a bit perturbed at him, too. He didn’t even tell her good-bye either. Instead, he snuck out while she and I were at church, simply leaving a note that said he drove himself to the airport early and planned to work there until his flight left this evening.

“Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” I ask her as she makes us some tea. “It seems like a lot of effort to take just to avoid your own daughter.”

“Your father has always enjoyed traveling and airports. He’s told me more than once that he finds all that hubbub soothing.”

Even so, I feel my fate is sealed. I am certain my father is permanently disowning me. Of course, Aunt Kellie keeps telling me that it’s just going to take time and that I don’t want to rush things with him. “He’ll come around when he’s ready to come around.”

“You know, Lola’s been talking about getting a job this summer. She even suggested that I come out to San Diego and get a job too, and we could rent a small apartment together.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Aunt Kellie sets her mug of tea down with a clank. “What about college?”

“I’m not giving up on college. But I’m not looking forward to a whole summer of Dad hating me.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Cleo. He’s just confused and upset.”

“And you can’t stay here forever. What about Uncle Don? Doesn’t he miss you?”

She just laughs.

But I realize I might need to start making an escape plan. At the very least, I should find a job for the summer. And it actually sounds fun to me. My mother never let me work before. But not only could I use the job experience, after my recent stupid spree, my savings account could use some replenishing. I still can’t believe how much money I wasted on those horrible pills. I must’ve been truly insane.

. . . . . . . . . .

As the week passes, my time is consumed with a number of things, including bringing my grades back up so I can graduate with a decent grade-point average. Although some of my teachers cut me some slack, my studies were neglected during my addiction era, and it’s up to me to make it right. I’ve also been madly practicing for the ballet recital, determined to show everyone that Madame didn’t make a mistake in choosing me for the lead. I’m also continuing with the grief group, spending time with Daniel, and lately I’m trying to convince Aunt Kellie it’s time for her to go home to Uncle Don. I even started driving my mom’s car, which was weird at first, but I wanted to show my aunt that I’m becoming more and more independent.

It seems that all this activity would be a great way to block out troublesome thoughts of my father and the silent treatment he’s been giving me. Unfortunately, it’s not. But instead of obsessing over it, I recently decided to just pray for him whenever I start feeling bad about the whole thing. Only now that I know he’ll be home in a few days, it’s hard not to start freaking out. And I’m still considering Lola’s suggestion about San Diego.

“I just want to stay with you until your graduation,” Aunt Kellie tells me as we’re cleaning up after dinner on Thursday. Feeling guilty that I’ve monopolized so much of her time these past several weeks, I’ve been urging her to return to her own life and husband. “It’s the least I can do for Karen,” she tells me as she closes the dishwasher. “And the truth is, it’s been good medicine for me, too.”

“How’s that?” I hang the dishtowel on the refrigerator handle, then study my aunt. I’ve decided that she’s actually rather attractive for an older lady. Pleasantly plump, with sparkling brown eyes that remind me of Mom, she’s really quite nice-looking. Although she does need fashion direction, which I’ve been attempting to help her with recently.

“Talking about things with you has been very therapeutic for me.”

“Well, I don’t think I could’ve survived all this without you,” I confess. “I’m sure I’ll never think of a way to appropriately thank you.”

“You thank me every day, just by doing what you need to be doing. You’ve really grown up a lot, Cleo. Your mother would be very proud of you.”

A lump grows in my throat now. “Saturday night... it’s the recital,” I say with a raspy voice. “I just can’t believe she won’t be there. It meant everything to her.”

Aunt Kellie puts a hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be there.”

I nod, pressing my lips together. I want to point out that my father won’t be there either, but if I say those words out loud, I don’t think I can hold back the tears.

. . . . . . . . . .

With the upcoming recital as motivation, I go to the basement and practice for nearly two hours. Working hard (and without the chemical influence of pills), I dance until my thighs and calves are screaming for a break, and then I flop down on the old pink couch. I can’t believe how much I love this couch. In fact, I’ve decided that if I ever do move out on my own, I’m taking this couch with me. I can’t explain why exactly, but more than anything else in the house, this particular piece of furniture reminds me of Mom.

As I sit here, running my hands back and forth over the nap of the fabric, I feel tears coming. And I know I need to just let them come. “Tears bring healing,” the group therapist is always telling us. “Let them flow, and they will cleanse you.” And so I do.

Then just as I’m blotting my tears with a tissue, I suddenly hear her speaking to me. Not audibly, of course, but I get the strongest sense that it’s Mom I am hearing. Almost afraid to breathe, I lean back into the soft velvet cushions, close my eyes, and just listen.

You are my treasure.
That’s what she just said—I know it!
You are my treasure, Cleo.
It’s something she used to say to me when I was very young. She’d wrap me in her arms and say, “You are my little treasure, Cleo. You’re worth more than gold or diamonds or pearls. I will guard you with my life.”

“Am I still your treasure?” I ask quietly, afraid to speak, not wanting her to go away. And the sense I get is that she is affirming this. I am
still
her treasure. I will
always
be her treasure.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her through a new set of tears. And this is not the first time I’ve said this to her, although this is the first time it has seemed that she could hear me. “I’m so very, very sorry for that awful night, Mom. I would give anything to take it back. I would rather have lost my life than to have lost you. I love you, Mom. I will always love you.”

And then I get the sense that she’s saying the same thing to me—that she loves me still and always will... that I will always be her treasure. I have no doubt that my mother has forgiven me... that she is safe... and happy.

Wrapped up in the warmth of that sweet comfort, I fall asleep on the pink velvet couch, sleeping more soundly and peacefully than I’ve slept since her death.

D
aniel goes with me to the dress rehearsal on Friday night. I try to talk him out of it, saying he should wait until tomorrow, but he insists that he wants to watch me dance both tonight and tomorrow, and so I give in.