Shattered (8 page)

“So you’re saying God let Karen be killed? And I should blame him?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Hugh.”

“Are you saying God couldn’t have prevented Karen’s death? He’s not big enough or strong enough to keep some druggie thug from killing my wife? Because if that’s right, I have no respect for a God like that.”

“I’m not saying that either.” Aunt Kellie sounded frustrated. “I’m just saying you can’t keep blaming others for Karen’s death.”

“What then? Should I blame myself? That I shouldn’t have been traveling? That I could’ve prevented it if I’d been home?”

“It’s just your pain talking right now. You’re not rational. In time you’ll see that trying to blame someone else, or even yourself, is a perfectly natural part of the grieving process. You want to make sense of what feels like madness. You want to blame something or someone for your loss.”

“And Trina Billings is an easy target,” he snapped. “I’ll blame her!”

“The only one you can honestly blame for Karen’s death is the murderer, Hugh. He’s the one who committed such a senseless crime. If you need to blame someone, why not blame him?”

There was a long silence after that. Finally my dad spoke in a hoarse voice. “I know... I know...” And then he broke into loud sobs. The sound of my father crying like that sliced through me like a dull, rusty knife. I couldn’t bear to hear it. And I rushed to my bedroom, closed the door, and wrapped my pillow around my head, covering my ears until I was sure it was over with.

Even after the house finally got quiet, I still couldn’t sleep. By midnight, I was playing Ghost Girl again, wandering throughout the house, wishing and wishing I could undo everything... or somehow fix this mess. But that’s impossible.

Even if I stepped up and told my dad exactly who is to blame for my mother’s death—not Trina, not him...
but me
—I don’t think it would help our situation. He wouldn’t be relieved to hear my confession. In fact, I suspect he would be outraged, so angry that I had lied and disobeyed, that he would probably disown me. Honestly, after hearing him go on and on about Trina, I don’t see how he could ever forgive me. And who would blame him for that?

I can’t tell him. He’s already lost his wife. How could I be so cruel as to force him to lose his daughter as well? And yet, it seems he already has. I feel like I’ve destroyed our family. Like all this pain is my fault... and it will always be my burden to bear. But what if it’s too heavy?

More than anything I long for an escape, a way to stop the never-ending pain gnawing away at my insides. I feel desperate and frantic... like I’m holding on by a frazzled thread. Lola has called and left several sweet messages, but I’m afraid to return her calls. Afraid that I’ll let the truth slip out, the real reason my mom died. I have to push Lola away from me now. It’s too risky to be friends anymore. As hard as it is, it’s a good thing she lives so far away.

A little before two o’clock, Dad and Aunt Kellie are about to leave for the mortuary to make the arrangements for my mother’s funeral. I opt out of this appointment, and neither of them questions me. Instead they look at me with sympathetic eyes, as if I’m the biggest victim in this pool of pain. They do not suspect that I am nearly as guilty as the murderer, maybe even more so since the murderer didn’t specifically choose my mother to kill and rob. He probably just went for the easiest target. I was the one who set my mother up for him.

Knowing I’m alone in the house for a while, I go into the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet my parents shared. I stand amid my mother’s clothes, inhaling the aroma that still smells like her. It’s a clean mix of her favorite perfume, Miracle, and the smell of freshly pressed clothes and something else, something indescribable, something that is simply the essence of her.

But the smell of that perfume, a spicy floral blend, gives me an idea. I slip into their bathroom, and there on the counter is the rectangular pink bottle. I pick it up and almost spray some, but my dad might come in here and smell it... and that would probably just depress him even more. Instead I remove the lid and take a quick sniff, and I’m immediately transported to the day she and I found this particular fragrance.

We were clothes shopping for me, the summer before I started high school, and it was the first time my mom had been out after having knee surgery. We stopped by the perfume counter so she could sit and rest for a bit. That was when I urged her to try out some new perfumes. I wanted her to get something for herself since, as usual, she’d been focused on me. And when she smelled this Lancome fragrance, she instantly liked it, so I talked her into splurging.

“It smells so good that I’m almost light-headed,” she admitted as she squirted herself again. “I think it might be more effective than my pain pills—and cheaper too.” The salesgirl and I laughed at that, but my mother bought the perfume and it became her signature fragrance.

I take another whiff now, wishing that my mother’s Miracle perfume would miraculously take away my pain and make me light-headed too. But instead it makes me feel like I’m going to sneeze. I wipe my nose with a tissue. Knowing full well that I’m way out of line, I open my parents’ medicine cabinet and stare at the myriad items stored there. Might there possibly be something here to take away my pain?

I pick up a brown prescription bottle, but it’s for my dad’s allergies. I put it back, in the exact same spot. But as I dig a bit deeper I find that, just as I suspected, my mom’s old prescription for Vicodin is still here. I open it to discover that the bottle is about half full. I pour all but a few of the pills into a tissue, then wrap them up and pocket the bundle, returning the nearly empty bottle back to the exact same spot.

My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding as I hurry to the hall bathroom and pop a pill into my mouth, washing it down with lukewarm tap water. I stand there looking in the mirror, waiting for it to take effect. I know this is wrong. And yet I know that everything else about my life is even more wrong. So somehow, this wrong doesn’t really seem to matter as much.

As I stare at the image of the girl in the mirror, I am certain she is a stranger. The long blonde hair that needs washing is dull and lifeless. The complexion looks pasty, the lips pale, the only noticeable contrast is the smudgy shadows beneath the dark holes that must be my eyes—eyes my mother used to say were dark chocolate. But it’s the expression in those eyes that gets me. So lost... empty... dead.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, but after a while I think I feel something happening. At first it’s a little bit tingly and then, just as my mother described, I feel a little light-headed. And to my complete surprise, that feels good. It’s like a bit of the weight has been lifted from me. Perhaps the edge has been taken off that deep pain. Whatever it is, I like it. My mother’s pills are working. And I almost wonder if she left them behind on purpose... to help me through this difficult time. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

. . . . . . . .

On Wednesday morning, and about a dozen Vicodin pills later, I am able to shower and wash my hair in preparation for my mother’s funeral. I wear a navy blue dress that my mother always liked on me, but I don’t bother to blow dry my hair, knowing full well it will end up wavy not straight. But I don’t really care about my looks. Why should I?

I’ve been informed that the service is “closed casket,” but on the way to the church, my dad informs me that we are going early for a family viewing time.

“Family viewing time?” I frown.

“So you can pay your last respects to your mother,” Aunt Kellie tells me. “To see her one last time.”

“Your aunt thought it was a good idea.”

“You want me to stand in front of the coffin of my dead mother and look at her?”

“You don’t have to,” Dad quickly tells me.

“But it might be healthy for you—”

“There is no way I’m doing that,” I cut her off. “That’s just morbid.”

“No one is going to make you,” Dad assures me. “We just thought you might want—”

“Well, please, don’t do my thinking for me. I would much rather remember Mom how she was.”

Dad just nods, driving silently toward the church. They go inside, but I wait in the car. After a while the sunlight makes the car too warm. So I get out and just walk around. I already took one pill a couple of hours ago, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t cut it, so I tucked two precious pills into my pocket. Already I’m getting concerned that my stockpile is shrinking. But mostly I just want to make it through this day... as painlessly as possible.

Other cars start to pull into the parking lot, and I assume that means “family viewing time” will be coming to an end and perhaps it’s safe to go in.

But on my way, I stop by the drinking fountain and discreetly take one of my backup pills. All I want is to numb the pain and get this thing over with. I go into the sanctuary, where a few seats are starting to fill, and I spot my dad sitting with Aunt Kellie and Uncle Don and a few other relatives up in front.

Feeling like I’m not completely here or like maybe I’m just a player on a stage, I walk up the aisle and take a seat by my dad. He reaches over and takes my hand, giving me what I’m sure is supposed to be a comforting squeeze. I squeeze back but feel like Judas when he kissed Jesus. Then I pull my hand back and, folding my hands and putting them in my lap like I’m five years old, look straight ahead. Flowers are everywhere—lots of pinks and purples—and I suspect that Aunt Kellie tipped off the florist as to my mother’s favorite colors.

Now my eyes come to rest on the casket. It is a light-colored wood with brass trim. I have no idea who picked it out or why, but for some reason I think my mother would not have approved. She preferred dark woods. Then, in the midst of my critique over these superficial things, it hits me—my mother is inside that box! She is dead. Murdered while on a mission to rescue me, she is never coming back. And it is my fault.

I look down at my lap now, feeling tears rolling down my cheeks, watching them drop into my lap, making dark wet spots on the skirt of my blue dress.

“Here, honey.” Aunt Kellie slips me a couple of tissues.

I just nod, mumbling thanks, keeping my eyes down as I wipe my cheeks and blow my nose. All I can think is,
When is that extra pill going to kick in? When will the pain go away? Or at least lessen?
Finally, after a woman named Fiona sings a couple of songs, the pastor steps up to the podium. Just as he begins to speak, I start feeling a little dizzy and light-headed, but I don’t mind. I just hope I don’t pass out.

To keep myself from falling asleep, I focus on Pastor Reynolds’s mustache as it moves up and down, and I count every time he uses the word
she.
I’m clear up to seventeen by the time he ends his little speech, but at least I’m still awake. Then a few more songs are sung, one of the elders prays, and it’s over.

As we’re ushered out, I’m surprised at how many people are packed into our church’s sanctuary. Dad and my aunt and I form a reception line for those who want to walk by and express their regrets, et cetera, and I’m even more surprised at how many of these people claim to have dearly loved my mother. Many speak as if my mom was their closest friend, and one woman tells me that with my mom gone, there will be a big hole in her life. Maybe my mom really was friends with all these people, but she sure could’ve fooled me. I always assumed I was the only person she cared that much about, the one she invested herself into... and that besides Dad and me, she had no life. Maybe I was wrong.

It’s a lot to take in, and it’s not easy acting like I’m really here when I keep fading in and out and things get a little fuzzy. But it doesn’t escape my attention that a lot of kids from my school are here. Some are ones I know and some are ones who’ve never said a word to me. Since the funeral started at ten, they must’ve been excused from classes to come today. Maybe that’s the reason they’re here—a get-out-of-school-for-free card.

Even so, I try to act civilized and gracious to all of them, even to a girl named Brittany, whose most common nickname starts with the same letter as her first name. But I thank her for coming. And I try to remain clear and focused, which is a huge challenge considering how my head is floating way up high near the rafters just now.

“How are you holding up, Cleo?” Daniel Crane asks me as he moves along with the other well-wishers. He’s one of the last people in line, and I can tell he’s a little uncomfortable about being here.

I spied him earlier, but I still can’t believe he’s actually here or that he knows my name. I’ve been secretly infatuated with this guy since sophomore year when his family moved to town and he started coming to our youth group for a while. Anyway, he’s never actually spoken to me before, and eventually he faded out of youth group. I’m guessing because his life got too busy since he somehow made it into the popular crowd at school. Partly due, I’m sure, to his good looks and because he’s a nice guy, but also because he’s a natural athlete. This year he was elected as senior class president, so it’s hard to believe he’s actually talking to me. I suddenly realize I should respond.

“It’s been pretty hard,” I finally say.

“I’m sure it’s even harder with Lola gone,” he says with unexpected understanding.

I blink. “You knew Lola?”

“Sure. She came to this church, too. And it was obvious you two were really close friends.”