Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series) (3 page)

DEREK

It's the silence that wakes me up. At my house, I wake to the wheeze and hiss of the trolley as it picks up people on the corner. I wake to street noise and beeping horns. City music. I wake, and my window, which I curse and bless in equal measure, lets in such blinding light that even when I put my pillow over my face I still need to squint.

But this room is devoid of all the familiar sights and sounds. A fresh, stinging pain hits right through me as I wonder if waking up in Victoria's house is always this way, or if it's so quiet because Mr. King is gone. Did he turn on a television the minute he woke up, or was it the radio? Did he have an alarm clock with a beep as grating as mine? Did he and Victoria eat breakfast together and talk about what their day entailed? For that matter, did he like the Four Seasons or the Beach Boys, Paul or John, Panthers or Nittany Lions? I knew him as an all-around, general person: proud, intelligent, and ambitious. Very successful. But I didn't know him as an individual.

And now I never would.

I lean over and place a tender kiss on Victoria's cheek then stand and go to the bathroom. The water is almost unendurably cold as I wash my face. It wakes me up, though. Using the other door, I walk into the hallway.

When I first saw this house, on my third date with Victoria, I thought it looked too imposing, too big, to ever feel homey. Victoria laughed when I told her.

“It only feels big because my father's not home,” she said. I smiled with her, even though I didn't really understand what she meant. But later, when I did finally meet Mr. King, I got it crystal clear. He had a way of dwarfing even the biggest of spaces. As I make my way down the hallway, the remnants of a time not so long ago still lingering in my mind, I press my hand against my chest, right where it hurts the most.

The house expands with every step I take.

VICTORIA

It's the silence that wakes me up.
Pulsing, heavy silence that bruises every inch of me
. I keep waiting for his radio to come on, for his cell phone to ring. A footfall. A door opening. A shower to turn on. For his voice. I keep waiting for his voice. For anything, really, just to end this silence. I roll to my stomach and dig my fingers into my pillow. I smother my face but I can still breathe and, with every exhalation, the pain hits me anew.

And it's still so fucking silent.

I squeeze the pillow tighter and arch up, pull my knees to my chest. Tears fall and now I'm drowning.
Choking and drowning
, and I think it's not such a bad way to go. If it would end this silence, it wouldn't be bad at all.

And suddenly, that's the only thing I can think of.

How to end this silence...

this gaping void...

this widening emptiness...

this black hole nothing can penetrate.

I need to escape
.

DEREK

I move to the closed door of the study. My hand is raised, poised to knock, when I hear his voice. The same incredible baritone. The same rhythm. The same round vowels and consonants. William, the man both blessed and cursed with his father's every feature, including his voice, sounds so much like his dad I can almost mistake that he is.

It's like taking a punch in the gut.

“...yes, it's certainly been a while,” I overhear William say, “but I wanted to let you know my father passed away last night.”

A woman in the room gasps. “Oh my god! Oh my god! William, I am so sorry. What happened?”

“There was an accident, and he went to the hospital and there were some complications.”

“Oh god. I am so sorry.”

“Thanks. The funeral will be on Tuesday.”

She starts sniffing. “Goddamn, Will. I can't believe it.”

“I know. Listen, we'll talk soon, alright?”

“Alright. I'm so sorry again.”

He doesn't answer. Suddenly, beeps begin to fill the air, then the familiar tone of a ringing phone. Ah, so there is no one really in the room with William. He's on speakerphone.

A man answers, “This is Brad Parris.”

“Brad, it's William King.”

“Hey,” he says, the cool professionalism of his greeting falling to a kinder, friendlier tone. “It's been a while. You missed a great game at Oakmont. Don't forget Augusta in the spring.”

“Yes, I won't. But I'm actually calling to let you know my father passed away last night. The funeral will be on Tuesday.”

“Jesus Christ. I'm very sorry to hear that. Jesus. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you. It's all being handled. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I'll talk to you soon.”

“Your father was a great man. His loss will be felt.”

Not wanting to hear another conversation, I turn to leave, but I'm too hasty and my hand hits a small table, knocking over several delicate antiques.

“Shit,” I mutter, kneeling to pick up the mess. That's when William calls out. Feeling like a kindergartener being called to the principal's office, I stand and push open the door.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to—”

“It's alright.” He motions for me to take a seat in the chair across from him. The phone is ringing; he’s still on speaker. As if in explanation, he says, “I only have a few more of these to make. I'll be done in a moment.”

A woman's voice fills the room, “Hello?”

“Nora, it's William King.”

And so the conversations start again. I think about plugging my ears, but ultimately don't. The damage has been done. Brief though they may be, these conversations are excruciating to listen to. The surprised gasps, the apologies, the quivering voices. I focus on the pattern of the dark green rug, trying to tune William out, but let's face it: I'm less than ten feet away from the guy and I'm not deaf.

My father passed away last night. The funeral will be on Tuesday.

He hangs up and dials another number. The cycle repeats.

My father passed away last night. The funeral will be on Tuesday.

It's ridiculous. I don't even understand why, when William literally has a staff of hundreds, he is the one making these phone calls. Then again, I suppose I would want to personally inform friends and family of my dad's death rather than hand the task off. Or maybe...Christ, I don't know. I don't even want to think about it. Just hearing these words are painful; I can’t fathom how it must hurt to say them. Hell, I'd probably choke to death on the words before I could get them out. I look at William as he finishes up another call, and try to understand.

My father passed away last night. The funeral will be on Tuesday.

The words don't alter; neither do the inflections. It's like he's saying it by rote, lines that never change.

My father passed away last night. The funeral will be on Tuesday.

And that's when I get it. It's like a light bulb going off above my head.

Maybe William needs to say those words—repeatedly say them—because he still just can't believe them.

VICTORIA

I go into the bathroom. I stare at the tub for a long time. It's empty now, but I imagine water up to the brim. How that would look, how that would feel. I think it would feel nice to lay down in it, to feel cocooned and warm.
I don't think I'll ever feel warm again.

There are my
razors
and a pair of scissors in the small basket hanging from the shower head.

There are
nighttime cough medicines
in the cabinet behind me. I breathe deep. In. Out.

A rose blooms in my chest. The petals are spikes and the stem is lightning.

A garden bursts in my body–chain daisies and barbed-wire posies and jagged-rock mums and dirt and muddy weeds.

The
pain
has turned my
body
into something
foreign

a
sarcophagus
I must
shred
my way out of.

My body is not my own anymore.

My world is not my own anymore.

DEREK

He hangs up the phone. The dialing sound, the ringing tone, the conversations have stopped. Finally.

“Victoria is still asleep,” I say. William nods. I nod too. I shift in my seat and clear my throat. “You know, I know you said last night you wanted her to stay here, but, uh, are you sure you don't want to reconsider? I mean, it's just...I think it might be hard for her when she wakes up. I think the memories of this place will outweigh any benefit that being in familiar surroundings might give her. We technically don’t close on the apartment for a bit longer, but she can stay with me at my parents’ house. I know they won’t mind.”

“And will moving her make her stop crying?”

“Uh…no. I guess not.”

“Will it make her not grieve?”

“No. But—”

“Will she get better more quickly?”

“Not right awa—”

“Then she’s not going anywhere.”

I sigh. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Yes, and removing her from this house wouldn’t be helping. She needs supervision now. Not coddling.”

“Supervision? If you’re suggesting that she’d hurt herself, I would never let her do that.”

William stares at me. Just. Stares. Finally, he says, “Do you know what happened when Victoria’s fish died a few years ago?”

Thrown by the question, I stare at him while my brain churns and searches for fish memories. Finally, I find it.

“Yeah, she felt terrible,” I say. “The tank fell over while she was at school and—”

“Is that what she told you? And you believed it?” William scoffs. “Tell me, Derek, how do you think a twenty-pound aquarium just fell over? Ghosts? Gremlins? A minor earthquake that only hit the southeast corner of the house?”

“She told me the cleaning lady bumped it.”

William gives me a look and I swear, I want to lean over and punch him.

“The tank didn’t break,” William says. “And the fish just died. It was a
fish
, for God’s sake. And Victoria…she stayed in bed for two days afterward. She didn’t shower and she didn’t eat. Then, when she finally dragged herself out of her room, she went to the library, picked up the tank, and threw it down the stairs.”

I swallow uncomfortably, and for some reason, my face starts to burn.

William says, “This is what she does. She gets upset, throws herself a nice big pity-party, then lashes out, heaven help anyone in her way. Whether it’s a goldfish or her father. It’s textbook. She's like a two-year-old in a temper tantrum.”

Flabbergasted, I can't even summon words. How do I reply to that?

William must notice that my mouth is moving but words don't come out. I probably look like Victoria's fish right before it died. He says, “Indulging her makes it worse. It’s nothing but a waste of time and energy and if you were smart, you wouldn’t waste either. Crying over something won’t change it. At the end of the day, the only thing you can do is adapt. Victoria needs to learn that lesson. And apparently, so do you.” He adds, “Consider this both your wake up calls.”

Oh yeah. I have definitely never wanted to punch William more. In my mind, I can actually see myself lunging across the desk and wrapping my hands around his throat. 

“She lost her father,” I say. “And if she wants to scream and throw things, or just stay in bed for weeks, then she can do that. I’m not indulging her. I’m letting her grieve. People mourn differently. But being this upset is normal. You’d have to be a psychopath if you weren’t.”

William goes totally still. His brown eyes, which to me, were always a bit hard, are practically bullet-proof now.

Instantly, I realize how my words might have sounded to him, how they could’ve been interpreted. I want to apologize, and I can tell he wants to say something too, but before either of us can speak, the doorbell rings.

I take a breath. It’s like I just boxed three rounds and that was the time out. I head back to my proverbial corner, check my wounds, and try to shake them off.  The conversation just got so out of control, and I feel guilty and off-balance. I mean, the guy’s dad just died, I shouldn’t be thinking about punching him in the face or accidentally implying he’s a psychopath.

Then again, he did piss me off with his talk about Victoria. And when it comes to Victoria, it’s really very simple: she is my first and main priority, William’s feelings be damned. She’s my soul mate, and you really can’t trump that.

He stands smoothly and heads downstairs. I follow him down the hall, thinking I’d wait for him at the top of the steps because I sure as hell don’t want to just sit here twiddling my thumbs. But when he opens the front door and I see who’s standing at the threshold, I hurry downstairs. I can’t help it. Call it gut feeling, call it instinct. Either way, I know I need to be a part of this conversation.

The man on the other side of the door is Captain Pearce, his face grim and set. Two soldiers stand behind him.

“William,” he says, “I apologize for bothering you at such an early hour. But I need to speak with Victoria.”

“She's still asleep,” I say.

He looks at me. “I suggest you wake her.”

William asks, “What's this about?”

A pause. “I really think you should wake Victoria first.”

But then her voice comes floating down the steps. She says my name and I turn to her. I'm shocked at how terrible she looks in the glow of morning. Her hair is wet yarn, her eyes are lava pits, and her skin is paste. I rush up to her and we descend the steps together. Captain Pearce is standing beside William now. The two soldiers are still by the door.

Finally, Captain Pearce looks directly at Victoria. He speaks. But the words don’t make any sense. They can't make any sense. Because if they make sense…