Buried Truth

by Caleb Whitaker

Chapter 8: Paranoia

   

  The fatigue from all my varied emotions triggers a craving for a home cooked breakfast. My hunger twists my stomach inside out practically forcing me to find something to eat. I drive towards the local family owned Ma’s and Pa’s Breakfast Diner, deciding to take the back streets in route to the diner, a route which will take a little longer, but will also wind through some nice Georgia scenery. Boy, I could really use anything nice right now.

  As I pass under a few oak trees with moss hanging down from them, I search my phone for Joanna’s number. I have to figure out what she told me. Since I can’t remember, I’m going to have to ask yet another friend to fill me in on the details. Hopefully this conversation will go better than the last.

  I find her contact information and press dial. The Bluetooth devise in my car connects with my phone, initiating the audible dial tone through the car speakers. The dial tone end by cutting to an automated female voice. “I’m sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please, try again later.”

  I check my phone to make sure I dialed the right number. The number that I dialed is indeed the number listed under Joanna’s contact information. I dial it again in case the previous disconnection has been just an anomaly. But again, the automated female voice disconnects my call.

  That is strange. I have never experienced a problem calling her before now. She must have a new number or something and forgot to tell me. I really need to talk with her today. I'm running out of friends. It’s still early, maybe she is still at home. I could stop by her house before going to the diner. She probably wouldn’t mind the intrusion too much. Joanna’s house is only a few blocks away from my current location. All I have to do is take a slight detour, and I’ll be at her house.

  As I pull into her empty driveway, it becomes clear she isn’t home. She must already be out and about, living her normal uninterrupted life. I’ll just have to wait to ask her about our conversation.

  I’m about to leave her house when the outside lights of her home catch my eye. It might simply be my exhaustion induced paranoid state, but something feels off. Joanna is one of the most particular people I know. Especially with her money and home. She never wastes her money on extravagant things, if she doesn’t absolutely need or want it. And she never leaves things out of place like a light wasting away.

  I suppose I can give in to my paranoia just this once. I would be doing her a favor if I go check things out. I have never been a good friend to her. This could be my chance to be a friend to her like she has been to me. I have to check, for her.

  I open my door being cautious in case something happens to materialize out of nothing. The house doesn’t give off a very powerful stigma. It’s a modern single apartment complex. Nothing about its appearance really stands out or calls attention to the home. Other than the exterior lighting being on despite the debilitating sunshine.

  I approach the door, looking up at the lighted burning bulb hanging above the doorbell. My finger trembles as I place it on the button and press down. The faint sound of the cheerful melody of bells beckons from within the home. I bounce up and down on my toes as I wait for the door to open. Now, how do I describe my presence without looking like a homicidal lunatic? I have no idea.

  I wholeheartedly expect Joanna to open the door despite her car being vacant from the property. So, when the door does not open, I find myself pressing the doorbell button repeatedly. After a few obsessive rings I come to the obvious conclusion, the light was just a careless mistake and she had already left the house this morning. I’m such an idiot. Why must I give into my delusions every time? It only ever produces more paranoia, which always leads to nothing good.

  A loud sound erupts from within the house. I stare at the door in confusion before I rush to the window. The window blinds are down, but I can still see parts of the living room through the cracks. There is a broken vase lying on the floor in the living room.

  There has to be someone in there. I’m about to head back to the door when something darts by the broken vase. It moves past the vase so quickly that I can only glimpse the slight changes in light and shadows caused by the movement. I put my face right up against the window, so I can get a better angle.

  Wham! A black furious cat pounces at the window. I fall back onto the porch as the blinds shake against the window glass. Ugh, I hate cats as much as spiders. I stare back at the window as the cat’s devilish eyes lurk behind the blinds.

  I slowly back off the porch while staring at the shadowy cat in the window. Once back in the car, I make a promise to myself to stop being a paranoid crazy fool that obsesses over every anomaly in life. Life is filled with chance occurrences that are nothing more than coincidence. Like the freaking cat knocking over a vase and scaring the hell out of me. After all, if anything can happen, it will one day happen.

  So maybe my life right now is just one giant awful coincidence. My parents met an awful demise on the same day I had excessively drunk myself into no memory. Everything else I’m feeling is an effect of the alcohol abuse that unfortunately occurred around the time someone harmed my parents. Coincidence, it’s the only explanation. Logically finding what has to be the truth of the past few days doesn’t make me feel much better because coincidences are void of any meaning.

  I return to my quest for a home cooked breakfast. I drive down the now log jammed main streets for a couple blocks before returning to the less congested back streets of Everton. I’m only a few blocks from Ma’s and Pa’s, and I can practically smell the bacon that I’m about to eat.

  Cheerful groups of early risers pack the diner to its capacity. It’s sickening how pathetic life can be at times, here I am having my world blown up with a hidden stack of dynamite, and yet I’m eating breakfast in a room with a bunch of perky early birds that can sit and chirp about how safe and secure their life will always be in their neat little nests. Hell, I used to be one of them until boom! My parents murdered inside their own home and all these people can do is chirp. 

  There is only one empty booth in the entire restaurant, and thankfully, it is by a window in the back, away from most of the livelier guests. An elderly woman greets me at the door with a warm country smile as she leads me to the empty leather booth while explaining the morning specials.

  I don’t come here often, but the woman must recognize me because she begins chirping to me about my mother. Her smile turns into a frown as she expresses her sympathies. I know she is trying to help, but the way she talks about my saintly mom only points out the contrast in character between my mom and I. Mom just had a way with people that nobody else I know has ever had. Meanwhile, I tend to screw all my relationships up without even thinking of anyone else. Everyone loved her. Even the people that hated me loved my momma. What does that say about me?

  Before the woman leaves, she says, “Get whatever you want. It’s on the house.”

  I order a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and some hashbrowns. While I wait for my food, I stare out the window at the passing traffic. The silverware on the table shakes as my phone vibrates on the table. It’s a text message from my sister informing me that she got into town early this morning. I text her back, ‘I’m at Ma’s and Pa’s Diner waiting on some breakfast. Swing by if you can.’

  After sending the text, my eyes move back to the window. My mother’s face lightly reflects back to me in the window’s glass. My chest tightens while a scream catches in my throat. I whirl my head away from the window right as a waitress sets a cup of steaming coffee down on the table. A blank expression forms on the waitress’ face. I lower my eyes from her condemning gaze as my fingertips grip the table’s edge. With no place to hide my embarrassment, I turn back around to the window. The image of my mother has disappeared. In its place, the waitress’ stern face reflects back at me.

  My mouth opens to explain myself and thank the waitress, but she moves on to another table before I can speak. My hand quivers as I pick up the cup of coffee. A few drops spi
ll over the rim of the cup onto the table as my head comes to a rest against the back of the booth. The warm, sweet elixir’s taste is as good as its smell.

  The sound of plates and glass cups ring in my ears as my eyes shut. The people in the diner continue to blab about their silly day-to-day activities. My stomach turns, almost causing me to spew coffee all over the booth, as the man in the booth ahead of me whines about the playoff game last night. He has no idea what true loss feels like. No idea at all. The shaky voice of the waitress calls out, “Here you go, enjoy.”

  My eyes open to the sight of a soft biscuit and crisp hashbrowns. In the process of me taking my first bite of the biscuit, my sister walks into the diner. I raise my hand as she searches the booths. Her shirt has wrinkles spreading out in every direction. A dried layer of smudged eyeliner accents her bloodshot eyes.

  “You want anything to eat? I ask as she sits down across from me.

  She mumbles, “I’m not really that hungry.”

  We sit in silence as I squeeze some ketchup onto my hashbrowns and take a bite. Too ashamed to look at her, we both keep our heads down. What do I say to her? I haven’t seen her in so long and this is what it takes to get us in the same room.

  “Have they said when they are going to release the bodies?” She asks with her head still down.

   “I haven’t heard anything, I would say sometime today, though. I know it's a lot to ask, but can you take care of all that?”

  She looks up from the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The waitress brings me a new cup of coffee as she engages Alice with a short conversation about our mother. While they talk, I savor the last few bites of the juicy bacon that had fallen out of my biscuit.

  “You doing ok?” I ask Alice as the waitress walks away.

   “Not really. It doesn’t even seem real. Even right now, it feels like I should call mom and tell her I’m in town.”

  The pain she is experiencing is evident. I wish we were still as close as she and mom have been through the years. Growing up, we would do everything together. I remember when we were kids we would stay up late watching scary movies. We were once like best friends. “I’ve missed having you around.”

  She invitingly stretches her hand out across the table. It is cool to the touch as I gently take it with both my hands. “It’s going to be ok. I’m going to make whoever did this pay.”

  She replies, “I know. Just please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it. Please!”

  “Look, I wish I could tell you that I was nowhere close to being involved. The truth is I don’t know.”

  Our hands separate as she pulls away from me. She strokes her bangs down onto her face in an attempt to cover up the few tears that had formed in her eyes. She has to be disgusted by me. Jeez, I’m disgusted by me. Who answers a question like that? I’m an idiot.

            In need of presenting a more innocent case for myself, I say, “I know I didn’t hurt them. There are just too many moving parts right now to know why or how this could have happened. But I’m going to find out.”

            She cries out, “Not knowing isn’t good enough, Ryan!” She slides out of the booth, as the entire diner looks our way. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I wish things could be like they used to, but… anyways, I really should be going. Someone has to make funeral arrangements and talk to the lawyers. I guess that person is me.”

            She briskly leaves the diner, leaving me sitting alone in the booth. Seeing her leave reminds me of the void that has overtaken our relationship. A void that will grow even wider after she leaves town. Why do I have to screw everything up? I didn’t even need the money. It was just something to do. Something selfish.

            A man sitting a few booths away stares at me as I set a few dollars on the table. The man’s stare, like a razor blade jabbing into my skin, painfully calls for my attention. There is something villainous about the way the man shifts in his seat as I get out of the booth. My eyes lock on his as I pass him. His eyes are dark and hateful. This one isn’t the typical early bird.

            Without hesitation, he follows me out of the diner. My eyes roll from side to side in my head in an attempt to keep track of him. He is still following as I open my car door. I shove my key into the ignition. The burly guy sticks his hand into his pocket revealing a dark tattoo engraved on his arm as he fiddles with whatever is in his pocket. I pull out of the parking lot before I can see what he pulls out of it that could harm me.

  I drive away with one eye on the road ahead and the other on the rearview mirror. The guy from the diner doesn’t appear to be following me, but I can’t be sure. In order to be completely safe, I loop through a couple of intersections before making my way back to my house. The last thing I need is a crazy guy following me home.

  The last thing I expect to see when I turn down my street is a slew of police vehicles around my house. My foot slams on the brake pedal as my hands turn the steering wheel towards the side of the street. Police officers casually walk in and around my house. Crap! There’s a bloody shirt in the bathroom that probably has both my parents’ blood as well as my own on it.

  What do I do? They must suspect me of having some part in the murder. I have to get out of here. I can’t let them see me. I turn the car around and start driving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know one thing. I have nobody left to turn to for help. No one at all.