Shattered

by Carlson, Melody

  My mother is dead.

  . . . [CHAPTER 5 ] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Ans a woman named Marsha talks to me, I feel like I’m not really here. I’m sitting on the couch in my living room, but it’s like I’m not. She’s been talking to me about grief, but I feel like she’s speaking to someone else.

  “Do you have a relative or friend?” she asks with a worried brow.

  “Huh?” I stare blankly at her. Is her hair real? Is it as stiff as it looks... a bad case of helmet hair... a strange shade of blonde... kind of greenish yellow... or maybe it’s just me.

  “A grandparent? Or an aunt? A neighbor?”

  “Why... ?” I squint at the sunshine coming through the blinds. Mom usually tips them up by this time of the day. She worries that the direct light will bleach the dark green couch.

  “Someone you can stay with,” Marsha explains. “A friend perhaps?”

  “My best friend moved away today,” I say in a flat voice that doesn’t even sound like me. “And now they tell me my mom is dead.” I begin to cry again. My head hurts from so much crying, my throat feels raw and sore, and my eyes burn. I want to sleep for a long time... and wake up from this nightmare later.

  “Officer Lake told me your father should be home sometime before midnight. Do you think you’ll be okay until then?”

  I just look at her. Doesn’t she get it? I will never be okay again... ever.

  “Or I can arrange for someone to come over and stay with you until then. We have volunteers who are happy to step in and help.”

  I turn away from this woman with weird hair. I want her to leave. I don’t want her strangers coming into my house.

  “I know this is very hard for you, Cleo. And I really don’t want to leave you alone like this. Are you sure you don’t want to come to the—”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. “I want to stay here. And I’m not a child. I do not need a babysitter.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t. But you are very upset. And it’s understandable. I really hate to leave you alone like this.”

  “Please, go.” I try to force some life back into my voice. “Really, I will be okay. I just need to deal with this in my own way. Please?

  “Well...” She stands and shakes her head. “You do have my card. I hope you will call me if you need anything. If not today, perhaps tomorrow or next week.”

  “Yes.” I stand too. “I’ll do that.”

  She looks at me as if she knows I’m lying. But then she picks up her purse or briefcase or whatever it is and leaves. And now I am alone. Really alone.

  She’s barely driven away when the phone rings again. It’s been ringing like this about every five minutes. And instead of picking it up, I just let it go to the answering machine. This time it’s Dad’s golfing friend.

  “Hugh, this is Glen. I just heard something terrible on the news. Was it really true? Is that Karen Neilson your wife? I sure hope not. But call me, man, tell me what’s up. And remember I’m here for you, buddy.”

  I turn the volume way down on the answering machine, then head for my room, which still looks trashed from last night—dried-up salsa, tortilla crumbs on the rug, soda cans, unmade beds. But I turn off the light, close the drapes, step over the trundle, climb into bed, pull up the covers, and take in a jagged breath. My head is still throbbing, pulsating behind my eyes, ringing in my ears. I close my eyes and begin counting backward from a thousand.

  When I wake up, it’s to the sound of my cell phone ringing, and for a moment I forget... and then I imagine I’ve been having a bad dream. But then I answer my phone, and I can hear it in my dad’s voice. This is real.

  “Are you okay?” he asks with so much concern that I know I’m going to start crying again.

  “I... I don’t know.”

  “I’m in shock too, Cleo. But I’m about to board the plane. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Yeah...”

  “I have a connection in Chicago with a three-hour layover. I’ll get it changed if I can. Otherwise it’ll be after eleven by the time I get to the airport. And I’ll just get a taxi to bring me home.”

  “I could pick you up.”

  “No, I don’t want you driving into the city at that hour. Not after what... well, you know.” “Yeah. Okay.”

  “I wish I was there for you, Cleo. I just can’t believe this...

  It feels like a nightmare.” “I know. I keep wishing I’d wake up.”

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you too, Daddy.”

  “Hang in there.”

  “You—you too.” My voice cracks. “I’m coming home.”

  “I know.” Then we both say I love you again and hang up. I’ve never been really close to my dad. I know he loves me—and I love him—but he’s always traveled so much with his work, and Mom was always the one there for me. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone and trying to make sense of this madness, lining up the facts as if they are numbers. Numbers that should all add up.

  My mother is dead.

  She was murdered by strangulation.

  Her body was spotted early this morning by a jogger who immediately called 911.

  Several hours later, detectives found her purse, minus credit cards and cash, in the bushes nearby.

  Her car, now reported stolen, is still missing.

  Estimated time of death is between ten and midnight last night.

  But it’s the location of this incident that made me so sick to my stomach that I vomited several times already.

  My mother’s body was discovered in Riverside Park, a strip of greenway that borders the river running through the city, right next to the Coliseum.

  It doesn’t take a genius to guess what my mother was doing there last night. Still I need to know. I push the key to access my voice mail; afraid to breathe, I listen to the female electronic voice telling me, “You have four new messages—” Before she can finish her sentence, I push the key to listen to my messages. The first one is recorded at 7:49 p.m. Friday. It’s from my mom, but I clench my teeth as I hear her speaking—she sounds very upset.

  “Cleo!” Mom’s voice is tight but controlled. “I just spoke to Vera and she informed me that you and Lola have gone to the concert! She thought you took Dad’s car, which you know you were forbidden to do. I’m leaving Trina’s party right this minute. I am getting into my car and going home. If you get this message, I expect you to do the same.”

  The next message is also from my mother, about an hour later, but she’s still agitated. “Cleo, while I am slightly relieved to see that you did not take yourfather’s car, I am extremely concerned as to where you and Lola are right now. Vera maintains that you are at the concert, and her guess is that you took the metro to get there. I cannot even imagine you would do something so foolish, but she seems quite sure of it. So I am going to drive to the city and go directly to the Coliseum. It’s not quite nine yet, so I expect to get there before ten. I will call you as soon as I arrive so we can plan to meet and I can drive you girls home. I am so disappointed in you, Cleo. I cannot believe you did something so thoughtless. And I can’t believe you did it behind my back. Call me!”

  The third message is from my mother too. “I’m at the Coliseum. It’s 9:53. It doesn’t look as if the concert has let out yet. So I will drive around the neighborhood a few times until it gets out. Then I’ll see if I can spot you. But please call me as soon as you get this. I want you to call me!”

  I brace myself for the fourth message, but to my surprise it’s from Lola. “Hey, Cleo. We’re just stopping for lunch now. Mom’s been letting me drive. Last night was so cool. And, oh yeah, Mom says your mom called her a couple of times last night and that she sounded a little worried, but I reminded her that your mom worries about pretty much everything.” Lola laughs. “Anyway, I miss you already. And I’ll try to call you next time we stop, since Mom refuses to let me talk and drive at the same time—even if
we’re on the most boring straight stretch and there’s not a car in sight. Later!”

  And that’s it. “You have no more new messages,” the electronic voice informs me. I just hold the phone in my hand, staring at it like it’s a living thing, like it has the secrets of life inside it. Then I consider replaying my mom’s messages again, just so I can attempt to fully wrap my head around exactly what happened last night. But I cannot bear to hear her voice again. Not like that. So frustrated, angry, hurt... and disappointed. I don’t want to hear the desperate tone of her voice as she begs me to call her back. Besides, I’m pretty sure I know what happened last night... and why.

  I know who’s to blame for my mother’s death.

  Suddenly I feel like I’m going to vomit again, except nothing’s left in my stomach. Even so, I dash for the bathroom and, clinging to the toilet seat, dry heave until it feels like my internal organs are about to come out—and maybe I wish they would. Then finally I collapse, exhausted, on the hard tile floor, curl up into a ball, and just cry.

  I wish I were dead.

  . . . [CHAPTER 6] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Since I can remember, I have always been afraid of the dark. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of or something I openly admit to. Lola always had her suspicions, and my dad sort of knows, but my mom was the only one who ever really seemed to understand. Without saying much or making a big deal, she always made sure there were night-lights throughout the house. If a bulb burned out, she would quickly replace it.

  But as evening comes tonight, I go around and turn off every single night-light—the one in my bedroom, my bathroom, the hallway, the kitchen, the laundry room. I turn them all off. And then I turn off all the other lights in the house too, until the whole place is pretty much black. Black like I feel inside.

  I slowly pick my way through the house now. Finding my way into the living room, I go over to where the streetlight seeps through the cracks in the blinds on the front window, but I close the blinds tight, blocking even that bit of light out. And then I just sit there on the couch... in darkness, in the silence. And before long I discover that my fear of the dark is gone. Completely gone.

  But instead of feeling relieved, I am disappointed. Almost as if I’ve been cheated, like one more piece of my life has been stolen from me. Or maybe it’s simply been replaced. Because instead of fear, the only thing I feel now is a deep, dark, heavy sense of sadness. It presses down on me like a boulder crushing the life and breath right out of me. I don’t know how I can survive this much pain.

  Every once in a while I am jolted by the jangling sound of the phone, but I still have the volume on the answering machine turned down so I can’t hear any of the messages being left. And anyway, it’s like they’re all the same, expressing shock and regret over and over like my parents have dozens of close friends and relatives when I know for certain they have few. But it’s like everyone is suddenly my mom’s very best friend.

  Neighbors and people from our church have brought over food. Like they think I can eat. I just nod and take the dishes, listen to them expressing sympathy, and then without asking them into the house, I close the door, take the food into the kitchen, and shove it into the refrigerator. I wouldn’t bother to do that except my dad might be able to eat when he comes home.

  I’m fairly certain I’ll never be hungry again.

  I feel dead inside. Dead and hopeless. I wish I could pray. I know I should pray. But it’s like I don’t know how to do that anymore. Like the very act of speaking to a God who could allow something like this to happen is impossible, unfathomable, ridiculous. What would I even say? Would I shake my fist and accuse him of sleeping on the job? Or would I tell him I’m sorry, confessing that my lies cost my mother her life? Would I beg God to take it all back? To turn back the clock and bring my mother back to life? Would I bargain with God? Offer to do what, give what? Even if I could think of something worthwhile, what good would it do? God won’t reverse time.

  I jump when the doorbell rings. Leaping to my feet and crashing into the heavy oak coffee table, I knock off a bowl of silk flowers and fall onto my knees. I have no idea who is at the door, but for the second time today I get the idea that it could be my mom out there.

  I suddenly think that all the events of the day could be just a big mistake, a misunderstanding, or even a hallucination on my part. I feel sure that my mom has come home and she can’t find her key, and she’ll be standing out there with a sweet but sheepish smile. I flick on a light, rush to the door, and, without even checking to see who it is, fling open the door, fully expecting to see my mother. Ready to hug her, welcome her home, and confess to last night’s indiscretion and beg her forgiveness. Instead it’s my mom’s “slightly functional” sister, Kellie. Clutching her purse in one hand and a hankie in the other. And her eyes are puffy and red.

  “Oh, Cleo! I heard the news a few hours ago. I tried to call your house several times. And then I decided just to drive over. It’s so upsetting!” She grabs me in a bear hug, holding me so tightly I am nearly smothered by her bulky form and overpowering perfume.

  After I manage to extract myself from her embrace, I reluctantly let her into the house, which is still mostly dark. Not wanting to explain why the lights are all off, I go around and flip them on, and she follows me, talking the whole time about how awful it is, how unbelievable, until we’re both standing in the kitchen.

  “I just don’t understand it,” she says sadly. “Of all people... that something like this could happen to my dear sister. Really, she was one of the sweetest people on the earth. Why Karen?”

  I just shrug. For lack of anything else to do, I fill a glass with water and take a sip. It’s lukewarm and tastes metallic, but I don’t really care. I slowly sip, focusing on this water as if it’s the only thing in the world.

  “How are you doing?” She comes closer to me, peering into my eyes as if she expects to spy an answer inside my head.

  Again I shrug. “It’s been pretty hard.” My voice is hoarse and doesn’t even sound like me.

  “Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She comes in for another hug, but I move away, putting the island between us.

  “Dad’s on a trip,” I say stiffly. I glance at the clock and am surprised to see it’s almost nine. “He should be home in a few hours.”

  “Well, I came over here to take care of you,” she announces like she thinks I’m five years old and she’s Mary Poppins. “I just know that’s what Karen would want.”

  I really want to protest this plan, to tell her I don’t need anyone to take care of me, but I simply don’t have the energy. So once again I shrug. Then I tell her I’m very tired and want to go to bed.

  “Did you eat dinner? I could fix you—”

  “Neighbors brought food.” I nod to the fridge. “It’s all in there. Help yourself.”

  “Oh...”

  I turn away and, without even saying good night, go directly to my room and close the door. It’s not that I don’t like Aunt Kellie. It’s just that I don’t want her here. With my clothes still on, I climb into bed and slowly count backward from ten thousand.

  When I wake, it’s dark and silent and I’m not even sure what woke me. But I am wide awake. I look at my digital clock: 2:47. But I know I can’t go back to sleep. So I get out of bed and, tripping over the trundle that is still out, catch my balance on my dresser, then step on a tortilla chip, feeling it crush beneath my bare foot. I can feel all those little pieces being ground into the carpet. Kind of like my life.

  I tiptoe out into the hallway and, seeing that the light is on in the kitchen, wonder if someone is still up. Maybe my dad. But when I reach the kitchen, no one is there. Suddenly my stomach clenches. What if something happened to him? What if his plane crashed? Or what if he got mugged on his way out of the airport?

  I tiptoe back down the hallway, down to the master bedroom, and silently crack open the door and peer into the darkness. I can’t see a thing, but I do hear him snoring.
I can’t believe what a relief it is to hear that sound. I close the door and go back out into the living room, where I sit on the couch and just stare blankly at the floor.

  I realize that until this, I’ve had a relatively easy life. Nothing really bad has ever happened to me before. Oh, I thought it was hard when I broke my arm the summer I was eleven. It was torture not being able to go swimming, and it seemed to take forever before my cast came off, but eventually that summer came to an end. I was able to return to ballet lessons... and life went on.

  But this is different. I can’t imagine there will ever be a conclusion to this excruciating pain. There is no light at the end of this black tunnel. And I truly don’t even care whether or not my life goes on. I simply don’t have the energy for it.

  I try to remember the things I used to feel passionate about, wondering if anything will ever be worth caring about again. Ballet used to be so important to me. And I had been over the moon about dancing the lead role in June’s ballet recital. But now I know I can’t do it... don’t want to do it... don’t care.

  And I used to care about school, making good grades, going to college next year. Now it’s unimaginable. Even Daniel Crane, the nicest guy and my major crush who doesn’t seem to know I exist, seems uninteresting to me now. Boring even.

  I begin to walk through the silent house, absently wandering from room to room, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Or maybe I’m having an out-of-body experience, like I’m not really here at all.

  Is this how it feels to be dead? Maybe I really am dead. Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe it was me who was murdered last night. After all, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surely it was me who was killed. Not my mom. She would never make a mistake like that.