Shattered

by Carlson, Melody

  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 mids
t 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.”

  I nod as a lump grows in my throat. “Yeah, I miss Lola a lot. But at least she’s not gone for good. I mean... you know... like my mom.”

  “I was really devastated when my grandpa died last fall. He and I had been pretty close. But I can’t imagine how hard it would be to lose a parent... and so tragically.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze that sends a warm shiver down my back. “If you ever need someone to talk to, Cleo... well, I’m a good listener.”

  I want to ask him if he’s serious, but I can tell by his eyes, which are kind of a blue-green color, he means this. And I’m totally taken aback. “Thanks,” I tell him as my dad motions to me, hinting that it’s time to go to the cemetery. “It would be good to have someone to talk to... at school.”

  “Then I expect you to take me up on that offer.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Soon we are riding in the back of the limo to the cemetery—Dad and me and Aunt Kellie and Uncle Don. No one speaks as our car follows the slate-gray hearse. We move through town at a snail’s pace, inching our way up to the cemetery. I stare blankly out the window, seeing the same buildings and businesses I have seen for my whole life, but now they look unfamiliar. Even as our procession passes by Madame Reginald’s Ballet Academy, I feel as if I’ve never been inside that brick building. As if my mother had never taken me for a single lesson there.

  I close my eyes, trying to block out everything. To my relief that pleasant buzzy-dizzy feeling returns, softening the sharp, harsh edges of my shattered life. But my relief is hindered by nagging concerns. I wonder how long it will be until I need to take another pill... and if I should’ve brought more with me... and what will I do when I run out? But thankfully, this pill is doing its magic. I forget where I am, feeling as if I’m wrapped in a thick, fuzzy blanket.

  Then, just like that, the lulling ride comes to a halt. Doors open, loudly close, people are speaking to me, but I can’t understand their words. Or maybe this is a dream. I look around, trying to absorb my surroundings, wondering where I am.

  “Come on, Cleo.” With sad eyes, my dad reaches for my hand, helping me out of the car.

  And that’s when I realize we’re in the cemetery. And like a glass of icy water that’s been thrown in my face, I remember why we’re here.

  . . . [CHAPTER 9] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  We follow the men in dark suits as they transport the casket across the cemetery. The grass is damp, and my feet soon become soggy as we trudge up a hill. I vaguely remember these men—are they called pallbearers, and if so what does that mean? I’m pretty sure they are from our church, but I can’t even think of their names. How did they come to be doing this depressing task? Did my dad call them up and ask them to carry his wife like this? Will they also help to bury her?

  I wish I could take the other pill now. Something to stop this flow of thoughts... something to block my brain. But now we are being seated in a row of folding chairs directly across from where the casket is now arranged over the hole—the hole that will swallow my mother. I close my eyes and wish I could join her. Better yet, I wish I could trade places. So much simpler.

  Again, the words being spoken seem to float over my head. And when it’s time to stand, to sing “Amazing Grace,” I get a rush of dizziness, followed by a loud buzzing in my ears that won’t go away... and then darkness.

  When I come to, my aunt is looking at my face. “There you are,” she says in that despicable congenial tone she likes to use. “See, Hugh, she’s simply fainted. I knew she should’ve eaten breakfast.”

  “I—I’m sorry.” I sit up from where I was laid out on the row of folding chairs. Looking around, I’m relieved to see that the graveside service seems to be over; people are leaving. Before long, only our immediate family and Pastor Reynolds remain behind. My dad is standing by the casket. As he lays a single red rose on top, I look away.

  “Come on now.” Aunt Kellie reaches for my hand. “Let’s get you back into the car.” Then with Uncle Don and Aunt Kellie flanking me on both sides, holding on to my arms like I might topple over again, we go back to the limo, where I lean back into the seat, closing my eyes, longing for an escape as my aunt lectures me about low blood sugar. She tries to get me to eat a peppermint, which I can’t stand, but to placate her, I do.

  Finally my dad joins us, and once again, we are on our way. Wi
ll this day never end?

  “That was a very nice service, Hugh.” Aunt Kellie makes this sweeping statement like we’re simply on our way home from church—not from burying a loved one.

  “Yes...” Dad sighs. “It seemed to go well.” But he peers curiously at me now. “Except for that little fainting bit. Cleo?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Aunt Kellie said I had low blood sugar.” I look away, wondering if he suspects that I’ve been sneaking my mother’s old pain pills. But that’s absurd. How could he possibly know?

  When we arrive at home, it smells like a bad buffet and is crawling with people. All I want to do is escape to my room and crash, but before I get the chance, Aunt Kellie corners me in the kitchen, insisting I need to eat something.

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  “You don’t feel hungry,” she tells me, “but you still need to eat.”

  “And you need to visit with our guests.” My dad drops some used paper plates into a grocery bag that’s doubling as a garbage container by the back door.

  Aunt Kellie nods in agreement. “Your dad is right, Cleo. It’s your job to play hostess today. Your mom would expect that much of you.”

  So I eat some bites of a casserole that tastes like a combination of processed cheese and sawdust. I top that off with a piece of chocolate cake that’s so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. Then I ask to be excused for a few minutes. “Just to use the bathroom,” I explain as I take a can of soda from the ice chest.

  “Of course,” Aunt Kellie says sweetly. “Just don’t forget to come back.”

  I head to the hall bathroom, which is actually in use, so instead I go to my parents’ bathroom where I take my other pill, washing it down with soda. Then flushing the toilet for effect, I open their medicine cabinet, looking to see if the bottle of Vicodin is still where I left it. It seems to be in the same place. I empty the remaining pills into a tissue, which I wrap up like a minipackage, then slip into my bra. But before I leave, I pour a couple dozen aspirin tablets into the empty Vicodin bottle. Just in case my dad should check.