Leah puts a hand on my shoulder. “I forgot about that too, Cleo. It was in the city, wasn’t it?”
I nod without speaking.
“And it’s only been a week,” Daniel adds.
“Poor Cleo.” Leah wraps her arm around me on one side.
“We’ll take care of you.” Daniel puts an arm around me on the other side, and Geoff stands close by with an understanding expression. And it’s amazing—I feel protected and circled by love.
“You need friends at a time like this,” Geoff tells me.
“And you’ve got us,” Leah says.
“Thanks.” I’m actually blinking back tears now.
For a while we stand out there in our tight little circle, just talking about life and death and how we all need friends. And it’s weird. For the first time, I actually feel like I might survive this. The buzzed feeling is starting to let up a little, and I feel pretty good. But when we get coffee, I opt for decaf. We sit and visit some more. Then Daniel announces it’s time to go, and as promised, he gets me home by eleven.
Once again, he walks me to the front door. But this time he lingers on the porch. He slips his arm around me and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. “You’re really special, Cleo. I can’t believe it took until the end of our senior year to figure this out. But I’m glad we did.” He leans forward and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, and I’m so excited (and still a little buzzed) that I can’t even think what to do. But he stops midway and looks into my still-open eyes, which I should’ve shut. Instead he simply takes my chin in his hand, gently kissing my forehead, which actually tickles and makes me giggle.
“We’ll save more for later,” he says in a slightly formal way. Then he bows and tells me good night. As I open the door and go into the house, it feels like I’m walking on air. I go into the family room, where a baseball game is blasting on the big screen and my dad is snoring in his recliner. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek—that’s twice in one day—and he sleepily opens his eyes.
“You made it home,” he says groggily, almost as if he was worried that, like my mom, I might not.
“Yeah, it was a nice evening. Good night, Daddy.”
He gives a weary-looking half smile. “Night, Cleo.”
I’m exhausted but still feel shaky as I get ready for bed. I’m way too jittery to sleep. And I wonder just how long this little red pill is going to keep doing its stuff. Finally I can’t stand being trapped in this small space, so I tiptoe back out and, seeing Dad’s abandoned recliner, quietly go down to the basement, turn on the lights, and dance. I dance and I dance and I dance—just like the girl in the red shoes.
Until finally I’m so exhausted that I collapse on the rose velvet couch. My mother’s couch. She found it at a garage sale a few years ago, and I told her it looked like a granny couch. But she insisted it would be perfect in my dance studio. As I snug my head into one of the floral pillows, I smell my mother’s scent. I remember how she used to sit down here, pretending to read a book as she watched me practicing. And suddenly, almost as if I’ve just seen her ghost, I feel wide awake again. But I’m too tired to dance. And too wired to sleep. Wired and tired... and miserable.
I tiptoe back up the stairs and go to my room, where I find my baggie of costly pills, still safely nestled where I hid them in the trusted tampon box. I unzip the baggie and remove a blue pill. Blue is for sleep, T. J. told me. Then using the last dregs of some flat soda that’s been sitting by my bed for a couple of days, I swallow it down.
Holding my breath I wait expectantly, but nothing happens. I get up and start pacing again, impatiently waiting for this pill to kick in and perform its magic. Then just as I’m about to give up on the stupid blue pill, something hits me. It’s like I’ve been hit by a padded sledgehammer, and I tumble to my bed just in time to blissfully fade out.
. . . . . . . . . .
The weekend comes and goes in a blur of red, white, and blue—and I’m not talking about the American flag. My primary focus is to balance out these pills, figuring out when to take them, when not to take them, how much is enough, how much is too much. Daniel texts me on Saturday morning, saying his dad insisted on taking him and his sister to visit their grandmother for the weekend. And Aunt Kellie went home to spend time with Uncle Don. So it’s been pretty quiet around here with just Dad and me. He sleeps a lot, and I’m consumed with my pills and dancing. I’ve decided that I like the energy the red pills give me—and dancing is a great way to take the edge off.
By Sunday afternoon, Dad and I are both sugared out and sick of Easter candy, so we agree to have canned soup for dinner. As we’re eating, I offer to drive him to the airport. I know he has a red-eye flight that leaves close to midnight, but I suddenly feel possessive of him—I don’t want him to leave.
“Aunt Kellie plans on playing chauffeur tonight,” he tells me as he rinses the bowls and I put them in the dishwasher. It’s weird helping like this in the kitchen, but without Mom or Aunt Kellie around, it’s not like the housework is going to do itself.
“I don’t mind driving you,” I say as I close the dishwasher door.
“It’s too late for you to be out. Remember, you have school in the morning.”
“But I could drop you off at the airport earlier. Maybe I could go in with you and we could get coffee or—”
“No, Cleo. I don’t want you driving through the city by yourself. Not at night.”
Now there’s a heavy silence, and I know we’re both thinking about Mom. Dad is missing her... I am feeling guilty.
“So are you all ready to go?” I ask him.
“I guess so.” He gives the countertop a swipe with a sponge, then tosses it into the sink with a frown.
“How did you do... packing for yourself?” I ask with caution. I know how my mother used to take great care in getting everything ready for him to go on a trip. She’d take care of every last detail, including filling small travel bottles with his favorite shampoo and conditioner and putting them in a zipped baggie for his carry-on case.
He sadly shakes his head. “Your mom spoiled me, Cleo.”
“I know.” I sigh. “She spoiled me, too.”
“I’m just not sure how we’ll get along without her—” His voice cracks, and he looks close to tears now.
I can’t stand to see him cry. “We’ll be okay. I’ll learn to help out more.”
He just nods, then picks up the newspaper and goes into the family room. But as he sits down in his recliner, holding the paper in front of him, I hear the sound of some choked sobs—sobs that slice through me like a knife.
This is all my fault. My selfishness dismantled our family... destroyed our home. As I hurry to my room, all I can think of is taking a pain pill. Something to take away this anguish.
Already my supply has dwindled. And yet the thought of calling T. J. and spending more of my savings on this crudmakes me want to beat my head against the wall. Or maybe that’s what I’m already doing.
I hold up the wrinkled baggie, staring at the remaining pills, wondering how it’s possible that something so small costs so much. And yet I understand. For me, these little pills are the difference between sinking and swimming. Without them there’s a stone strapped to my chest, and I am sinking to the bottom of the ocean. With them I can float, I can keep my nose above water.
I take a pain pill, then lie down on my bed, waiting for that soft, fuzzy feeling to return... taking me away. Away to a place where girls don’t murder their mothers... a place where nothing matters. Not even the unfinished homework still in my bag. Nothing but nothingness is here.
I wake with a start, sitting up with a strong sensation that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. The lights are out, and I try to grasp where I am and what’s happening and why I feel so freaked. The clock by my bed shows it’s just a little past midnight. And I remember that my dad’s supposed to fly out tonight. Why didn’t he come in and tell me good-bye? Or maybe he did. Maybe I was sleeping too soundly to r
espond.
I tiptoe out to see that Aunt Kellie’s car is parked in front of the house, so she must be back from taking him to the airport. I see a crack of light under the door to the guest room; she’s probably reading in bed. But still I feel uneasy, like something bad has happened or is about to happen. And yet everything in our house seems normal. Or as normal as it can be, considering the past week.
I open the door to my parents’ room—rather my dad’s room—and this space looks a lot messier than usual. The unmade bed, clothes strewn about, shoes here and there, closet doors gaping open. Nothing seems particularly amiss, just the effects of my dad’s lack of housekeeping skills.
I go into the bathroom to see more of the same. Shaving stuff on the counter, whiskers in the sink, toothpaste tube open, blue goo dripping onto the countertop. I can’t even imagine what my mother would think to see her pretty bathroom like this. Perhaps she wouldn’t care anymore. Why should she?
I put the lid on Dad’s cologne. A woodsy fragrance my mother picked out for him. But the smell of it sends another wave of fear through me. What if I never see him again? What if his plane goes down? What if he’s murdered? What if I’m left all alone in the world? No mother, no father... just Aunt Kellie, which is little consolation.
My heart is pounding with this anxiety. And although it makes no sense, I have a strong feeling that this is my fate. Both my parents taken from me—a punishment for my stupidity, my selfishness, my lies.
I turn away and rush from their room, hurrying back to my own room, where I swallow a blue pill and wait for it to deliver me from the harsh reality of my life.
If only it could last forever.
. . . [CHAPTER 15] . . . . . . . . . . . .
On Monday afternoon, I meet T. J. in the park again. This time the price is higher, but the reward is more pills. And as I walk back to my house, I tell myself that I will make this supply last longer. Not only that, but I will kick this dirty little habit. I will. Just one more week and I will free myself from this pathetic crutch forever. I just can’t function without my pills right now. And okay, there’s another whisper inside of me, saying that I cannot function with them either. But I am not listening.
These pills are not red, white, and blue like the old ones. But T. J. separated them into different baggies, explaining which ones did what, and I think I understand. Like my mother used to say, “You are your own best doctor.” However, I’m pretty sure this is not what she had in mind.
For the next week, I fall into a slightly comfortable pattern. I take a pill to wake me up in the morning and another one to help me dance in the afternoon. Then there’s a pill to help me forget—to block out the pain as needed—and a different one, sometimes two, to knock me out at night. And then the same thing all over again the next day. So I go day after day after day, and sometimes one pill becomes two pills, but I’m holding it right there. I haven’t taken three pills at once, and I don’t plan to do that.
And really, it’s not such a bad way to live. Except that sometimes it seems the only thing I’m thinking about is when I’ll take the next pill. I count the minutes on the clock, trying to make myself wait. But sometimes it’s just too hard, and I give in. And then I obsess over how many pills I have left and wonder how I can afford to buy another batch next week. Then I tell myself I won’t need them next week. But I’m just lying to myself. I do the math in my head, figuring how many pills cost how many dollars, and I try to estimate how long my savings will last if this continues.
. . . . . . . . . .
On Thursday, nearly two weeks after my mother was murdered, I am telling myself that I have to kick this habit. I go a whole day without taking a single pill. But by the time I’m at ballet, I feel myself slowly slipping away. It’s like I’m falling apart. And everyone around me can see it, too.
“What is wrong with you?” Amanda demands after I nearly plow her over doing a series of out-of-balance fouettes.
“Sorry. I’m a little clumsy today.”
“A little?” She indignantly smoothes her sleek dark hair back into place, then adjusts a strap on her leotard. “Are you sure you can dance the lead, Cleo? Because as I’ve told you, I’m perfectly willing to step in.” Amanda announces this loudly enough for Madame Reginald to hear.
“What’s this?” Madame comes over to us. “What are you saying, Amanda?”
“I was simply telling Cleo that I am willing to dance the lead if she’s not up to it.”
“Of course she’s up to it,” Madame assures her.
“You obviously didn’t see her trample me just now.” Amanda gives Madame a wounded look. “She rolled over me like a bulldozer. I’m just lucky she didn’t give me a black eye.”
Madame smiles patiently. “Perhaps we all simply need to give each other a bit more space.”
“That might keep me safe for now.” Amanda steps away from me like I’m contagious. “But what about during the recital? That’s not a huge stage, you know. What if Cleo knocks down other dancers? What if she ruins the whole evening for everyone?”
“Fine,” I snap at Amanda. “Go ahead and dance the lead.” Then I storm out.
My hissy fit is a response to her nasty comments, but I know what’s really going on. I just want out of here so I can take a pill. I need something to energize me and pep me up. Feeling like a slug with six feet, I struggle back into my street clothes, then make a getaway before Madame or Faith has a chance to stop me.
Out on the street, I realize it’s too early for Daniel to pick me up yet. He has a graduation planning meeting until five. But I’m actually relieved not to face him. I’d hate for Daniel to see me like this. He’s already made a couple of comments about how my moods seem to go up and down a lot. He’s been understanding and says it’s just part of my grieving process, but I’m worried he might become suspicious. And as much as I like him, I’m not sure I can juggle a boyfriend with my need for these pills. It’s possible I’ll have to let one of them go.
I consider walking home, but that will take half an hour. And my feet already feel like they’re wearing cement shoes. So I call my aunt, begging her to come get me. “I just can’t dance today.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just need to come home!”
“Are you okay, Cleo?”
“It’s just a bad headache,” I say, which is not entirely false. “I need to lie down.” I make a pathetic groan, and Aunt Kellie promises to be here within minutes. I hang up and then call and leave a message for Daniel. And as I wait for my aunt’s ugly van, my head really does start to throb.
As she drives us home, Aunt Kellie seems extra quiet and somewhat distracted. This is so not her. And suddenly I’m worried. What if she found my stash of pills? What if she knows? What if she called my dad and told him that his daughter is hooked on drugs?
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” she says quietly as she parks her van in the driveway.
“What?” I nervously ask.
“We can talk in the house.”
Now I know she found my pills. Why else would she be acting so weird? She was probably “cleaning” my room today, which I’ve clearly told her not to do anymore. But she probably did it anyway. And then she probably got to snooping while she was in there. She seems like the snoopy type. And now she knows what I’ve been doing. As I go into the house, I feel certain of it. She knows.
“Come into the kitchen,” she tells me as I’m about to sneak off to my room—eager to see if the pills are gone.
“Just a minute,” I say in a grumpy tone.
“No, Cleo. Please, come in here now. I really need to talk to you.”
I give her a smoldering look, then reluctantly follow her.
“I know how you can be.” She turns on the teakettle. “You will go into your room and never come out again.”
“But I have this headache. I want to—”
“Here.” She reaches into the cabinet where my mother always kept a few first-aid t
hings and over-the-counter medicines. “Take some ibuprofen.” She sets the bottle on the counter, fills a glass of water, then sets it in front of me. “And drink all that water. It will help.”
I shrug as I pry open the bottle, shake out two capsules, pop them into my mouth, and wash them down with water. Then I stare at her with my darkest look, waiting for her to blast me with her discovery. Just get it over with.
“I don’t really know where to begin.” A deep V creases her brow. “But I need to just get this out in the open, Cleo.”
I hold my breath now, bracing myself for her accusation, trying to prep my brain to work out some line of defense. Maybe I can tell her that Lola left that box of tampons in my room. I’ll act dumb and say they aren’t even mine. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. It’s amazing how easy it is to lie... once you get started. The tricky part is trying to remember which lies you’ve actually told.
“There was a... well, a rather odd message on the answering machine today.”
I frown, trying to grasp what she is saying. Did T. J. call here? Did he ask about meeting me in the park? Did he mention doing a drug deal? And why would he do something so totally stupid?
“I guess I should just come out with it.” She has a confused expression. “But I confess it’s got me completely bewildered.”
My fists are clenched as I wait for her to get this over with, trying to corral my explanation and make it more believable. Like Lola brought those tampons here when she spent the night, then forgot them the next day when she left for California. And how I just stuck them in a drawer and forgot about them. I imagine how I can make a really shocked expression. But Aunt Kellie is talking again, and I missed the first part of what she said.
“So it was from your mother’s friend.”
“Huh?” Now I’m totally lost.
“Trina. The one who got married recently.”
“Who got married?”
“Remember? Trina. She had that bachelorette party. On the night your mother was... uh, killed.”
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