Shattered

by Carlson, Melody

  As Aunt Kellie drives me to school on Monday, I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain. Even though I still feel a little shaky around the edges, I’m ready to return to my former life. But I never could’ve done it without Aunt Kellie and God, plus my journal and a couple of very honest phone calls with my old friend Lola, who now knows the whole story.

  “I can’t believe everything you’ve gone through,” Lola told me last night. “I wish I’d been there for you. I mean, I was actually feeling sorry for myself because I was having a hard time restarting my life without my best friend by my side. I can’t even imagine how you’re doing it—especially with all the crud you’ve been hit with. I think I’d have been totally devastated.”

  “I was devastated,” I admitted. “But I’ve been learning how to rely on God more.”

  “That’s great to hear. You have no idea how much I’ve been praying for you, Cleo.”

  “I can tell.” And then I asked her to pray for my first day back at school—drug free. “I know it’s going to be hard.”

  “You’re going to do fine,” she assured me with far more confidence than I could muster. “I just know. And trust me, I’ll be praying!”

  By the end of the school day, I feel certain that she was praying. Not only that, I almost feel like I’m becoming myself again. Okay, a different kind of myself. Or maybe I’m just becoming more of a complete person.

  Daniel and the others show me sympathy, thinking that I’ve been home with a bad case of flu. And part of me wants to tell them the truth, but the rest of me isn’t ready for that just yet. So I suppose I might seem a bit distant... disconnected. But I’m doing the best I can.

  Amanda isn’t a bit happy to see me back at ballet. In fact, she actually thought I’d quit for good. But I’m more determined than ever to do my very best in the recital—without pills. So unless I break a leg, literally, I will be dancing the lead. Not only do I want to make my mom proud, but Madame Reginald as well. Especially after she’s been so understanding.

  “You’ve been different today,” Daniel tells me on Thursday when he meets me after ballet and, as usual, we get coffee. “You seem quieter.”

  It’s funny because something about being in school, dancing in ballet, standing up to Amanda, and keeping my promise to Madame makes me feel stronger somehow. I think I’m ready to tell him the truth.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “In fact, there’s something I’ve been wanting to explain to you.” I feel nervous and yet strangely calm at the same time. I want to confess to Daniel about what I’ve gone through, starting with the night my mom was murdered until now.

  This could end our relationship, but I’m so tired of lies that I’m willing to take the risk. I just want to be free of all this—as free as I can be anyway. Not only do I admit to him that I blamed myself for Mom’s death, but I also confess how that guilt pushed me to use drugs.

  “It’s humiliating to tell you this,” I say finally. “But if we’re going to be together, you deserve to know the truth about me.”

  “Wow.” He slowly shakes his head with a stunned expression. “Wow...”

  “I know, it’s pretty creepy. And I realize that this might change how you feel about me. I mean, in a way, I deceived you too. I deceived everyone. Mostly myself. And as hard as it is to admit what I did—especially to say those words out loud—it’s a huge relief to have it out in the open.” Maybe the truth really does set you free.

  To my surprise, he chuckles. “It’s funny, you know, because Geoff made a comment after that night we went to the movies. The next day, he texted me saying he suspected you were high on something. But I texted him back, saying he was nuts and you would never use drugs.”

  “But he was absolutely right.”

  “Are you going to tell him, too?”

  I shrug. “I don’t see why he needs to know everything. Not that I want to hide it. And I don’t mind if you tell him. It’s up to you, Daniel.” “I don’t see why he needs to know either.” “And really, I’ll understand if you don’t want to be with me now.”

  He laughs. “Are you kidding?”

  “No.” I stare at him in wonder. Is this even possible? Does Daniel still like me?

  “So are you saying you don’t want to be with me now?” He looks slightly worried.

  “Of course not.” I can’t help but smile at him. I had so hoped this would be his reaction, but I was prepared for the worst. And I told myself that if he wasn’t who I thought he was, I’d be better off without him anyway. Still I’m relieved.

  “It’s good to see you happier, Cleo.”

  “It’s weird. I do feel happier. Not exactly happy-happy. I mean, in some ways it feels like I’m still in the early stages of the grief process. But according to the book I’m reading, that’s normal. When you use something to block your emotions, it’s like you get stuck. It’s better to just experience the pain... deal with it... get beyond it.”

  “Are you going to that grief group?”

  I nod. “I’ll be there. Saturday morning.”

  “And my offer’s still good. I’ll go with you if you want.”

  “I appreciate that. But I’m okay to go on my own. Unless you want to go for your own sake.”

  “No, I’m pretty much okay.”

  We talk some more, and as he drives me home, I feel like life is on its way back to some kind of normal. And that actually feels pretty good. Like I might have a life again. An authentic life where I face even the hardest kind of truth and don’t use chemicals to escape. And sure, it’s a challenge, but the reward—a deep sense of peace and wholeness—seems to be worth it.

  By the weekend, and after my first experience with the grief group, I feel even more hopeful. I think I’m starting to heal, and the pieces are slowly being put back together again. However, there’s one part of my life that’s still broken.

  My dad is still angry at me.

  He’s home from his trip now, and I’m trying to stay out of his way, mostly in my room, since my very presence seems to aggravate him even more. On Sunday night, he made an excuse to take his dinner to his office, claiming he would work while he ate. But I know he’s just trying to avoid me. And that hurts a lot.

  I even wrote out a long letter of apology to him last night. I left it on his desk this morning before church, which he also “excused” himself from. I have no idea whether or not he’s read my letter... or if he’ll respond. And really, I can’t blame him. How do you forgive someone for being part of the reason that the love of your life is gone?

  Just thinking of this still slices me to the core. I realize my mom made her own choice that night. I can accept that I had no control over that. But at the same time, I’m fully aware that if I hadn’t disobeyed her wishes for me to stay home, she never would’ve made that choice.

  “I know your mom was having a hard time letting you grow up,” Aunt Kellie tells me as I help her clean up after dinner. As it often happens now, our conversation drifts toward my mom. It’s like I’m still processing a lot of things. “And I’m sure most other girls your age would’ve been allowed to do things that Karen wasn’t comfortable with.”

  “That’s true.” I nod. “Lola’s mom pretty much lets her do as she pleases. Her theory is that Lola’s going to make mistakes, and she’d rather she made them while she’s living at home than when she’s off at college.”

  “That seems sensible. But in your mom’s defense, she was like a pendulum.”

  “Pendulum?” I pause from rinsing a plate.

  “You know how you swing a pendulum one way and it naturally has to swing back to the opposite side?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, your mom was swinging in the opposite direction of her upbringing. Our parents failed miserably at protecting their children. Your mom was determined to protect you from everything and anything. As negligent as our parents were, your mom was kind of obsessed with your safety and well-being.”

  “I know.”

  “I reme
mber talking to her a few months ago. I asked her how she was going to do when you went away to college.” Aunt Kellie sighed and shook her head. “It seemed like she didn’t even want to think about it.”

  “She never wanted to talk about it either. It’s like she was in denial, like she honestly believed that I was never going to leave this home.”

  “It would’ve been hard on her.”

  “And me too,” I admit. “Now it’s like it can’t happen soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure that Dad can’t wait until I’m gone.” I start feeling weepy now. But I know that’s normal, and I need to let the tears fall. I need to feel this pain; it’s the only way to get better.

  “He’s going to come around, Cleo.” Aunt Kellie hands me a paper towel for my nose and gives me a hug. “You just need to be patient.”

  “Yeah... I know.” And I’m trying to be patient, but I’m worried that he’s never going to get past this thing—he’s never going to forgive me. I’ve heard of people who carry a grudge for years, getting more and more bitter and closed off. I hate to think of that happening to my dad. Not just in regard to my relationship with him, but I hate to think of him being so miserable with others as well. For his own sake, I wish he could forgive me... move on.

  But the fact that he’s still avoiding me and planning to leave for another business trip tomorrow—not that I blame him—sends a pretty clear message that he wants to keep distancing himself from me. Even so, I’m praying I’ll get the chance to speak to him before he leaves. Another week of being cut off like this feels unendurable.

  . . . [CHAPTER 20] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Week two of my “recovery program” begins with my father slipping off to the airport without saying a word to me. Granted, his flight was very early Monday, and I could tell myself he didn’t want to disturb my sleep, except that I know better.

  Aunt Kellie keeps saying, “Just give him time... he’ll come around.” And I assure her I will do that. My question is, How much time? Will he come around by the time I leave for college? Get married? Have children? Grow old? Die?

  The grief group continues to be a pretty good thing. But after Saturday’s session ends, an older woman named Margie approaches me, encouraging me to have a “conversation” with my mom. Naturally, I feel skeptical.

  “It made a big difference in my own recovery,” she explains with a wide-eyed intensity that scares me a little. “Once I sat down and just talked openly with Kristen, I started to find some closure.”

  Now I know that Kristen is her deceased daughter. In her thirties, she was tragically killed in a car wreck that involved a teen who was texting and driving. But this idea of actually speaking with the dead is hard for me to grasp. And I’m pretty sure that seances are not acceptable in most Christian circles. And it’s especially disturbing when Margie makes it sound as if Kristen is actually engaged in the conversation.

  “So... how do you do that exactly?” I ask out of cynical curiosity. Is this woman for real or just desperately imagining things?

  “Well, it involves timing. You can’t just force it to happen.”

  “And you actually heard your daughter speaking to you?” I question. “Audibly?”

  She laughs. “No, no, it’s not like that at all, dear. Forgive me if I made it sound weird. It’s just that the experience felt so very real to me, and the impression I got of hearing her”—she pauses to tap her chest—”in here, inside me, was so incredible and genuine. I just knew it was Kristen. But no, I didn’t hear her audibly speaking to me. I guess you could call it more of an impression. A bit like the way you feel sometimes when God communicates something to your heart. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “I guess so. But maybe I’m worried about what my mother would say to me. I mean, she was trying to help me when she was murdered. What if she partially blames me for her death?”

  Margie seems to consider this. “You have to remember she’s on the other side now. She sees things in a more complete sort of way. I know you believe in God, Cleo. Do you believe in heaven, too?”

  “I guess so. I mean, I want to believe in heaven, especially for my mom’s sake. But it’s kind of mind-boggling.”

  She smiles. “Yes, it’s boggled my mind too. But there are a lot of things about God that are difficult to comprehend.”

  “That’s true.”

  “All I’m saying is you should be open. And pray about it. I feel sure that eventually you’ll get that opportunity to converse with your mother. I’ll be praying for that for you, too.”

  I want to be open to that, but as Aunt Kellie drives me home on Saturday, I’m more concerned about having a conversation with my dad. He got home from his trip very late last night. I still haven’t seen him. But because I sneaked into his office and checked his calendar this morning, I also know he leaves for another trip tomorrow evening. This time it’s Michigan for two weeks. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of time to snag a conversation with him. But he must’ve read my letter by now. I’m surprised he hasn’t at least responded to it. Even if he’s still mad, it seems like he’d say something. Or maybe he didn’t want to read it. Maybe he threw it away.

  “Your dad picked up your mom’s car this morning,” Aunt Kellie tells me in a slightly sober tone. “He brought it home just before I left the house, and it looks like it’s in good shape. He must’ve run it through a carwash or something.”

  “Oh... I thought maybe he’d decided against it.”

  “Apparently not. And he dropped the car keys on the kitchen counter and said to see that you got them.”

  “So he’s letting me use her car?”

  She just nodded.

  “I’m not even sure I can do that now.”

  “Your mother would want you to have her car, Cleo. She loved that car, and she was always telling me how safe it is. And I took a peek inside it, and it’s just as clean and neat inside as outside. But then it was always like that, wasn’t it?” She shakes her head as she glances at the messy interior of her own vehicle. “For sisters, Karen and I were as different as they come.”

  “But you both have some nice qualities that are similar.”

  She smiles. “I hope so.”

  “I’m worried that Dad is never going to forgive me,” I quietly admit to her as she turns down our street.

  “He certainly is taking his time.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She chuckles. “It reminds me of when he and your mother were courting. We thought he was never going to pop the question. But you have to give it to him; once he makes up his mind, he usually sticks to it.”

  “I just hope he hasn’t made up his mind to be angry at me forever.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “Oh!” I let out a little gasp when I see Mom’s car parked in the driveway. It’s almost as if she’s come home... although I know that’s not possible. As my aunt parks in front of the house, I feel a clutch in my chest, like my heart physically hurts to know that car was the last place Mom was before her death.

  “I know,” Aunt Kellie says quietly. “I felt the same way when I first saw it.”

  I get out and cautiously walk around Mom’s car, just staring at it like I think it’s a living thing about to speak to me, to tell me some secret. I briefly consider Margie’s suggestion that I have a conversation with my mother, but I don’t think I can get inside of that car to do it. Not right now anyway. Maybe never. Besides, even if I could communicate with her, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what she might have to say.

  . . . . . . . . . .

  To my dismay, my father left for his next trip without saying a word to me. Aunt Kellie was a bit perturbed at him, too. He didn’t even tell her good-bye either. Instead, he snuck out while she and I were at church, simply leaving a note that said he drove himself to the airport early and planned to work there until his flight left this evening.

  “Don’t you thi
nk that’s a little weird?” I ask her as she makes us some tea. “It seems like a lot of effort to take just to avoid your own daughter.”

  “Your father has always enjoyed traveling and airports. He’s told me more than once that he finds all that hubbub soothing.”

  Even so, I feel my fate is sealed. I am certain my father is permanently disowning me. Of course, Aunt Kellie keeps telling me that it’s just going to take time and that I don’t want to rush things with him. “He’ll come around when he’s ready to come around.”

  “You know, Lola’s been talking about getting a job this summer. She even suggested that I come out to San Diego and get a job too, and we could rent a small apartment together.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Aunt Kellie sets her mug of tea down with a clank. “What about college?”

  “I’m not giving up on college. But I’m not looking forward to a whole summer of Dad hating me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Cleo. He’s just confused and upset.”

  “And you can’t stay here forever. What about Uncle Don? Doesn’t he miss you?”

  She just laughs.

  But I realize I might need to start making an escape plan. At the very least, I should find a job for the summer. And it actually sounds fun to me. My mother never let me work before. But not only could I use the job experience, after my recent stupid spree, my savings account could use some replenishing. I still can’t believe how much money I wasted on those horrible pills. I must’ve been truly insane.

  . . . . . . . . . .

  As the week passes, my time is consumed with a number of things, including bringing my grades back up so I can graduate with a decent grade-point average. Although some of my teachers cut me some slack, my studies were neglected during my addiction era, and it’s up to me to make it right. I’ve also been madly practicing for the ballet recital, determined to show everyone that Madame didn’t make a mistake in choosing me for the lead. I’m also continuing with the grief group, spending time with Daniel, and lately I’m trying to convince Aunt Kellie it’s time for her to go home to Uncle Don. I even started driving my mom’s car, which was weird at first, but I wanted to show my aunt that I’m becoming more and more independent.