by M. Leighton
When it seemed she’d gotten it all out, I helped her stand, got her cleaned up and took her to bed.
“Don’t go, Ridley. Stay and rub my back. Just for a minute,” she pleaded.
“Ok, Momma,” I said, crawling over her to lay down behind her.
I rubbed her back until I heard her breathing become deep and even. Slowly, gently, I crept off the bed and tiptoed to the door.
Just as I was pulling it shut behind me, I heard her stir.
“Ridley,” she called, struggling to roll off the bed.
“I’m right here, Momma,” I whispered, hoping she’d quiet and go back to sleep.
“Help me to the bathroom.”
Hurrying back to the bed, I draped her arm over my shoulders and supported her as we made our way to her en suite bathroom. Unfortunately, we weren’t fast enough, though. Mom started throwing up just before I got her head in front of the toilet. As luck would have it, it landed right on the H in the middle of my uniform. The H happened to be white.
After I got Mom situated in front of the commode again, I went to the sink to put soap and water on my top. It was no use, however, as she must’ve had red wine. I knew I’d have to treat the stain and wash it right away or it would never come out, and the origin of the stain was something I didn’t feel like explaining to every Tom, Dick and Harry at school.
Dreamy thoughts of escaping to Stanford rolled through my head for the thousandth time. Although I worried about what would happen to Mom when I went away to school, it always made me feel better to visualize that tiny ray of light at the end of the tunnel, and at times like this, that speck of hope far outweighed my guilt over leaving.
With a sigh of resignation, I took Mom’s dirty clothes hamper out of her closet then stripped off my cheerleading uniform and tossed it on the pile.
Might as well do a full load while I’m at it, I thought, carrying the basket down the hall to the washer.
I poured some detergent under the stream of water and loaded Mom’s clothes, paying special attention to treating the new spot on my uniform. When the lid was closed, I made my way down the hall to my room to put on some pajamas and collect my dirty colored clothes. I’d do them as well.
My hamper sat just inside the door of the jack-and-jill bathroom connected to my bedroom. I dumped its contents onto the floor and separated the whites, putting them back into the basket.
With my arms full of colored jeans, shorts and t-shirts, I turned to walk back the way I’d come. I had only gotten a few steps when the nightlight in the next room caught my attention as it so often did.
Shifting directions, I went on through the bathroom and walked into the adjoining bedroom on the other side. I took a deep breath. It still smelled of gardenias, but just barely. The scent was fading. One day, it would be completely gone.
A poignant feeling of melancholy washed over me. I looked at the perfectly made bed and the perfectly placed vanity items. It was almost as if Izzy still slept in there every night and got ready in there every morning. It didn’t look as if she’d been gone for three years. But she had.
In a way, it felt like she was just there, like I’d seen her only yesterday. But in another way, I could feel her fading, like the gardenias. It was getting harder and harder to remember what her laugh sounded like, what exact shade of blue her eyes were. In a dimly lit corner of my mind, I feared that one day her memory would be nothing more than a whisper, nothing more than a faint bittersweet smell.
********
The next morning, I woke up at 7:45 and squinted angrily at the sun peeking through my fuzzy pink curtains. My head started to throb immediately, so I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. I knew Mom would be sleeping off her hangover and Dad’s flight wouldn’t get in until 3:30 so I went back to sleep.
Three hours later, I forced myself to get up. Mom’s day-after drama would be starting any time now and I wanted to be—needed to be—energized with some coffee before that happened.
After using the bathroom, I padded into the kitchen and started a pot brewing before I went out to get yesterday’s mail. As I walked back to the house after collecting the mail, I unrolled the paper to see what the headlines were.
The front page read, “Community Rallies Around Recovered Attack Victims.” I scanned the first paragraph.
“Friday evening, following a miraculous recovery, the two surviving victims of a recent Southmoore Slayer-type attack were released from the hospital. Doctors say that both David Hale and Jarrod Brown made a stunning and sudden recovery from the unknown anemia that had plagued them since the grisly attack earlier this month. Though authorities are pleased with the victims’ speedy recovery, neither Hale nor Brown was able to provide any information helpful in the apprehension of the perpetrator(s). Police are still working around the clock to…”
A pang of sadness shot through my heart so I folded the paper back up and carried it to the house with the rest of the mail. I had just laid it on the counter and was pouring myself a cup of coffee when Mom stumbled into the kitchen.
She eyed me blearily and ran a hand through her hair. “How long have you been up?”
“Just a few minutes. I just went out to get the mail,” I said, pushing it toward her, hoping she wouldn’t see the paper.
She asked wryly, “Anything that’s not a bill?”
“Not that I saw,” I said, leaning on the counter to obscure the newspaper from her view.
“Is that the paper?” She was craning her neck to look around me.
“Oh, yeah,” I answered casually, not offering to get it for her. “How’d you sleep?” Subject changes never worked out well for me, but I thought it was worth another try just this once.
“Ridley Elizabeth Heller,” she said, using her most maternal tone. “Give me that paper.”
I handed the paper over, hoping that I’d be wrong and that it wouldn’t cause the outburst that I suspected it might. Only it did.
Mom unfolded the paper and immediately began to read the same article I’d just read, only her interpretation of the news would be much different than mine. It always was.
“Oh,” she cried, putting her fingers to her trembling lips. “This is what should’ve happened with Izzy. She should’ve had a write up in the paper about her miraculous recovery. If only those doctors had—”
“Mom, Izzy died. The doctors had nothing to do with it,” I reminded her gently.
“But maybe they—”
“It happens all the time to people in a coma, Mom. Remember what the neurologist said?”
Mom glared at me with her teary hazel eyes. “You’re just like your father. You both gave up too easy,” she spat hatefully.
“We didn’t give up, Mom. Izzy did. She just couldn’t hang on any longer. Her body gave out. You know that.”
“But—”
“No buts, Mom. You’re just torturing yourself. She’s gone. There’s nothing anybody could do.”
“And the baby,” she sobbed.
“Mom,” I said, stepping over to hug her. “This is why I didn’t want you to see the paper. I knew how upset you would get.”
“Don’t treat me like an infant, Ridley,” she hissed, pulling away from me. “You have no idea what it feels like to lose a child, to bury your daughter.”
If I didn’t see it for what it was, bitter anguish, I would almost have sworn that there was hatred in her eyes. But she didn’t hate me. She was just trying to make it through life with a part of her heart missing. We all were.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” I said, casting my eyes down.
After nearly a full minute, Mom turned and walked away. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, as it had been in the past. Maybe she was finally coming to terms with it. Surely that would happen eventually. Wouldn’t it?
“You need to go to the store sometime before your father gets home,” she called back from the living room.
“I’ll get ready and go in a few mi
nutes,” I said, more than happy to oblige. It would be a welcome respite.
I went straight to my room and showered. Rather than putting on makeup and worrying about my hair, which I would do after I showered to get ready for the party later, I simply ran a brush through my long brown waves, swiped on some mascara and lip gloss. I slipped on some cut off jeans and a red t-shirt that read “Got Milk?” across the front then pushed my feet into some flip flops.
I carried my purse down the hallway, walking softly, listening for Mom. I heard the quiet sounds of weeping from behind her closed door so I grabbed the list off the refrigerator door and left.
It only took me a few steps to remember that I wasn’t going far. My car was not in the driveway, which was a dead giveaway. I stomped my foot in frustration and headed back inside.
I knocked softly on Mom’s door. “Mom, my battery’s dead and I had to leave my car at school last night. Can I take yours?”
Sniffle, sniffle. “Yes.”
“Thanks,” I said, turning to grab Mom’s keys off the top of her purse where she always left them.
I hit the button to unlock the door of her Maxima and ducked in behind the wheel. It was always a treat to take Mom’s car. It was brand new and loaded with every available bell and whistle. My Civic was neither new nor loaded. I don’t think bells and whistles were even invented when my car was manufactured.
The engine purred to life and I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. I cracked the windows, opened the sunroof and turned up the radio. Katy Perry sang “Firework” and I wailed right along with her.
As I left the house, I was feeling like the plastic bag and the house of cards she was singing about. I did feel buried deep by my life, like I was suffocating. But as I drove, growing farther and farther from home, I began to feel more like the firework instead. Away from all the bitterness and turmoil, from all the painful memories and heartache, I felt like a different person.
My usual determination poured through me. It brought with it a confidence that my future was bright and happy and well within my control.
I decided that since it was such a beautiful day and I was driving such a beautiful car, I was going to take my time and enjoy it. I could see no reason why her funk had to be my funk, so I drove to the store all the way across town. I usually went to one closer to the house, but I was in no hurry to get back.
I pulled into the shopping plaza and slowly made my way around the store fronts, in the direction of the supermarket. As I casually scanned the people milling about on the sidewalk, a familiar dark head caught my eye when I passed the rare books store. Shamefully, despite everything and everybody else in my life, my heart soared.
I slowed and did an embarrassing double-take. Then, just as quickly as it had taken off, my heart came crashing back down to earth with a dull thud.
It was Bo. There was no doubt about that. But he wasn’t alone. He was with a girl I recognized, a sophomore named Savannah. I didn’t really know her per se, but I knew of her. Trinity absolutely despised her because Devon had once made a comment about her.
If I remember correctly it was something fairly innocuous, something about her being nice or funny maybe. I couldn’t recall exactly, but that’s all it took to get Trinity’s ire up. After that, the full weight of The Unholy Trinity’s angry social power was turned on the poor girl. Now, she was basically exiled, forbidden entry into any and all decent parties and events.
Watching her laugh with Bo, however, caused me to see things from Trinity’s perspective for one jealousy-induced, temper-flaring minute before I reminded myself that I was nothing like Trinity (a secretly insecure, cripplingly envious psycho). Besides, I had no claims on Bo, and that was that.
I must’ve gawked too long because Savannah noticed me and said something to Bo, who then turned to look back at me.
Humiliated, I sped up, racing to the supermarket lot and turning into the first parking spot I came to. I got out and hurried into the store, mortified that he’d caught me staring.
My pleasurable outing had taken an unfortunate turn for the worse. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one at school that he had an interest in. All those flowery words and all the sincerity that gushed from his eyes had scrambled my brain. How could I have been so wrong about him?
You don’t even know him, that’s how, Ridley. It doesn’t matter what you thought you saw in his eyes. You were wrong, I told myself.
Irrationally aggravated and disproportionately disappointed, I went rushing through the aisles, picking out items on Mom’s list and throwing them into the basket, all the while slapping deep brown eyes out of my mind. I’d probably get home with broken eggs, smooshed bread and bruised fruit, but at that moment, I couldn’t have cared less.
When I got through the checkout line, I remembered (too late) that I hadn’t gotten money from Mom. Choking on the scream of frustration that simmered in my throat, I pulled out my debit card and swiped it. There went a little bit more of my summer money. It was the second time this month this had happened. At this rate, I’d be destitute in no time.
Carrying the bags to the car, I quickly stuffed them into the back seat and climbed in to speed away, taking a different way around the lot than the one I’d used coming in. I didn’t want to risk seeing them again or, worse yet, them seeing me.
At home, I put the groceries away and then went back to my room for a healthy dose of focus. I put my ear buds in and picked out angry white female music to listen to while I flipped through my Stanford brochures. I pictured myself among the happy students on campus, living a life totally different from this one, accomplishing great things and making my dreams come true. My biggest goal in life was to become a whole person again, and a new start at Stanford seemed to be the most promising way to achieve that.
I didn’t intend to fall asleep, but that’s exactly what happened. Dad woke me up when he got home and, at his insistence, I went out to spend some family time with him and Mom.
When Dad was home, we all pretended that we were once again a normal, average, Leave-it-to-Beaver kind of family. We pretended that tragedy hadn’t struck, that Mom wasn’t an alcoholic and that Dad wasn’t running away. We pretended that I was a typical teenager with typical teenage problems. We pretended that our lives were still our lives from three years ago, only minus one family member, one we never spoke of.
It was exhausting. By the time dinner was over and I’d cleaned up the dishes, I was more than ready to escape to my room and get ready for Caster’s party. The only good thing I could say about the time spent with my family was that they’d managed to take my mind off Bo, but that was like saying that someone cut off my leg to take my mind off the hole in my chest—simply a trade of one painful thing for another.
After finishing my second shower of the day, I flipped idly through my closet looking for something to wear. The nights were starting to get a little cool, feeling more like fall, so I dressed in jeans and a light sage-colored sweater that made my skin look like rich, gleaming bronze.
I waited in my room until I saw Drew’s lights as he turned into the driveway. I virtually ran out the door to meet him, a fact that was not lost on him. He mistook it for excitement to see him in particular rather than just excitement to be rescued from Hell House.
“You sure you want to go to this party? We could always skip it and go to my uncle’s cabin instead,” Drew suggested, always thinking with his little head.
I was instantly irritated and I snapped. “Can’t you, just for tonight, not be a typical guy?”
Drew rolled his eyes and backed out of the driveway. Neither of us said another word until we got to Caster’s.
