“No, I don’t think so. He said his name was Sam, not Samuel. I can’t remember his last name. I think it starts with a T, though. Oh, and he has a weird thing for sweater vests.”
Bridget’s fingers stop tapping. She turns her head to look at me and her expression is so filled with loathing it takes my breath away. “What the hell is wrong with you? That’s not funny. At all. I knew you were a psycho from the first minute I met you but Jesus, have some respect.”
My eyes widen. “What? What did I say? That’s what he said his name was. I saw him last night and again today at the grocery store.”
“That’s impossible,” she snaps.
“Why?”
“Sam Trent was in my brother’s class in high school. He died eight years ago in a skiing accident.”
I am speechless.
Bridget’s lips thin. Her eyes flick back to the road, but not before I see the pity in them, which is a hundred time worse than the loathing. “You are one sick bitch,” she says. “You know that, right?”
Dead is dead, Winnifred. You should know that better than anyone.
CHAPTER THREE
Bridget drops me off at the front entrance of the resort. We don’t say goodbye.
Snowflakes catch in my hair and gently coat my shoulders as I carry Girlfriend #3’s groceries inside and slap them down on the front desk. Another egg – the last one? – breaks with a faint crinkling sound. The receptionist, a man in his late fifties who looks vaguely familiar, glances up and smiles. I tell him what room my dad is staying in and he thanks me.
“We will get these delivered right away, miss.”
“Whatever.”
Room two twelve is eerily silent when I enter. Brian is gone, most likely off with my dad somewhere. I make popcorn in the microwave and belly flop on the bed to browse through the television channels. There aren’t many of them. I wonder if it is a mountain or a Maine thing. Probably both. I think longingly of my bedroom at home with its poster plastered walls and clothes flung everywhere. My TV there has just around a bajillion channels. I like Discovery the best. You can’t beat Shark Week.
An hour passes. I watch all the soapy drama I can stomach and press the mute button on the remote. A quick peek at the clock reveals that it’s right around lunch time. I consider going to find my family, but I’m not in the mood to fake smile and pretend everything is okay. I’m in the mood to find out who the hell sweater vest Sam really is.
He was clever, I’ll give him that. In a sick, twisted sort of way. I’ve had boys give me fake numbers before as a prank, but the name of a dead guy? Who does something like that? Unless Bridget was just screwing with me, which she very well could have been. There is only one way to find out.
The computer lounge in the basement of the resort was put in last year. It’s not a basement in the typical sense, but the ceilings are lower than normal and the lighting is dim.
There are three computers in total spread out on a long desk. I pick the middle one and push the power button. The computer boots up slowly, whirring and chugging like an old person gasping for breath. Connecting to the internet takes even longer and I poke around the room while it loads, eyeing the bulletin board with its brightly colored “TAKE A SKI LESSON TODAY!” and “SNOW BOARD FOR LIFE” fliers.
When the familiar GOOGLE logo appears on the screen I return to the computer and, half sitting, half standing over the keyboard quickly type in Sam Trent.
126 million hits.
“Shit.”
Rolling my head from side to side I try Samuel Trent.
96.1 million. Who knew it was such a popular name?
“You idiot,” I mutter to myself. My fingers fly across the keys.
Sam Trent, Blackhawk Mountain, accident.
17 hits.
The first is a newspaper article from the Franklin County Gazette. I click and wait while the page loads. Sinking lower in the chair I prop one foot up on the edge of the seat and let the other dangle. If I’m going to be here for a while I might as well get comfortable and, thanks to the resort’s dial up internet, it is going to be a long while. Eight minutes later – not that I’m counting – the article finally finishes downloading.
LOCAL BOY SUFFERS SERIOUS FALL ON SLOPES
By Zachary Coulter | February 17, 2004
Sam Trent, a junior at Blackhawk Mountain
High School, suffered a serious fall at the same
named resort yesterday morning. Trent, the only
son of Laurie and Jacob Trent, is a part time
employee at the resort. It is not believed he was
working at the time of his accident.
Eye witnesses report Trent was attempting to
ski down the newly opened Pine Cut trail on the
East side of the mountain. Pine Cut is a double
black diamond. Theresa Gibbons, a senior at
BMHS, called 911 minutes after Trent lost
control and fell. She had this to say about the
accident:
“It was awful. I heard him shout right before
he came flying down the side of the mountain.
I could see he wasn’t in control. Then he hit
the tree.”
At the time this article was written Blackhawk
Mountain Resort had not yet released a statement.
Trent was airlifted to Maine Medical Center in
Portland. He remains in critical condition.
To read the follow up article on this story, click here.
My breath catches in my throat. Bridget wasn’t lying. Sam – whoever he really is – was. My pointer finger hovers over the left side of the mouse. I should stop now. The last thing I need to read about is more death. I bite down on my bottom lip, indecisive.
The hell with it. I click. The follow up article has a picture in the upper left hand corner, but like everything else it is slow to load, so I read the article first.
LOCAL BOY DIES IN TRAGIC SKI ACCIDENT
By Zachary Coulter | February 20, 2004
Sam Trent, a seventeen year old junior at Blackhawk
Mountain resort died Thursday evening due to blunt
force head trauma following a skiing accident three
days earlier at Blackhawk Mountain Resort.
Trent, a part time employee of the resort, was not
working at the time of the accident. He sustained
the fall while attempting to ski down the newly
opened Pine Cut trail, a double black diamond.
Theresa Gibbons, a senior at BMHS, called 911.
Trent was airlifted to Maine Medical Center in
Portland where he never regained consciousness.
He is survived by his parents, Laurie and Jacob
Trent. They could not be reached for comment.
Trent was an active member in the community,
participating in multiple after school sports
including cross country and baseball.
“He was a great kid. A great role model for his
teammates and peers. He will be greatly missed,”
said Ryan Keating, head coach of the BMHS
varsity baseball team.
Blackhawk Mountain Resort has since shut down
the trail Trent sustained his injuries on. There are
no current plans to reopen it. A memorial service
will be held at the resort on February 24. Over
three hundred people are expected to attend.
By the time I finish reading the second article the little green bar in the right hand corner of the computer screen lets me know the page has fully loaded. I tap the arrow key to scroll back up to the top. Tucked in neatly next to the title of the article is the picture that the computer was struggling to show before.
The picture is black and white and slightly grainy, but there is no mistaking who it is. I wish the computer had not been able to load all the way. I wish it had frozen and shut off. I wish I had ne
ver thought to come down here. Because staring back at me out of a pair of very familiar horn rimmed glasses is the same boy I saw less than two hours ago. The boy who, according to this newspaper article, died in 2004. The boy who wears sweater vests and has an odd fascination with chickens.
Sam Trent.
Girlfriend #3 notices right away something is off with me when we all sit down for dinner at the restaurant. I can tell by her calculating stare she isn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, she attacks when her prey is weak.
I take the chair that backs up to the fireplace. I have been cold ever since I left the computer lounge and even though I am wearing two sweatshirts and my warmest pair of leggings, my fingers are still freezing to the touch.
Waiters dressed casually in tan pants and black button down shirts move between the tables filling glasses with water. The restaurant is crowded, and the air buzzes with conversation. Everyone has returned from their day of skiing and snowboarding with healthy appetites.
A waitress with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail stops at our table to deliver a warm loaf of bread. Glancing up from his phone, my dad smiles and thanks her.
Usually it bothers me that he is so polite to complete strangers when he can barely string three words together for his own daughter, but tonight my thoughts are elsewhere. I have almost managed to convince myself that everything with Sam is just one big hoax, and that Bridget is in on it. It wouldn’t be the first time people went out of their way to freak out the freaky girl. I knew Bridget was a piece of work from the first moment I met her, but I am surprised that Sam managed to fool me right from the beginning. Usually I’m a great judge of character. Of course, usually I’m a lot of things. Patient. Considerate. Kind. I guess you can’t shed all your bad traits without getting rid of some of the good ones as well.
Brian is sitting directly across from me. He graduated from a high chair two years ago, but he still needs a seat booster. It makes him weirdly tall, like he’s all short arms and chubby torso without any legs.
Lips puckered in concentration, he stretches out for the bread the waitress just left, putting his arm directly across one of the flickering candles that are nestled together in the middle of the white linen tablecloth. My dad doesn’t notice. I see at once the impending disaster, but for some reason I can’t react. My fingers flex by don’t move. My mouth opens but no sound comes out. I look helplessly at Girlfriend #3.
“Jesus Christ Brian! Watch your sleeve!” she shrieks.
It wasn’t the approach I would have taken, but it works. Bread in hand Brian snatches his arm back. He grins triumphantly, a miniature daredevil. The flames from the candles go low as the wind from his arm floats over them before they sputter back to life.
“Why are you yelling?” my dad asks, completely oblivious.
Girlfriend #3 looks at me and rolls her eyes, as if to say men. I keep my face perfectly still. There will be no cute little exchanges between us.
Soup arrives after the bread. Since the restaurant only caters to people staying at the resort their menu is small and only offers one choice of soup per evening. Tonight it is New England clam chowder, a Maine staple, and I eat it methodically, refilling my spoon with the creamy chowder every time I swallow until it is gone. Girlfriend #3, who has eaten none of the bread, only sips one spoonful of chowder before pushing it away.
“Too thick,” she complains. No one bothers to look up, not even my dad. We are all used to her picky eating habits. After the soup there is a lull while we wait for our main course. My dad and Girlfriend #3 begin to discuss what mountain they will ski down tomorrow.
I slip out of the conversation for a while. At the table next to ours a young couple sits holding hands. They seem happy. I study their entwined fingers. The effortless touches. The way their mouths can’t help but smile. Newlyweds on their honeymoon, a guess that is confirmed when the woman tilts her left hand and her rings sparkle under the candlelight. She catches me looking and her smile falters, just for a second, before she composes herself. I look away, then back again, just in time to see the woman nudge her husband and nod in my direction. The whites of her eyes flash as she rolls them.
Check out the girl over at that table. Can you imagine what her parents are thinking, letting her dress like that?
What a freak.
And all that black makeup! I’ll never understand why they think looking like a dead person is attractive. If I dressed like that when I was her age my mother would have killed me.
She obviously has problems. Don’t stare, honey.
You’re right. We shouldn’t judge. It’s just… how can her parents let her go out in public like that? I would just die if that was my kid.
Our children will never look like that.
I smile. It stretches my lips back and puffs out my cheeks. Slowly, deliberately, I raise my hand up from underneath the table and flip the perfect woman and her perfect husband the bird. She gasps and looks away, her cheeks suffusing with color. The husband shakes his head in disgust and comforts his poor, delicate wife with a soothing pat on her arm.
I have just confirmed their thoughts that I am the devil incarnate. Like I care. Let them think what they want. They don’t know it yet, but I have done them a favor. One day when they have a teenage daughter of their own and she does something bad like skip out of school early or get caught smoking in the bathroom they’ll be able to say ‘at least our Suzy isn’t as bad as the girl we saw at the resort; at least she is normal’. They should thank me, really. Unfortunately my dad doesn’t see it that way.
“Winnifred Coleman, what the hell did you just do?”
My head whips around. I don’t register his words, not at first. At first I am too shocked, too stunned, too surprised that he actually spoke to me. Out loud talked. To me. “What?” I say dumbly.
He brings his shoulders close to the table, bridging the gap between us. Displeasure is etched in every line of his face and the rigid way he clutches his butter knife. “I asked you what you just did,” he says.
Girlfriend #3 looks on in wordless anticipation. Brian worries his cloth napkin between his fingers, then drops it to suck and chew at his thumbs. No one corrects him.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. The defensive hitch in my voice says otherwise, but I can’t just admit what I did. Not right away. Not when my dad is looking at me, really looking at me, and saying real words… even if it is just because he is royally pissed off. I’ll take anger over indifference and my lazy shrug is intended to bring that anger to a fever pitch. “Whatever. That woman deserved it. She has a total stick up her butt.”
Brian giggles at the word ‘butt’. Girlfriend #3 sits back and crosses her long arms, no doubt delighted with the sudden turn of events that has me in the crosshairs. My dad is not amused. His craggy eyebrows rise and fall, causing his eyes to narrow and squint.
“You need to apologize,” he grinds out.
My chin lifts. “Make me.”
He doesn’t like that. “I swear, Winnifred, if you don’t march yourself over to that table right now I’ll… I’ll…”
“You’ll do what?” I sneer. Under my shirt my heart beats rapidly. My palms are slick with sweat and I wipe them on my thighs. I have the crazy urge to smile, to laugh and hoot and holler, but I do none of those things. I have played the part of sullen teenager for so long I have turned into a sullen teenager and it is not difficult to maintain my composure.
“You used to be…” my dad starts to say before he cuts himself off and just like that, like a leaky faucet being twisted all the way to the left, his mask is back in place.
Desperation has beads of sweat gathering high on my forehead. I stand up and lean halfway across the table, bracing my arms on either side of the candles. “I used to be what, Dad? Used to be happy? Used to be nice? Used to be WHAT?” My skin burns hot. Everyone in the dining room is watching us now. Someone drops a utensil. It pings extra loud against the f
loor.
My dad clears his throat. “You used to be better than this,” he says.
Girlfriend #3’s gasp is loud enough to muffle my own. “Tom,” she hisses, shrinking low in her seat. I don’t spare her a glance. I don’t want her pity, of all people. Moving stiffly I walk over to the table with the woman and her husband.
“Sorry,” I mutter, staring a hole through their white tablecloth.
They are mortified that I have drawn attention to them and the woman speaks quickly. “It’s fine. No harm done. You can go back to your table now if you want. We accept your apology, don’t we Richard?”
“We accept,” he says hastily.
I turn around, but I don’t go back to my table. I walk right out of the dining room. This time my dad calls after me in a tight, controlled voice demanding that I come back and finish my meal. I ignore him. Brian yells my name. I ignore him too.
I ignore them all.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning I wake up alone. Across the room Brian’s bed is still neatly made, the green comforter pulled up tight over the white pillows. No one brought him in last night so I can only assume he slept with my dad and Girlfriend #3. It’s not hard to guess why.
Sunlight shines through the shades I forgot to draw last night. I close them now, pulling harder than I need too so the plastic swishes and clicks. It is another bright, clear day but when I turn on the television a grave looking weatherman announces a series of snow flurries in the forecast.
Snow. I’m sick of it already and I’ve only been here for three days with four more to go. I’m not even halfway home. It’s a depressing thought.
I dress sluggishly in leggings and a loose fitting t-shirt, both black, and wander down to the continental breakfast. It is served in a smaller room that adjoins the restaurant with a long counter filled with muffins, donuts, and pastries. I snag a donut, pour myself a cup of orange juice, and manage to grab a small table in the corner of the room. From here I can observe people as they walk in.
The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman Page 4
