The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman

by Jillian Eaton

  They come in twos and threes, sometimes fours. Small children rubbing their eyes. Adults smiling sleepily and heading straight for the coffee. Their voices hum quietly as they talk about how much fun they had the day before and what they plan to do today. How absolutely wonderful their vacation is. I stuff a chunk of donut in my mouth and chew in stony silence.

  A man comes in. He is tall and thin, his long face drawn and unnaturally pale, even for winter. Salt and pepper hair sweeps down across his forehead. Wrinkles pinch up the corners of his eyes and form long grooves on either side of his mouth. This guy certainly isn’t having a wonderful vacation.

  It makes me feel slightly better – misery loves company – until he turns and looks at me. Then I don’t feel good at all, not even a little bit, because I am staring at my own father.

  “Dad,” I blurt, half standing up out of my chair.

  His eyes, a shade darker than his hair, narrow. “Sit down, Winnifred.”

  I do as he asks and watch in confounded amazement as he takes the seat opposite mine. He sits straight in his chair, so straight his spine doesn’t touch the back, and lays his hands with his fingers evenly spaced on the table. I can’t help but glance down at his left right finger and my stomach does the same funny flutter it always does when I see the simple gold band that encircled his finger for thirty two years is gone. There is still a faint mark, a sliver of skin whiter than the rest in the shape of a circle, but it is fading with every passing month. By spring it should be gone all together.

  “I went to your room. You were not there,” he says, his speech every bit as proper as his posture.

  I slouch in my chair and just stare at him. What happened to the man who used to forget his own car keys? The man who picked me up in one arm and Brian in the other and swung us around until we couldn’t walk a straight line? The man who thought plaid shirts and socks with sandals were coming back in style? It’s not this man. This man matches his shoes to his belt. Tucks in his shirt. Never forgets anything. I don’t recognize this man. I don’t recognize my own father.

  “I was hungry,” I say finally. “So I am came down to get something eat.”

  My dad looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath. When he glances back up his expression is even more tightly controlled than before. “Your behavior last night was inexcusable Winnifred,” he says.

  Winnie! I want to shout. Call me Winnie! Like you used too. I was your Winnie Bear. I don’t want to be Winnifred. Don’t make me into a Winnifred.

  “I apologized,” I say instead.

  “You embarrassed Trish. She was very distraught.”

  The last piece of donut I was holding in my left hand crumbles. My throat tightens up, making it hard to speak. “I don’t give a shit about her,” I say scornfully.

  “Something you have made no attempt to hide. Really, Winnifred, when are you going to grow up?”

  So says the man dating a woman who still wears miniskirts and has a poodle named Fifi. “When are you going to grow up and start dating women your own age? Doesn’t it gross you out that she’s young enough to be my sister?” It is a struggle to keep my voice level.

  With my mother it was a drag out, end all, screaming match to the bitter end. Slamming doors, throwing things, the whole lot. But my dad is a lawyer. His mind is analytical; his every word designed to cut deeper than the last. If I want to have a chance of standing up to him, of being heard, I have to remain calm. Something I have never been very good at.

  “Trish is a goal oriented woman who knows what she wants,” he counters.

  I snort. “Yeah, she knows she wants your money.”

  “Winnifred.” The cool note of warning in his tone is unmistakable.

  “It’s true,” I insist. “Only a blind person couldn’t see it.”

  “I do not believe you have the best judgment when it comes to these matters. You have yet to accept a single one of the women I have seen socially.”

  “Why do you have to see anyone socially?” It is a childish response. I can’t help it. Sitting here, talking to this stranger, I feel like a five year old trying to reason out the most basic of questions. Why is the grass green? Why is the sky blue? Why do you hate your daughter?

  “Your mother has been dead for a year and a half. It is perfectly acceptable for me to begin dating again. Really, Winnifred. You should want me to be happy.” He frowns, as if I am the bad person. As if I am the one who has shut my family out.

  I rest my elbows on the table and look down between them, studying a small chip on the wood surface. “I do want you to be happy Dad,” I say truthfully. “Just not with Girlfriend – er, with Trish. I really don’t think she’s good for you. And, newsflash, she’s not exactly great stepmother material. I mean, the evil stepmother from Cinderella looks like Mary Poppins compared to her.”

  “Unfortunately, due to your recent behavior your opinion does not carry much weight with me.”

  “How can you say stuff like that?” I whisper, aghast.

  His eyes cut straight through me. “You will need to apologize to Trish,” he says, ignoring my question entirely. “Her feelings are very important to me and you’ve hurt them with your outlandish behavior.”

  What about my feelings, Dad? What about me? Your daughter?

  “No way in hell,” I say.

  My dad rubs his chin and sighs. He looks tired, more tired than a forty seven year old man should ever look. If this is his ‘happy’, I would hate to see him miserable. “You will do as I say, Winnifred.”

  “Or what, you’ll ground me?” I scoff, beyond caring now. I was stupid to think he would actually listen to me. My dad might not have his nose pierced or wear eyeliner, but he’s changed just as much as I have. It’s the people like him you have to look out for. The ones who are different on the inside. The ones who make you hope they’ll go back to the way they were before because on the outside they don’t look any different, but underneath all that shiny sameness they’re just as broken as you are. Sometimes even more.

  I don’t know why my dad changed so much. I think part of him died with Mom. Just wilted away inside of him and turned to dust. At least, I hope that’s the case because if it isn’t that means I’m the one who is irrevocably broken. I’m the one who is damaged beyond repair. I’m the one no one can love.

  “Trish said you would respond this way,” he says.

  “Good for her.”

  “I did not want it to come to this Winnifred, but there are going to have to be some drastic changes.”

  I sit up straighter as tiny alarm bells sound in my head. “What kind of changes?” I ask suspiciously.

  “It has become increasingly apparent that you are a bad influence on your brother. The way you act, the way you talk, the way you dress…” he pauses to stare pointedly at my mouth where I slipped in a new lip ring before coming down for breakfast. “Brian has been coping amazingly well with losing a parent at such a young age and I do not want –”

  “Have you seen his hands?” I ask incredulously.

  He ignores me. “I do not want his progress to be impaired. That is why Trish and I have made the decision to send him to a private boarding school.”

  A private boarding school? Are you NUTS?

  It is for the best, Winnifred.

  No, it’s what is best for you and Girlfriend #3, not Brian.

  You know what? You’re… you’re right. What was I thinking, letting that woman talk me into this? I could never send Brian away. He needs you.

  That’s what I’ve been trying to say all along!

  My Winnie bear, you’re so smart. I love you so much. I know things have been tough and I haven’t been there for you or Brian, but from now on that is going to change.

  I love you Dad.

  I love you Winnie.

  “You can’t do this.” My fingers grip the edge of the table. I have the sudden, wild urge to flip it over onto my father, to let him know what it feels like to writhe beneath the weight of somet
hing too heavy to handle, but I don’t. Of course I don’t. That would be crazy.

  “The application was sent in this morning. Your little stunt at dinner last night was the last straw. Trish and I discussed sending you away, but you only have one year of school left and then you will leave for college. When you are gone, Brian will come back.” Something flickers in the depths of his eyes. Regret? Sadness? Compassion? It is gone before it has time to take hold. “This is for the best,” he says calmly.

  “No, it’s what is best for you and Trish, not Brian! He needs me, Dad. Can’t you see that? You can’t just send him off by himself! He’ll be terrified.”

  “Your brother will adjust,” he says. “This is not a discussion. The decision has been made. When school resumes Brian will be attending Briarwood Academy in Connecticut.”

  My heart beats so fast inside my chest it actually hurts. Of all the things I imagined my dad doing, it was never this. I never in a million years thought he would try to hurt Brian.

  “Send me away,” I say impulsively. I lean across the table until my fingertips are almost touching his carefully folded hands. “Send me to some private school. Let Brian stay home. He has friends. He loves his teacher.”

  For one frantic, heart pounding moment I think he is going to change his mind. But then he slowly pulls his hands away from mine and shakes his head.

  “No. The decision has been made. I am sorry this upsets you Winnifred. Perhaps you should have considered the consequences of your actions.”

  “I HATE YOU!” The three words burst out of me like bullets, each one fiercer than the last. My dad jerks back as if I have struck him. His face whitens, then floods with color.

  “This is exactly the type of behavior I am talking about,” he says, his tone coolly disapproving. “You need help. When we return home I am finding you a therapist. It is something I should have done a while ago, before you escalated this far. I blame myself for that.”

  Blind rage goes hand in hand with sorrow and tears burn down my cheeks. “Mom wouldn’t want this,” I whisper hoarsely.

  He looks away. His mouth opens. Closes. Silently he stands and tucks his chair back under the table, refolds the unused napkin he places automatically on his lap when he sat down, and walks away leaving me to face down the stares of curious onlookers alone.

  When I get back to my room I see immediately that Brian’s things have been moved out. I wonder how my dad thinks he is going to keep us separated for four more days. Girlfriend #3 has watched Brian for all of two hours before she came running back to me, slapped a fifty in my hand, and took off to the mall. My shoulders jerk in a little shrug. It’s not my problem anymore.

  I need to get out. Out of this stuffy room. Out of this stuffy resort. The scent of pine was nice at first but now it is clogging up my nose. I yank open the drawer to the bureau I stuffed all my clothes in the night we arrived and take an experimental sniff. More pine. An entire forest’s worth of it.

  “Great,” I tell my reflection in the mirror above the bureau. “Just great.”

  A sullen faced girl glares back at me.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t respond. Just glares some more. She is an excellent glarer.

  I pull a ratty black sweatshirt over my head and stomp outside, using one of the back doors instead of the front so I don’t have to see Bridget. Thinking of her reminds me of the grocery store and the grocery store reminds me of Sam – something I have managed to forget until now. I have too many things to worry about without adding some freak who gets his kicks by impersonating a dead kid to the list.

  The temperature has dropped a few degrees since I was last outside. The gray sky is spitting snow. Not a lot, but just enough to have me seeking shelter under the long covered walk way that winds around the entire resort and through a brief section of woods. I yank the hood up over my head and stuff my hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt. It is meager protection against the elements, but it will have to do. I forgot to pack anything heavier.

  A couple passes me, their flushed faces and damp parkas revealing they must have spent the entire morning up on the mountain. They smile when they see me and I smile back, but the smile is tight and feels unnatural on my lips. It falls away the instant they are behind me, melting faster than a snowflake on an upturned nose.

  I continue to walk. My breath leads the way, turning the air in front of my face to smoke. I am halfway around the walk way and have lost all feeling in my toes when he appears. He seems to come out of the forest itself, his yellow ski jacket easy to spot against the backdrop of white and green. His glasses are a little crooked and he pauses to adjust them before the closing the distance between us. I keep my head down and try to walk around, pretending I don’t see him, but he just falls in step beside me as if he is used to being brushed by.

  “Hey,” Sam says. “Funny running in to you out here. Little cold for a walk, isn’t it?”

  I pinch my lips together and walk faster.

  “Why aren’t you skiing or boarding?”

  Shut up and go away.

  Why?

  Uh, because you’re a freak.

  So says the girl with the holes in her face. How many piercings do you have, anyway?

  I stop abruptly. “What do you want, Sam? If that’s even your real name,” I sneer. I can feel the anger building inside of me. Anger at my dad for being unable to cope. Anger at Girlfriend #3 for being smarter than I gave her credit for. Anger at Brian for needing me so much. Anger at Mom for being dead. I am a ball of anger, rolling faster and faster down a steep hill. It’s too bad for Sam that he is waiting at the bottom.

  His gray eyes blink behind the snow flecked lenses of his glasses. “Of course Sam is my real name,” he says. “What else would it be?”

  “You even dress like he did,” I say in disgust, recalling the photograph from the newspaper article. “That is so twisted and gross.”

  A frown drives the corners of his mouth down. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The boy who died here!” I explode. “In the skiing accident. Sam Trent. Are you telling me it’s just a coincidence that you have the same name and wear the same clothes? Have the same glasses?”

  “Sam Trent,” he repeats softly. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

  “Your name is Sam!”

  “Ah,” he says, holding up one finger. “But not Sam Trent. Sam Trent was my cousin. My mother and his mother were sisters. We were named after our grandfather. I dress like my cousin used to because I like the same clothes he liked. I wear glasses – which are way cooler than the ones he used to have, by the way – because bad eyesight runs in our family and contacts hurt my eyes. Any more questions, Winnifred? Or is the interrogation over?”

  The kid who died in the skiing accident was his cousin? “But… But you told me your last name was Trent.”

  “No I didn’t. My last name is Trexler. Sam Trexler.”

  Sam Trexler? It’s possible I got the last names mixed up. More than possible, with the way my mind has been operating lately. And they both begin with the same letter. An easy enough mistake, I suppose. And it means Sam isn’t some weirdo impersonating a dead kid, which is good.

  “Uh, sorry about that.” Two apologies to the same person in two days. It must be some kind of record. Embarrassed to have made such a fool of myself, I stare intently down at my sneakers and wish this was one of those instances where you could simply disappear.

  “Forget about it,” Sam says easily. Smiling to let me know all is forgiven, he says, “Are you walking all the way around the resort?”

  I nod.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you going to talk at all?”

  I start to nod, catch myself, and grin sheepishly. “Yeah. I, uh, didn’t know he was your cousin. You know, the kid who died. I mean who, uh, passed away. In that accident. Sam. Sam. Trent. I mean,
I just… Sorry again,” I finish lamely. You would think having a dead mother would make it easier to say the right things, but it doesn’t. Words don’t console. Words don’t fix.

  I’m so sorry for your loss.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  We’re all here for you.

  You have my deepest condolences.

  Words don’t mean shit.

  “It’s fine.” Sam shrugs as we start to walk again. “It happened a long time ago.”

  Snow beings to fall from the sky in earnest, coating our hair and shoulders in a fine dusting of white just as we step into the wooded section of the walk way. I grimace and try to shake it all off while Sam just worries about his glasses. Eventually he gives up trying to keep them dry and slips them in his coat pocket.

  “Can you see?” I ask.

  “Kind of. If I start to veer off the paths towards a ravine or something stop me though, okay?”

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and suppress a smile. Sam looks very different without his glasses. I can’t decide if it is different in a good way or in a bad way. He certainly looks more main stream. Handsome even, as opposed to bookishly cute. Not that it matters. My fingers curl up inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and I look sharply away, focusing on the trail in front of us. Who cares if Sam wears no glasses or fluorescent orange ones with sparkles? Not this girl.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he observes after a few minutes.

  I don’t know what to say, so I just say the first thing that pops into my head. “How did you know my mom died?” I ask. As soon as the words are out of my mouth my lips clamp down and pinch in a scowl. I didn’t want to ask Sam that. I hadn’t meant to. I wasn’t even thinking about it. Not really. This is what happens when your family and friends abandon you; you start talking to random strangers about private things.

  And why not? A little voice asks. There is a reason that fat woman at the basketball game used to talk to you about her divorce when she couldn’t talk to her own ex-husband without a lawyer in the room. People need to talk about their private crap. It’s human nature. Why do you think autobiographies were invented? People have stuff they need to say. Maybe you have stuff to say. Stuff you can’t talk about with your dad or your brother.