by S.E. Akers
After a long night of tossing and turning, I found myself wide-awake fairly early when I shot my bedside clock a glance for the umpteenth time. 4:59 AM. Though the sun wouldn’t be making its rise for another hour, as far as my restless head was concerned, it was morning enough in my book. Of course I wasn’t the least bit surprised that I couldn’t get any sleep last night. Aside from all the crying and sad reflections, the one thing that had baited my thoughts the most and still had my mind racing wildly was the very question I kept repeating over and over — WHY?
Why did Daddy have to die? He’d been murdered, but why? Why can’t anyone else see that? Granted, I was relieved that some of my burning questions had finally been cleared up, however their answers—as irrational as what they were—led to even more speculation. Why did I stumble upon that diamond wand? A Talisman? WHY ME?
My father’s funeral was in just a matter of hours. What shred of peace my isolation had provided would be coming to a swift and unsightly end. I would rather sneak off to the funeral home to say my farewells to Daddy alone than be surrounded by people constantly telling me “what a great person he was” and that “he’ll be missed”. I already knew that. An in-your-face reminder wouldn’t serve any sort of purpose. It would just feel like salt being ground into a fresh, deep wound, and its sting would be nothing short of grueling.
I gazed at my little golden topaz. Why couldn’t you make me “invisible” today?
I lay in my bed for a few more minutes, just listlessly staring at the ceiling without purpose or reason. Whether I’m in here or out there, all of my sorrow and problems will still be shadowing me. With that affirmed, I threw back the covers and planted my feet on the floor. There wasn’t a need for me to get dressed. I still had on all of my clothes from yesterday.
I pulled open my lavender bedroom door and stood there, quietly listening. The hush fanning through the dark, lifeless house felt undeniably soothing. Despite the fact that I’d spent most of yesterday alone in my room on voluntary lock-down, my emotions were still desperately craving that same solitude. With that firmly in mind, I crept out of my bedroom and tiptoed down the hall, determined not to rouse Chloe.
I arrived downstairs to the soft pitter-pat of raindrops hitting the roof of the front porch. I gave my lids a rub and peered out the broken living room window. My eyes were still swollen from the countless number of tears that had fallen. I’d never cried that hard, for so long in my life. Then suddenly, the emptiness of the house overwhelmed me, and I felt more about to surface. I took a deep breath in hopes of holding them back, but it was pointless. They were just like the drops of rain. Nothing could stop their imminent fall until the ugly veil of darkness lifted. And sadly, I couldn’t foresee my heartache being eased by any sunny breaks in the clouds anytime soon.
I wandered over to the fireplace, still haunted by the horrible image of Daddy suffering. I could see everything with such clarity and felt every ounce of his anguish. My anger only escalated as I thought about all the random visions I’d had on the night of his death. In spite of my induced clairvoyant state, I couldn’t see my father’s death or who had killed him…and that was what plagued me most right now.
I ran my hand along the grain of our oak mantle and stopped at the very spot where Daddy’s Christmas stocking would hang, year after year. Then I turned towards the corner of the room where our tree would stand. I could picture Daddy setting it into place like it was yesterday. Picking out our annual Christmas tree was always one of our special outings. Charlotte and Chloe would stay home while Daddy and I drove over to Beckley to select the perfect one from Mr. Bennett’s tree farm. Although the drive there and back only took around three hours, we’d always make a day of it. Charlotte didn’t have a clue that we would sneak off to watch an afternoon matinee and then pick out a tree later, after the movie. Daddy always followed up our yearly tradition with a stop by Lynn’s Diner for two steaming cups of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream and extra mini-marshmallows. My mother always looked madder than a hornet when we returned. She never understood why it took us so long to pick out a “simple Christmas tree”. And like clockwork, Chloe would be bouncing off the walls and whining for Daddy to hurry up with the lights, so he could lift her up to place the star on top. Chloe never let me touch it. She claimed it was a job for “fairy princesses” only. I would let her have her way without any fuss while I thought about our secret outing where fairy princesses weren’t allowed. That helped take away some of the sting.
I found the reflection painfully surreal. There would be no more moments like that. Last year’s Christmas with my father would forever be known as officially my last.
A loud rumble rose from my stomach. My appetite was nonexistent, but considering I hadn’t eaten anything yesterday, I figured it would probably be wise to throw at least a piece of toast inside my tummy. The last thing I wanted was a room full of side-eyes being hurled my way if my modest gurgles happened to turn into full-fledged roars right in the middle of my father’s service. Disrespectful and embarrassing…
As I crept towards the rear of the house, something in the dining room caught my eye. I paused for a moment. Apparently some folks had stopped by yesterday to pay their respects. Our long, cherry dining table was littered with numerous cake containers and fancy gift baskets. One of them, in particular, caught my eye. It was a large cornucopia with various fruits cascading out of it. It was undeniably cheery and festive, but lying on the dining room table the way it was forced another disturbing image to emerge. Solemnly, I stared at the empty armchair at the head of the table. Thanksgiving was right around the corner. There would be no “Daddy” sitting there, carving our turkey and stuffing his gut this year… No one helping me prepare any of the food for our feast… No one to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with me… No one to place bets with on all the football games over the holiday. That chair would inevitably remain just as empty as my heart.
I continued down the hall, not knowing if the pains contorting my belly were actually from hunger or my own sorrow. I staggered into the kitchen and threw two slices of bread in the toaster. I was feeling a bit parched, so I poured myself a glass of orange juice as well.
I nibbled on my meager breakfast while I absorbed the loneliness of the kitchen. I would give anything to turn back the clock, just to be in this very room with Daddy again, eating his blueberry pancakes. Why was I such a stickler about being on time? I would have run late in a heartbeat if I’d known our conversation that morning was going be our last. In fact, I wouldn’t have left at all.
I aimlessly looked around the kitchen as I sipped on my last bit of juice. There was a note written on the white message board mounted above the phone.
