Shattered Read online

  “Huh?” Her brow creases in confusion.

  “Just for fun. We’ll pretend we’re French tourists.”

  She giggles. “Okay, but you’ll have to help me.” My French is superior to Lola’s because I’ve been taking French since middle school, and this is only her second year. But we do our best, and ironically, it’s like we create this bubble that no one tries to break into. As we board the metro tram, we continue to jabber at each other in French, giggling at our private joke as we point out all the “sights” along the way. And it’s weird. As we pretend to be seeing things for the first time, it becomes more interesting—almost like we really are in a foreign country.

  All in all, our commute into the city is seamless, safe, and fun. So much so, I almost wish my mom could see us now. Almost. We get out right in front of the Coliseum. Easy breezy.

  “That was awesome.” Lola fishes the concert tickets from her bag.

  “Oui! Fantastique!”

  “Okay, back to English now,” she tells me as we get in line.

  Before long we’re inside, and keeping my promise to Mom, I buy Lola and me some pizza. Okay, so it’s not delivery. And it’s not at home. At least I can honestly say we had pizza—even if it did come from one of the vendors. Soon we’re in our seats, feeling happy, and the first band begins to play. Although they’re pretty good, I find that I’m distracted. But at least Lola’s having a great time.

  “Did you already put your phone on silent mode?” Lola asks me as she’s turning hers off.

  “Good idea.” I reach into my bag only to discover my phone’s battery is dead. I can’t believe I forgot to charge it this afternoon, especially considering how we’re out traveling around and about the city tonight. But at least Lola’s phone works. Still, I can only imagine what my mom would say if she knew. And, of course, this just makes me start thinking about my mom again.

  I try to focus on the music, to enjoy the concert, but this evening seems to be contaminated by a nagging feeling of guilt. As hard as I try to push it away, it’s like an obnoxious little dog that keeps nipping at my heels. And it doesn’t help when the lyrics we’re rocking out to involve concepts like truth and integrity. Still, this night is about Lola. I’m doing the best I can to make it special for her. And by tomorrow it’ll all be just a memory—a really fun memory.

  As we listen to a song about forgiveness, I decide I will absolutely confess what I did to Mom... eventually. After I’ve given her enough time to get over being angry, she’ll have to forgive me. So really, it’s not such a big deal. I just hope (and pray) we have no problems getting home tonight.

  As the concert’s winding down, I glance at my watch to see it’s well past ten o’clock. Commuting home on the metro and transit bus at this late hour might be different than traveling in the daylight.

  But as we exit the Coliseum, I keep my concerns buried deep inside me. No way do I want Lola to know I feel worried. I don’t want anything to spoil this evening for her. We get on the metro, and it’s obvious that the commuters at this time of night are a bit different from the ones we saw earlier.

  The woman opposite us looks tired or perhaps even sick. She’s clutching a raggedy purse and a plastic bag with her eyes downward. Or maybe she’s asleep. A couple of guys in the back of the car look a little scary. In fact, I’m sure my mom would assume they were “druggies,” as she sometimes calls them. An older guy near us definitely has a dark look about him, like he’s angry at the world. Still, I could be all wrong. These people might just be down and out and Jesus still loves them.

  “Should we talk in French again?” Lola whispers to me in a way that suggests she might be a bit nervous, too.

  I consider this but then question the idea of appearing to be tourists with this kind of crowd—what if they perceive foreigners as an easy target? “Maybe not.” I sit straighter. Then I attempt to make small talk with her, hoping to distract us and pass the time.

  Finally it’s our stop, which looks relatively tame in the middle of our sleepy town, except Main Street is dark and pretty much deserted since it’s past eleven now.

  “The bus still runs, doesn’t it?” Lola asks with wide eyes.

  We check the schedule and discover that it does run, but only until midnight. “I’m glad we got here when we did,” I tell her.

  She nods. “It’d be a long walk home.”

  Soon we’re on the bus, along with a couple of questionable-looking people. But I remind myself not to be judgmental. Just because someone looks like a thug doesn’t necessarily mean he is a thug. I realize how influential my mom’s overly cautious attitudes have been on me. And I hope that I can overcome some of my unreasonable fears before I go to school next fall. Parents really should be more careful about the paranoia and phobias they pass on to their kids.

  It’s nearly midnight by the time we make it back into our neighborhood. Although I’m relieved to be back, I feel exhausted from the long evening, which seems ironic since it was supposed to be fun. Although in some ways it was pretty cool... it had its moments. And I think Lola had a great time.

  But, for me, tonight was like a tainted layer cake. First was a layer of guilt from knowing I’ve disobeyed my mom, the next layer was stress (worrying that something could go wrong on our way to or from the concert), and the final layer was the anxiety of how my mom will react when she eventually finds out. Although I don’t plan to confess for a day or two. Unless she somehow found out already. It’s possible that the icing on this spoiled cake will be when we walk in the door and my mom makes a huge scene and ruins the whole evening for Lola.

  In fact, I’m tempted to suggest that Lola spend the night at her house after all, except her stuff is already in my house. Plus she doesn’t even have a bed to sleep in, and I have a perfectly good spare trundle bed in my room. So, bracing myself, I unlock the front door and tiptoe inside.

  “Maybe my mom’s already gone to bed,” I whisper to Lola.

  She nods like this makes sense, and I’m thinking there is no way my mother would be sleeping if she knew where I was tonight, so perhaps it’s a very good sign that she’s oblivious. Some of the lights are on, and there’s a small hot-pink gift bag on the breakfast bar, which must be from the bachelorette party, so I know Mom’s home.

  Putting my forefinger over my lips, I tell Lola to keep quiet on her way to my room. “I’ll get us something to snack on.”

  Before long we’re safely tucked away in my bedroom with root beer and tortilla chips and Mom’s homemade salsa, and I’m feeling relatively relieved—like we’re home safe! I’m so happy I’m almost giddy, and it turns out that neither of us feels very sleepy.

  “I’m going to set my phone to wake me up at five thirty,” Lola tells me.

  I groan. “That early?”

  “Yeah, Mom wants to hit the road before six.” She sighs. “I can’t believe this is our last night, Cleo.”

  “I wish your mom would let you stay here.”

  “You’ll come visit me in San Diego after graduation, won’t you?”

  I nod eagerly. “Yeah, if I can talk Mom into it.”

  We talk awhile longer, then decide to watch one of our favorite movies, which I pop into the DVD player. But it’s not long before I can hear Lola making sleeping noises and I feel like I’m nodding off too. I turn off the TV and am about to say my usual bedtime prayer, mostly telling God what I’m thankful for and the usual stuff, but I realize it would be wrong to thank God for letting me slip beneath my mom’s radar tonight. So I don’t pray at all. I promise myself to make up for it tomorrow.

  It seems like I’m barely asleep when Lola taps my shoulder. “I gotta go,” she whispers.

  I blink into the gray dawn light. “What time is it?”

  “Almost six.”

  I sit up in bed and we hug each other, and I can tell Lola’s crying and I feel like crying too except I’m barely awake. “Have a good trip, Lola.”

  “I’ll call you later today,” she promises. �
�Or when we get there. But that won’t be until late tonight.”

  I hug her tightly. “I’ll miss you!”

  “Me too.” And then she wipes her nose and tiptoes out of my room.

  It always takes me a while to wake up, and by the time I’m finally fully awake, I wish I’d walked Lola outside, stood on the curb, and waved good-bye. But when I hurry out to do this, I’m too late. Their car is gone... their house looks abandoned and empty. They are gone.

  Now I cry. I stand there staring at the house, feeling like I’ve just lost my best friend. Then I realize it’s true; I sort of did just lose my best friend. Maybe not permanently. But it still hurts.

  I return to my house, tiptoeing back into my bedroom. I close the door and climb into my bed, which is still warm, and decide to sleep in as long as possible. I know part of my rationale is that I am postponing the inevitable—confessing to my mom that Lola and I snuck off to the concert last night. Or maybe I’m hoping my procrastination will somehow soften the blow.

  Still, I remind myself as I’m drifting off, Mom has to forgive me.

  . . . [CHAPTER 4 ] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  I‘m shocked at how late I am able to sleep in. It’s 11:40 by the time I finally crawl out of bed, which is a personal record for me. But I can’t believe Mom hasn’t been in here to wake me up yet. That’s so not like her. Or maybe she thinks I’m still at Lola’s, though that makes no sense. Whatever the case, I’m beyond ready to get up. However, I’m not sure I’m ready to face the music quite yet. Although it might be best just to get this thing over with—the sooner the better.

  I wander out of my room, thinking I’ll just spill the beans and get it out in the open. I’ll contritely confess my transgression and beg her to forgive me. I’ll even offer to do some household chores as punishment. And I won’t protest if she grounds me. It’s not like there’ll be much to do with Lola gone anyway.

  But Mom doesn’t seem to be around. The house looks exactly like it did last night. It also seems strangely quiet. I go into the kitchen and am surprised to see that Mom hasn’t made coffee yet. And the hot-pink bag is still sitting on the breakfast bar, just like it was yesterday. I peek inside to see chocolates and some other goodies, and I’m sure it’s a party favor from last night.

  I look for Mom in the laundry room, the family room, the backyard; I even go down to the basement. This is a space my mom renovated for me when I was in grade school, complete with a hardwood floor she installed herself, a wall of mirrors, and a ballet barre. I’m expected to spend an hour practicing on weekdays, which I skipped yesterday, but I can make up for it this weekend. Maybe I’ll put in three hours today as a form of penance. Of course, Mom isn’t down here. I don’t know why I thought she would be. I turn off the lights, promising myself to return after I eat some breakfast.

  But as I go up the stairs, I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach—like something is wrong. Is Mom okay? What if she’s sick in bed? Perhaps she even cried out for my help, but I was sleeping so soundly I didn’t hear her. I’m sure there was drinking at Trina’s party, but my mom is a teetotaler, a social drinker who sips ginger ale in a wine glass in a pretense of imbibing. So it’s not like she’d be suffering a hangover the way Lola’s mom sometimes does. Still, Mom could’ve eaten a bad piece of fish or caught a flu bug or perhaps she tripped and sprained something.

  I tiptoe down the hall to the master bedroom and tap on the door. When no one answers, I feel seriously concerned. “Mom?” I crack open the door. Her bed is neatly made and nothing looks amiss. I figure she simply got up early and made her bed, perhaps even made coffee, then cleaned everything up and went out somewhere. I should’ve thought to check the garage for her car.

  Trina’s wedding isn’t until tonight, but maybe she had to run out and get something for the wedding. Maybe new shoes. My mom could use a new pair of shoes. Only I wish she would’ve asked me to go with her. She’s a little fashion challenged sometimes, and I like helping her out.

  Before I leave her room, I check the master bath where, as usual, everything is in place. I just shake my head at the perfection here. This is a skill I have so not mastered. Finally I go peek in the garage to discover her car is gone. She’s obviously out doing something. Although it’s weird she didn’t even leave a note. She is a stickler for notes. But maybe this is a step toward independence—for both of us. As I return to the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of Cheerios, I remember how I told her yesterday to get a life. Maybe she’s just trying to teach me a lesson.

  Then as I’m finishing my cereal, I remember something Mom said yesterday. She wanted to fix a big breakfast for Lola’s family this morning. And it’s not like her to forget something like that. Why didn’t she at least come into my room to wake me up? Or even if she thought I was spending the night at Lola’s, she surely would’ve called to see if we were coming over for breakfast. Wouldn’t she at least call my cell phone?

  Naturally that reminds me of my dead phone battery. So I head back to my room to recharge it and have barely plugged it into the outlet when the doorbell rings. For some reason, which makes no sense, I’m thinking that must be Mom—like maybe she forgot her key, which is ridiculous since my mom never forgets anything. Except that it seems she forgot her promise to fix us all breakfast this morning. So who knows?

  But when I open the door wide, instead of my mom I see two uniformed policemen. State policemen. I just stare at them. What are they doing here? Do they think I called 911? Or did I do something wrong? Well, besides lying to my mom about last night’s concert, which I’m sure isn’t considered breaking the law or a punishable crime.

  “Is this the home of Karen Neilson?” the taller policeman says in a serious tone.

  I nod. There’s a strange uneasiness in the pit of my stomach.

  “Are you a relative of Karen Neilson?”

  “She’s my—my mom,” I stammer. “Is something wrong?”

  “Is your father at home?”

  “No. He’s away on—on a business trip.” I look from one solemn face to the other as they introduce themselves in a way that suggests I should pay attention, but their names go right over my head.

  “What’s going on? Where’s my mom? Is she okay? Was there a car accident?” My heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it thumping in my ears. I know something isn’t right. “Where is she?”

  “May we come inside?”

  I step back now, moving away from the front door, and somehow I lead the two policemen into the living room. But my legs feel shaky, and when one of them eases me down to the couch, I don’t resist. “What’s wrong?” I ask in a voice that sounds small and weak. “Where’s my mom?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” the shorter man tells me. “Your mother has been the victim of a murder and—”

  “The victim?” I interrupt him. “What do you mean? Is she in the hospital?”

  He shakes his head. “No, she didn’t survive the—”

  “What are you saying?” I stand. “What do you mean?”

  The tall cop helps me to sit down again, and then they take turns telling me about how my mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time, how there have been “a string of drug-related crimes... a series of senseless murders in this particular neighborhood... carjacking, theft...” But their words are disjointed, floating over me—all I can think is that this is a big mistake.

  “Who did you say was murdered? Are you sure it’s my mother? I really don’t think it could be my mother. I mean, my mother is a very careful person. She would never go anywhere dangerous. And besides she came home last night and—”

  “Is your mother here?” the short policeman asks.

  “Well, I can’t find her,” I admit with a shaking voice. “But I know she was here. She must’ve left on an errand this morning. So I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “This is the right address, the right name on her ID,” the short guy explains. “We found it in her purse.”

/>   “Her purse?” I swallow hard, looking from one man to the other. “You have my mom’s purse?”

  The tall officer gets up. He takes out his phone and heads back toward the door. Maybe he’s going to check his facts better. Perhaps he’s really got some other woman’s purse. And really, policemen shouldn’t go around upsetting people with false information like this.

  “Because I know my mom,” I say urgently. “She is the last person in the world who could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She is a very cautious woman. You have it all wrong. You’ve made a mistake.” I stand now, like I want to see these guys out the door. Let them go to someone else’s house and tell someone else her mother has been murdered, because I know it couldn’t happen to my mom.

  The short policeman looks slightly bewildered. “I know this is hard to hear, Miss Neilson. But I assure you that—”

  “How do you know what you’re talking about? You don’t even know my mom. This has to be a mistake. Maybe someone stole my mom’s purse and her ID, and she’s—”

  “The victim matched the ID. Of course, we’ll need a positive identification from a friend or family member. When will your father be home?”

  “My dad! I need to call him right now. He’ll make you understand this is a mistake.” I hurry to the phone, dialing his cell phone number with trembling hands. Feeling shaken and slightly numb, I wait to hear his voice.

  “Dad!” I cry shrilly into the phone.

  “Cleo? What’s wrong?”

  “You have to talk to these men—”

  “What men? What are you talking about?”

  “These policemen, Dad. They’re in our house and—”

  “Why are they in our house? What is going on? Where’s your mom, Cleo? What’s—?”

  “That’s just it—they’re saying—they’re saying—” And I break into sobs. “They’re saying it’s Mom and that—that she’s been murdered)”

  “What? What are you talking about? What is—?”

  “I—I don’t know, Daddy. I—I think they—they got it wrong. It must be wrong...” I fall apart now, sobbing so hard I can’t speak. The short policeman takes the phone from me, and I collapse onto the couch mumbling, “You got it wrong... It’s wrong... all wrong... I know you’re wrong.” But even as I repeat these words over and over, as if saying them makes it so, I have this horrible, ugly, unbearable feeling deep inside that what they are saying is really true.