Shattered Page 7

  Then I go out, trying to play the role of “hostess,” but everyone keeps talking about my mom, saying what a generous and kind person she was, how it was too soon to lose her... on and on. And I have no response to that.

  “Your mother was an absolute saint,” a woman named Maria tells me. “Do you know how she helped me when Julio was born?”

  I blink, trying to focus on this woman’s amazing eyes—they are black and shiny as glass. “No... I don’t recall.”

  “She was an angel. Three years ago, I was pregnant with Julio and my husband had left me with nothing. Your mother arranged a baby shower at church, and she helped me to find furniture at secondhand shops and...” On she goes, but the words are like colorful balloons floating off into the nether-sphere, over my head and far out of my reach.

  “And sh-she helped find me a place to live,” a middle-aged man with a serious lisp and stammer tells me. He seems to know Maria and I think I’ve seen him at church before, but I can’t remember his name. “I was homeless-ss and jobless-ss.” Like an impaired snake, he gets stuck on the s sound, but he nods over and over for emphasis. “That was about ss-six years ago. I’ve been working ever ss-since.”

  Feeling like a bobblehead doll, I mimic his nod. “That’s great. I’m so happy for you.”

  Maria continues talking about Julio and how much he loved “Aunt Karen” and how she sometimes babysat him. “Right here in this house.” She looks around with a sad smile.

  “Right here?” I glance about the family room, trying to imagine my mother caring for a toddler... and me not even knowing.

  As Maria and the lisp man continue to recall my mother’s attributes, I feel dizzy and spacey and I need to lie down. “I’m sorry,” I interrupt Maria. “But I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Oh yes.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I forget how hard this must be for you.”

  I nod again, and this time the mere motion of moving my head makes me feel like the walls are spinning... like I’m about to throw up. So I excuse myself and, trying to get my bearings, hurry from that stuffy room, rushing down the hallway toward my bedroom. But I feel like a rat in a maze, like I’m lost and can’t find the right turn... until finally, I find the right door, go inside, close it, then fall onto my bed... and escape into a foggy darkness.

  When I wake, my dad is sitting on the side of my bed. His expression is one of great concern and sadness. “What’s wrong with you, Cleo?”

  I sit up and blink at the overhead light. “Huh?”

  “Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  I shrug, then let out a long sigh. “I’m just really sad. And tired.”

  “I know...” He nods. “Believe me, I know. But we can’t give up. We have to keep going. That’s what your mom would want us to do.”

  I look down at my hands, thinking they look like someone else’s hands. My mom’s perhaps?

  “But if you can’t keep going...” Dad reaches over and takes one of my hands in his. “Then we will get you help.”

  “Help?”

  “Someone to help you through your grief. Aunt Kellie said she knows someone who—”

  “I don’t need someone to help me,” I say stubbornly. Then I pull my hand away from his and slide my feet out from under the blanket and onto the floor. “I can deal with this myself.”

  “I know it’s not easy. But we have to get through this, Cleo.”

  “I know, Dad.” I stand up now, feeling both shaky and dizzy... and like I need another pain pill. “I’m getting through it the best way I can. I just need time.”

  “Okay, I know it’s going to take time.” He rubs his hand through his messy hair. “And I hate to tell you this, but I’m scheduled to go to Denver next week. I thought about canceling, but we need the—”

  “Don’t cancel for my sake.”

  “But I hate to think of leaving you here... alone... after what’s happened.”

  “I’ll be okay. I know you have to keep working, Dad.”

  “If I wasn’t self-employed, I could take time off, but being my own boss... if I cancel on a client... well, you know how it goes.”

  “I understand, Dad. It’s okay for you to work. I’ll be fine.” “Well, my flight isn’t until Sunday evening. I can always cancel—”

  “No,” I say firmly. “You don’t need to cancel.” I stand a bit straighter now, trying to convey confidence. “In fact, I plan to return to school tomorrow.”

  He looks relieved. “Oh, good. I think it will be good to get back to our old lives.”

  I glance over my dad’s shoulder. “Does that mean Aunt Kellie went home?”

  He makes an uncomfortable frown. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “I think she’s worried about you, Cleo.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, you might have to convince her of that.” He moves toward the door. “In the meantime, she’s not budging. She just told me that your mother wants her here.”

  “What?” I ask hotly. “Is she able to speak to the dead?”

  My dad says nothing, but his expression says it all. Sad, weary, lost. And it’s all my fault. Unable to see so much sorrow in my dad, I turn away from him, pretending to be busy with a tangled necklace on my dresser.

  “Kellie said to tell you she’s putting out some leftovers for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” I scowl. “Didn’t we just have lunch?”

  “It’s almost seven,” he says as he leaves my room.

  I look at the clock by my bed. It is almost seven. I have been asleep for nearly six hours. Six hours of blissful escape. I close my door, then go to my secret stash of pills. I’ve been very creative. I wrapped them in a tube of tissue that is stuffed into a cardboard tampon container, and this is wrapped in the plastic and stuck in the box, looking just like the others. In fact, it takes me a few seconds to figure out which one it is.

  Then I remove the pills I stuffed in my bra and put them with this stash. But not before I take one more pill. I need another pill to make it through this night. Tomorrow I will try to begin weaning myself from the pills... or at least slow it down.

  A half hour later, as we’re finishing up dinner, which I pretend to eat for my aunt’s sake, my dad mentions that he’s heard from the police. “They called this afternoon,” he says as I’m returning some of the food dishes to the kitchen.

  “Karen’s car turned up,” he says in a flat tone.

  “Really?” Aunt Kellie is still sitting at the table. “What kind of shape is it in?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently it still runs.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be getting it back soon?” she asks him.

  “Not until after they collect their evidence.” Dad’s voice is grim. “That might take a week or so.”

  “Then perhaps Cleo can have it to use,” Aunt Kellie suggests.

  I come back into the dining room, surprised but not saying anything.

  Dad clears his throat. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” I ask him. “As it is, I don’t have a way to get to school now that Lola’s moved. Well, unless I ride the school bus, which is pretty humiliating at my age. I wouldn’t mind having Mom’s car.”

  “It’s a bad idea, Cleo.” Dad sets his water glass down with a thud.

  “I don’t see why.” Aunt Kellie is stacking our plates now. “I think Karen would be happy to have Cleo using her car.”

  “It doesn’t seem right.” My dad scoots back his chair with a loud scraping sound of wood on wood.

  “You don’t have to drive it,” I tell him.

  He just shakes his head as he stands. “Fine. If you really want a car—a car that—well, you know. If you want to drive that car, you’re welcome to it.” Then he walks away.

  I look at Aunt Kellie with uncertainty. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea...”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Cleo. Your mother loved that car. And she loved you. No reason you shouldn’
t get to use it. It makes perfect sense.”

  I bite my lip, trying to imagine how it will feel to drive the car that my mom spent some of her last living moments in. Maybe I don’t want it after all.

  “Anyway, you don’t have to think about that now,” she tells me.

  “But I do need a way to get to school tomorrow.”

  “I plan to drive you there.”

  “Oh...” I just nod. “Thanks.”

  “And I’ll pick you up afterward for ballet. You still have it on Thursday afternoons, right?”

  I frown. “Yes, but I don’t think I want to go.”

  “Nonsense. Of course you’re going to ballet. Isn’t it nearly recital time? And your mother told me you’re dancing the lead this year. Surely, you can’t be skipping out on lessons now.”

  “But I don’t want to—”

  “You can’t quit living your life, Cleo. I know you’re sad about your mom. We’re all sad. But the best way to get over this is to move on—keep on doing what you need to do. That’s what your mother would want.”

  She continues to ramble on about how proud my mother would be of me, how she’ll probably be watching me doing things like ballet... graduation... getting married... having children... all from her luxurious front-row seat up in heaven, where she will be cheering me on as my biggest fan.

  It’s fine and good that Aunt Kellie can believe that if she wants to. I’d rather not think about it. Because if my mother can really see me from heaven, that means she must be fully aware I’m the one to blame for her death. Because of me, she went to the wrong place at the wrong time. I am the reason her life was cut short. I can hardly imagine her up there cheering about something like that.

  . . . [CHAPTER 10] . . . . . . . . . . . .

  By Thursday morning, I know I need to ration my pills. At the rate I’ve been taking them, I’m down to two days’ worth. But I figure if these pills can get me through the next couple of days... well, it’s worth it.

  “We better get going,” Aunt Kellie tells me as soon as I emerge from the bathroom, where I’ve just taken my first pill of the day. “You don’t want to be late.”

  “Don’t I?” I bend down to put on my shoes.

  “And do you have your ballet things with you for after school?”

  I roll my eyes at her. “I already told you I’m not going anymore.”

  She looks wounded. “But you have to go to ballet, Cleo. What would your mother say if she knew you wanted to quit dancing?”

  “If?” I frown at her. “I thought you said she was up there watching every move I make. Doesn’t she know already?”

  Now my aunt is flustered. She jingles her car keys in one hand and rubs her forehead with the other. “But you love ballet. And I’ve heard that dancing is very therapeutic.”

  “Therapeutic?”

  “Yes, I saw something on Good Morning America about these kids who were having serious—”

  “Really? Good Morning America? How impressive,” I say sarcastically.

  “Yes, well, their point was that dancing helped them to forget their problems and it was very—”

  “Maybe you’d like to take up ballet,” I say in a snooty tone. I really don’t like being this way, but it’s like I can’t help myself.

  She just laughs. “Oh yes, imagine me in a tutu.”

  “Imagine” I pick up my bag, looping a strap over my shoulder. “I’m ready to go now.”

  Aunt Kellie keeps chattering away, going on about ballet and how wonderful it is, as she drives me to school. As much as I appreciate the ride, I’m suddenly aware of how embarrassing her car is. It’s not only dirty, both inside and out, but it’s a minivan.

  “Why do you drive this anyway?”

  “What?” She seems confused.

  “This minivan. Why do you drive it?”

  “Why not?” She smiles obliviously.

  “Well, because I thought they were for people with little kids.”

  “I suppose so. I just happen to like it. It feels safe, and it’s big enough to haul things in.”

  “Right...” I hate myself. I really do. Why am I such a witch?

  “Here you go.” She pulls up in front of the school.

  “Thanks,” I mutter as I open the door.

  “See you at three,” she calls out.

  “Yeah.” I nod, hurrying away from the minivan, but not fast enough to avoid some curious stares. Like why’s a senior arriving at school in a minivan? But that actually seems minor compared to my realization that this is the first time I’ve come to school without the comfort of Lola by my side. I can’t believe how much I miss her. And yet I’ve been avoiding her calls. Or when I do answer, I just cut things short, saying I’m too busy to talk, or else I lie to her. Like I’m shoving her away with both hands. It’s like I’ve turned into someone else.

  To my relief, the pain pill begins to take effect as I go into my first class. That fuzzy, blurry feeling returns; slowly it dulls the sharp, jagged edges of my life. But by second period, I can’t really focus. I lean my head forward, resting it on my bag. I close my eyes, and everything just slips away. I wake to the sound of a bell, and then I look up to see Mr. Jones looking at me.

  “Are you okay, Cleo?” His eyes are concerned.

  “I... uh... yeah. I was just tired. Sorry.”

  He continues looking at me, peering closely as if trying to see deep into my soul. “I was very sorry to hear about your mother. You have my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur as I gather my things and stand.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  I frown, wondering why a teacher wants a favor from me.

  “Would you go talk to Mrs. Stanley?” “The counselor?”

  He nods. “I think it would be good to tell her how you’re feeling.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Just a feeling I have, that you might need some help with this. It’s a lot to deal with, Cleo.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Just go see Mrs. Stanley, okay? She’s a very understanding person. You can tell her anything.”

  “Okay,” I say reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

  He smiles. “Thanks. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

  I just shake my head. “If you say so.” I make my way out as the next class is coming in. But as I’m going through the doorway, I come face-to-face with Daniel Crane.

  “Cleo,” he says with a smile. “How are you doing?”

  I shrug. “I’ve had better days.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Not at the moment.” I tip my head toward Mr. Jones. “I’m being sent to Mrs. Stanley... to talk.”

  Daniel nods in a thoughtful way. “That’s probably a good thing. Mrs. Stanley is great. I’ve talked to her before myself.”

  “Really?” Now this surprises me.

  “Yeah. She’s cool.”

  “Okay.”

  He pats me on the back. “See you around then?” “Yeah... sure.”

  As I walk toward the guidance center, the tardy bell for third period rings, but I figure I’ll get excused anyway. I tell the receptionist who I am and what Mr. Jones asked me to do.

  “Oh, you’re the one... the girl whose mother...” She sighs sadly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Cleo.”

  “Thanks.” I twist the handle of my bag. What good could possibly come from speaking to a counselor? It’s not like I’m going to tell her the truth.

  “Have a seat and I’ll check with Mrs. Stanley.”

  I go over to the couch and just sit there, but I feel like I’m about to fall asleep again. I blink several times, trying to wake myself up. And then a tall, dark-haired woman is looking down at me. “Cleo?” she says gently.

  I nod, trying to focus in on her face. I think she’s pretty, but in a kind of plain, serious way.

  “Come on into my office.” She turns and walks toward a door.

  I follow her, but I feel like I’m wading thr
ough pudding. Finally I’m seated in a chair across from her, trying to keep my eyes open.

  “Are you okay?” She leans forward, staring at me.

  “Yeah... I think so.” I nod sleepily.

  “You look very tired, Cleo.”

  “I know.” I nod again. Then I begin telling her about how I can’t sleep at night, how I wander the house. “Like Ghost Girl,” I say in a weary voice. “And then I’m so tired that I’ve been sleeping in the daytime.”

  “So you’ve kind of switched your days and nights around?”

  “I think so.”

  “And that’s all?” She peers curiously at me.

  “That’s all? What do you mean?”

  “Well, under other circumstances, I might be concerned that you’re under the influence of something. No offense, Cleo, but you look kind of stoned.” She makes a half smile. “But because I know about your mother and how grief can unravel a person, well, I do understand.”

  “That’s kind of how I feel. Unraveled.”

  “There are grief groups you might want to consider participating in. Places where you talk openly about what’s going on with you. I highly recommend it, and if you don’t mind, I’d be happy to set something up for you.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know...”

  “Yes, it might be a little too soon. Are you familiar with the seven stages of grief, Cleo?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it’s a bit of a generalization, but I’ll just go over it with you, okay?” She hands me a glossy brochure with a photo of a bare tree on the front.

  “Okay...”

  “The first stage is shock and denial. I suspect you’ve already gone through that already. Or perhaps you’re still in it. But the shock of losing someone, especially the way you lost your mother, puts your brain in a form of denial, like it never really happened. It’s the mind’s way of protecting us from the harsh truth. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, I told myself that my mom was still alive at first, that it was all a mistake and the cops came to the wrong house. But it finally sunk in. I know my mother is dead.” And even though that’s true and I do know my mother is dead, those words are like sand in my mouth.