Chapter 5: A Loving Family
The walk up the porch stairs and into my house seems to drain me of the rest of my energy. I have no desire to look back and wave to Officer Boyd or look for whatever was on my porch. My mom would be disappointed because she was one of those polite ladies who waved at everyone, even if the person was her enemy. Polite or not, I still have no desire to wave in such a time as this.
I walk straight to the kitchen. My throat is completely dry. I need something. Anything. I grab a glass out of the cabinet, put three ice cubes in it, and eye the top of the refrigerator. On the top of the refrigerator—where I always keep it—stands a half-empty bottle of scotch.
I reach for the bottle of scotch as I have so many times before. The bottle is practically weightless in my hands. The liquid sloshes around inside the bottle as I bring it to my glass. I think I should probably wait. Once I start, I won’t be able to stop. I really don’t want another hangover, especially when I’m like this. I don’t want another day like this one ever again.
My logic is flawless, but my thirst for the numbing liquid trumps logic. The bottle clanks against my glass while I pour myself a healthy dose. The scotch flows down my throat, making everything feel better in the process. I shove the bottle back on top of the refrigerator. It spins like a top and then crashes towards the floor.
My hands stretch out for it as it is falling, but like everything else from today, it slips just out of reach. The bottle crashes to the floor with a screeching bark. Glass and liquid scatter across the floor in every direction. Of course, that would happen wouldn’t it? I get the broom and sweep up the glass while being extra careful not to cut myself. Then I get a rag and take care of the scotch drenched floor. As I finish, I swear my eyes glimpse something dart out of the room. It is just a glimpse. I dismiss it because it was there for just a brief moment, and honestly what it could it be, really?
Since I’m too exhausted to chase ghosts all day and night, my mind slowly focuses back on the last bit of scotch in my glass. I press the glass to my lips, but don’t drink it. In frustration, I shake my head as I set the glass down on the bar. My zombie like body carelessly opens the refrigerator door. This should be better than scotch anyways. Nothing can possibly go wrong with a coke. I learned my lesson.
My legs tremble as I walk to my bedroom, pop open the can of coke, and pour it into my cup. I take a large self-satisfying gulp. Ah, nothing can go wrong with a coke. Nothing at all.
I lay my head back on my pillow while I pull out my phone. I have to do this sometime. Ah, God help me. I go to my contact list on my phone. I find my sister’s number. My one and only sister. The sister that I haven’t talked to in four months, partially, because she moved away from our little piece of southern Georgia paradise to live somewhere in Florida.
She actually managed to do what I couldn’t by leaving Everton and part me hated her for it. But now she is the only relative I have left in the world, and the only call I have to make. So, I have to do it. I hesitate, knowing I have to make the call, but unsure of how I can possibly muster the strength to break her heart. I wait as the phone rings. Waiting and ready to deliver the worst news of my entire life to my very own sister.
She answers, “Ryan, what a surprise, I haven’t heard from you in months.”
“Yeah, Alice. Sorry. Uh, we need to talk. Are you somewhere we can talk? I got some bad news.”
Her voice cracks, “What’s wrong? Are you ok?”
Here we go. “It's Mom and Dad… They’re dead.”
The phone goes silent. The next sound that that comes through my speaker is some kind of scream or cry of pure agony. My body goes numb as I hear the agony on the other side of the phone line. The scream seems to haunt me echoing around inside my head until I realize Alice is calling out to me. “Ryan! Ryan! What happened?”
I reply, “I don’t know. I found them this morning at the house. It was awful. They were… murdered.”
In a tone of panic, she says, “This better not have anything to do with you Ryan. This better not of happened because of your crap.”
She catches me off guard. “What are you talking about?”
“I know Ryan. Mom and Dad called me a few days ago saying they suspected someone was messing with them. I asked if it was you, but they wouldn’t answer. All they would say was that it had something to do with our family as a whole. So, don’t play all innocent. They said that there was a secret that someone was hiding, but they were close to figuring it out. I can only assume you are the someone they were talking about. They always were cleaning up your messes.”
I say, “I don’t know what you are talking about Alice.”
More crying and agony resonates in the background as Alice leaves the line. It occurs to me that the news seems to have completely broken her. I have never witnessed her this distraught. She is normally so mild mannered. I was always the tempered one not her.
Various cries continue away from the phone until Alice returns, “Sure. Whatever. Stop lying! You can tell yourself whatever you want, but don’t lie to me! Mom and dad said it was going to be ok. That they would call back and tell me everything after they talked to you. Now they're gone. If you got them killed… I swear Ryan I’ll… I’m headed home and they better not be dead because of you.”
“How could they—”
She hangs up in the middle of me speaking. What in the world was she talking about? My head feels so fuzzy. I still can’t remember last night. Do I have a secret? Did my parents find something out about me? I don’t know anymore. Why does she think I’m lying? Could I be lying? Of course not. Why would I intentionally hide something from her that I don’t even know myself? Unless. Unless I did something and had too much to drink. Or had too much to drink and did something. Did I… do something?
So many dark questions. Why don’t I know anything? I’m always the person with the answers. Could it be my hangover? Probably. This has happened before hasn’t it? Where I drink too much and forget things. Things I don’t want to know.
A memory of a past event pops to mind that took place my senior year in high school. It is the night of my first drink. My friends and I are hanging out outside the school after some event. Someone said something about a field and some beer. Next thing I know I’m driving a group of guys to someone’s house to grab some beer. We get the beer and someone starts handing it out in the car. I take one and we drive off to someone else’s house.
We add to our stupidity by getting even more beer. I drink another and drive off towards the empty field. On the way, my vision gets blurry, and I lose control of the vehicle. In that moment, the vehicle spins out of control. Beer cans go flying around spewing brown liquid everywhere. We slam into a tree. Somehow, nobody is seriously hurt. I suffer only minor cuts and gashes to my legs and arms.
With nobody else to call, I call my parents. The conversation is not one of anger, but concern. They come to our aid and clean up my mess. My mom takes care of everyone’s cuts while dad tends to the wrecked heap of metal. My parents drive everyone home and inform the other parents of our negligence.
When we get home, the concern crosses the line into anger. The rest of my night consists of me taking the brunt of my parents’ wrath while still drunk. Not a good combo. I wake up the next morning with no clue as to how I suffered my injuries. It took a few days to remember the events of that night and by then it was the town secret that everybody knew but nobody wanted to talk about.
Is this something like that or something else? The doctor I went to in the days following the crash had said the memory issue was something to do with the amount of alcohol and my guilt. It has to be like that. That’s the only explanation. I drank and now I don’t remember. Did I get my parents killed? I couldn’t have—there’s no way.
I suffer through an endless amount of phone calls while shut up in my room. They all go the same way. Some friend saying, “I’m so sorry. This is just awful. How could something like
this happen in our town? It just makes me sick. Your parents were such nice people. Let me know if I can do anything to help.” Then me “saying yeah I will. I can’t believe this is happening.” It goes on and on. Phone call after phone call. The day slips away and night begins.
My body is to the point that it's literally about to shut itself off. In times of complete exhaustion such as this, I have a quirky solution. Take a hot shower. My parents always thought it was strange. But it has always been my way of dealing with mental or physical fatigue. I have never figured out if it’s the heat or the water gently massaging my body, but it does the trick.
I take my shirt off and go to throw it in the dirty clothes basket. Before I let the shirt go, another dirty shirt with a red stain on it stops me from releasing the one in my hand. It’s blood. It doesn’t have a lot of blood on it, but it does have a few noticeable streaks down the right side of the shirt. It also has a slice extending down the right side from the armpit to about where my belly button would be. I look up at the mirror and notice the cuts on the right side of my cheeks. Well, that would explain the blood. At least that explains something.
Once in the shower, the hot water soothes my aching body while another memory comes to mind. This memory was from freshman year of college. I am out with some friends and somehow a fight got started. Panic ensues because it is my first fight. But as the brawl intensifies, it becomes a fight with a tremendous price. My friends and I are up against some guys from a few towns over. Every indication is that alcohol is once again the instigating factor. I take some massive hits from a big hunky guy that crushes my face.
A searing pain near my scalp breaks up my thoughts. I had been washing my body and hair as the memory played out in my mind. Some of the soap roughly brushes into my head wound. The wound burns like fire as the irritant seeps into my skin. The water slowly washes the soap away along with the pain.
I do get some good shots in on one of the guys. My shots are almost too good because by the end of the altercation, I have beaten the guy unconscious with my fists and near about killed him. I got home that night took a long shower and poured me something to drink.
Upon awaking the next morning, I can’t remember a thing and have one of the worst hangovers of my life. A few days go by until I get a lawsuit from the guy I had beaten and the memories finally start to come back to me. Then the nightmares come shortly after.
I still relive that night every so often in my dreams. Fortunately, I didn’t have to serve time for the incident. My good old dad, the lawyer, got me off. Not even a scratch on my record or any newspaper articles about the fight. There were rumors of course.
The shower’s heat only tires me out even more. I could have killed that guy that night. I lost complete control. My mind snapped and something else took over. Something deep inside me took the wheel and a man almost died. Feeling the weight of the world on my thoughts, I get out of the shower and head to bed.
I stuff the note from earlier in a pair of pants in my drawer beside my bed. Oh, how I need some sleep. My bed is soft and inviting, but I can’t fall asleep. I roll over and check the alarm clock. The clock reads ‘10:07 P.M’. This day has been hell. I just want today to end and tomorrow to begin. Maybe it will be better. It probably won’t be. Who am I kidding? Nothing will be better after today.
Thoughts of my mom and dad begin to run through my mind. Thoughts of them when I was a kid taking me to practice, stopping by for ice cream afterwards. Thoughts of Christmas when they would get me my favorite toys and candy. Thoughts of me as a teen when they would help me with my homework. Thoughts of them standing in my room early in the morning singing happy birthday every year. All the good thoughts in the world, but the last thought before I finally fall asleep is my parents’ bodies covered in blood in my room.
Buried Truth Page 5