by C. C. Hunter
“What do you and Brandy share in common?” The words fall off my lips before I’ve considered the wisdom of asking. Because the truth is…I don’t want to know what they share. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “That’s not any of my business.”
“No. It’s okay.” He still doesn’t answer. Then, “I… We haven’t dated long. I mean, it’s not serious. We’re still learning about each other.”
It looked serious. “Oh.”
“So where are you from?” he asks.
“I lived all my life in Dallas, but we moved to Banker, Texas, for almost a year before we moved here.”
“What do you think of Catwalk?” His voice feels close, and I close my eyes.
“It’s okay. It’s hard to move this late in high school, but I lucked out, and Kelsey and I became really good friends. For that reason alone, I’m glad I moved here.” Then there’s you.
“It makes sense. She’s new here, too.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I heard you got in a fight with Candace at school,” he says.
“Dex talks too much,” I say. “It’s not—”
“He wasn’t talking shit. He was bragging on you, not making fun of you.”
“Right,” I say.
“No, I’m serious. Everyone knows Candace and the whole Jamie bunch are screwups. I told Jacob he was nuts falling for her. And I hear he broke up with her. For you.”
“I don’t think it was because of me.” It gets quiet again.
“You know what’s crazy?” he asks.
You mean besides my whole life? “What?” Pumpkin jumps up on my bed and meows.
“When Dex said you got a black eye, I swear, I could see you in my mind with one. It was like I saw you…when you had it.”
You did. Air feels trapped in my chest. If he remembers that, what else might he remember? Maybe us? Is it just going to take time? Is the memory of us like learning to walk again? One small step at a time? “That is weird.”
“You didn’t have a black eye at camp, did you?”
“No.” Pumpkin starts rubbing his cheek on my chin.
“I didn’t think so.” He pauses. “Is that a cat I hear?”
“It’s Pumpkin.” I stare up at the ceiling fan.
“I like cats,” he says.
“I know,” I say, then cringe. “Your mom mentioned you were into animals.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” he says.
“Thought about what?” I stop scratching Pumpkin behind his ears.
“How many stories about me my mom probably bored you with.”
“I wasn’t bored.”
“Crap. If they weren’t boring, then they were probably embarrassing.” He chuckles.
I hear someone talking to him.
“Can we wait just a bit?” he asks, but he’s not speaking to me.
“Do you need to go?” I ask.
“No. She’s going to see another patient first. It was the physical therapist.” His tone goes darker.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say.
He’s silent for several long seconds. “You said you researched about people coming out of comas and getting therapy.”
“Yeah.”
“How long did it take them to…be normal again?”
“It varied. Every case is different.”
“What about the cases similar to mine?”
“For some, it only took a couple of weeks. A few of them took a few months.” I didn’t tell him about the ones who had brain or nerve damage because I don’t think he does.
“Months? Shit!”
“Look, a week ago we didn’t know if you were going to live. A month or so of therapy is a great alternative. And it may not even take a month. You’ve only been awake a few days. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Without realizing it, my tone is too familiar, like someone who knows him better.
He goes silent again. Did I piss him off?
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound harsh, it’s just…”
“No, you’re right. I just hate feeling like I can’t do things. I’m big into instant gratification.” His tone adds a lightness to his words, but I know he’s scared.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say seriously. “I know that with all my heart.”
“I hope your heart’s right.” His voice is low. There are several beats of silence before he asks, “Are you going to school to be a nurse or maybe a psychologist when you graduate?”
“Nooo. I was thinking business. What I’d really like is to do something with art, but Dad’s not into art degrees.”
“Well, you’re good at helping people. My mom. Annie. Now…me.” He hesitates. “Was Annie right? Are you an angel?”
“No. Far from it.”
“Really? What have you done that’s so bad?”
“I get angry. Hold grudges.” I attempt to steal a guy from his girlfriend. And right then, I realize that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to steal Hayden back. I know she had him first, but I don’t care. I love him. And I still believe Brandy is into Jacob.
A little voice whispers in my head: Do you just want to believe that so you won’t feel guilty about pushing Jacob away? Are you just telling yourself that because of Brandy’s connection to Hayden?
Do I care? Maybe a little, but not enough to lose Hayden.
“That’s all?”
“I lie. Mostly for good causes, but I do it.”
“What do you lie about?”
“I prefer not to say.”
“Okay. Who do you get angry at?” he asks.
Boys who don’t tell me they are dating someone while they’re making me fall in love with them. I reel in my wayward thoughts, and in the process, I realize I must have forgiven him if I’m determined to get him back. Or maybe I’ve just prioritized. Win Hayden back, then give him shit for what he did.
“You get angry at your parents?” Hayden asks when I haven’t answered.
“Yeah. Well, my dad.”
“Not your mom?”
“She passed away when I was four. But sometimes I get angry at her for that.” And possibly for having an affair with an artist.
The line goes quiet. “I know what you mean. I lost my dad. I was angry at him for years.”
“It’s hard to lose the person you think will always be there.” I wonder if this is the reason Hayden and I bonded. We share that pain.
“Tell me about it,” he says, and an echo of old hurt lingers on the line.
Pumpkin moves back up and bumps my chin with his cold nose.
“Did your dad remarry?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “He dated for a while, but nothing serious.”
“You’re lucky. Mom did. He’s a piece of shit.”
“Sorry.” I wonder if he’ll tell me again about how he caught his stepfather cheating. My heart aches just thinking about it, because I know how much that hurt him. But he doesn’t say more. Maybe it’s too soon. I haven’t retold him all my ugly secrets yet, either, about Dad’s drinking, about him hiding things about my mom.
It’s almost as if we are getting to know each other all over again. And you don’t dump your bad shit on someone right out of the gate.
“You sure you didn’t have a black eye at camp? I swear, I can see you with it. It’s like a picture of you with it in my mind.”
“Positive.” I press my hand on my mattress.
I hear someone else talking in the background.
“The nurse is here,” Hayden says. “I should go.” There’s a pause, then, “Riley?”
The soft way he says my name tiptoes across my soul, leaving sweet footprints. “Yeah.”
“Thanks for…talking.”
“Anytime,” I say with so much honesty that it hurts.
“Don’t say that. I might take you up on it.”
“I hope you do.” I swallow.
He hangs up. I lay there flat on my mattress, staring up at the ceiling fan, resting my phone over my heart, whi
ch somehow feels less broken now. And I let myself hope.
I stay in the same position for an hour, recycling every word he said, reliving every nuance of emotion the talk awakened. Finally realizing I should go take a shower or maybe even try to eat something, I sit up, and my gaze falls on the painting.
It’s not as good as the one at the gallery, but it’s not bad. I think I might actually have inherited some of my mom’s talent. What else did I inherit? I wouldn’t know, because of Dad’s closed-mouth policy. That thought yanks me back to the bride and what she might know. I look around, put out feelers, but get nothing but a warm house and the slight scent of turpentine.
I still speak to her. “You could come back and talk, you know?”
I get nothing.
Standing up, bypassing the shower-and-eating idea, I go to my computer. I return to my search about dead and missing brides, and only the article about the car accident comes up. I move back to the missing-people search. For the next thirty minutes, I do nothing but surf the internet, reading sad stories. Then it hits me I’m searching just in this town. I need to branch out.
I’m starting to put in the name of a bordering town when I remember the spirit was haunting the gallery, so I should probably search New Spring. I pull it up. It’s smaller than Catwalk, so the list is short. There’s no murder story or missing-person story fitting the bride’s description.
I try Dayton, which is a bigger town, closer than New Spring. The list is longer. I start combing through names, skipping the males and checking the ages of the females. I’m about to give up when I find a name, Shane Casey. White female, age thirty-three.
I click on the link, and my heart nosedives and hits my empty stomach. It’s her. I’m fixed on her silver-blond hair and almost silver eyes. In this picture, she doesn’t look like a snake. She’s pretty. She’s vibrant. She’s…alive.
Even with her being a complete bridezilla, I feel for her. She was too young to go. And to be murdered. If that happened to me, I’d probably be a bitch on wheels, too.
As I skim the information, my gaze lands and locks on the date she went missing. Only a month ago. I knew the wedding dress looked modern, but…I didn’t expect it to be so recent. I just don’t get how she could have a grudge against my mom, who died thirteen years ago.
I go to Google and search her name to see if I can get more information. There are six articles—one is by the local paper in Dayton. Her sister was interviewed and talked about Shane being a good person. Her love of…art.
The next article is about a local street fair. It’s from a year ago. I don’t see the connection to my bride until I read the announcement of the raffle winners. Shane Casey won…painting lessons provided by Sam’s art gallery.
Shit. Did Sam kill her? Was my mom having an affair with a murderer?
I click on each of the other articles and read. Four just tell the same story about her going missing. One has another interview with a friend, saying the cops think she might have run away or even hurt herself because she’d been depressed since her fiancé broke off their wedding a few months back.
Which is odd. Why is she wearing the dress?
Another article, this one from the local paper here in Catwalk, catches my attention. Published six weeks ago, so right before she went missing. The story is about opportunities for upcoming brides to buy wedding items through a new local website called Weddings For Less. Shane Casey was interviewed about how easy it is to sell things like dresses and centerpieces. One picture in the article is of her holding up a wedding dress that she’s trying to sell. Chills run down my spine.
My mind conjures an image of her in the dress with a knife through her heart. If she’s wearing the dress, does that mean the website could possibly be connected to her death somehow?
I go to the website. They require I sign in. I hesitate, then do it. But I change my last name. I look around the site to see how it works. I go to Shane’s page. I see she’s sold quite a few things. A veil, an engagement ring, and some centerpieces. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to sell the items you bought for your special day. Now I’m feeling even worse for her.
However, I don’t see that she sold her wedding dress. In a bottom corner, there’s a spot saying she had thirty saved messages and twenty unread. I’m guessing this is where someone would contact you if interested in purchasing some of your items.
My mind starts connecting the dots. Maybe I’m wrong about Sam being involved in her death. Maybe her killer contacted her here. I can’t help but wonder if the police have checked this out. Or is it like the friend said, and the police think she just ran away?
But is this information enough to take to the police? And how would I get this to them? Should I write a letter, like I did before, claiming I’m an innocent bystander who knows something? What if they suspect the two letters are from the same person and really start looking for me?
My phone rings. My gaze goes to my bedroom clock. It’s after eleven. Before I pick up, I check the number, hoping it’s Hayden again. It isn’t.
It’s Dad.
“You okay?” My heart starts and stops as I wait for him to answer.
“Hi. This is James, the bartender from Barnie’s Pool Hall and Bar.”
I gasp. “Yes.”
“I have a gentleman here that’s had too much to drink to be driving. I didn’t know if you wanted to come get him or if you’d like me to grab him a taxi. I’m uncomfortable going into his wallet.” He pauses, then I hear, “Sir, no, I can’t let you drive. Stop!”
My chest clutches. “Take his keys away!” I yell into the phone. “What’s your address? I’m on my way!”
I drive down the dark streets on the not-so-good side of town.
My phone dictates I take the next right, and immediately I see the sign for Barnie’s. I pull in and park. When I get out, I’m instantly aware of how dark it is, how late it is, how dangerous it feels. The back of my neck itches as if someone is watching me. I lock the door. If sober, Dad would threaten to ground me for being here. Maybe he’ll ground himself.
I glance around, and relief fills my chest when I spot Dad’s car. But that relief shatters when a police car pulls into the parking lot. Ducking my head down, I take off for the front door.
The place is dark, smoky, and smells like old beer and old men. Why did my dad come here? There are a lot of nicer establishments closer to the funeral home.
Then again, he’s probably afraid some of the families of his clients would recognize him. I give my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, then I head for the bar. An older man, long gray hair in a ponytail, is standing behind the counter.
“Hi, I’m Riley Smith. Are you James?”
“You’re the man’s daughter?”
I nod and look around. “Where is he?”
“In the back corner.” He points behind me. “I had to call the cops. He got belligerent and was insisting on driving himself.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m here now. Can I just take him home?”
Right then, I hear the door whoosh open behind me.
“Please.” I mouth the word and gaze at James.
He looks over my shoulder. “Hey, officers. It’s fine now. I got his daughter here to take him home.”
I leave James to deal with the police, and I go check on Dad. The look on his face when he sees me is pure pain and undiluted embarrassment. I only feel a little bit sorry for him.
“You shouldn’t have come.” His words are slurred, and there’s drool on his chin.
I don’t respond, and Dad doesn’t speak again for the next ten minutes.
The officers end up helping me get Dad in my car. I’m told it will be okay to pick his car up in the morning. He stays silent as I drive. In fact, he nods off. For some reason, that makes me mad. I want him awake, for him to realize he can’t ever do this again. I want to unload on him, but a voice of wisdom says yelling at him now would be futile. So I just drive. I fume. I hurt.
&n
bsp; When I pull into the garage, he doesn’t even move. “Dad? We’re home.”
He doesn’t stir.
I get out, go around, open the door, and give his shoulder a hard shake. “We’re home. Come on. Get out of the car.”
He lifts his chin off his chest. More drool runs down the side of his mouth. He glances up, then quickly down, as if looking at me hurts. And I hope it does.
“Come on. I’ll help you.”
“Don’t need help!” he says too loudly. When he starts to get out, he almost falls. I barely manage to catch him. Once in the house, he lets go of me and stumbles to the sofa.
“Don’t you want to go to bed?”
“Fine here,” he mutters, then he looks up at me and tears fill his eyes. I can’t remember the last time I saw him cry. Or if I’ve ever seen him cry. Damn. Damn. Damn.
He swipes a hand over his face. “I only wanted to protect you. But you’re going to hate me for it. Part of me… A tiny part knew it was wrong, but I did it for you.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
He leans back against the sofa.
I move in. “Dad? What did you do?”
He doesn’t answer. As I get closer, I realize he’s out again. I kneel down and remove his shoes, setting them aside so he won’t trip on them when he gets up. I stand.
“What am I going to hate you for?” I ask, but I know he’s not hearing me. I grab a throw off the back of the sofa and spread it over him. I stand there, watching him breathe, wishing I knew how to fix him. I still think my mom would know that answer. If only her spirit would come see me. I don’t even care if she had an affair. I need to help my dad.
A hollow ache fills my stomach, and I know it’s hunger. While eating doesn’t appeal to me, the gnawing pain will keep me awake. Moving to the kitchen, I pull out a foil-wrapped marshmallow treat from the pantry. My gaze locks on the wall behind the breakfast table. Locks on the knives. My heart stops. My lungs noisily suck in air.
My dead bride’s cold lingers, but it’s only a haunting chill.
“Seriously?” I mutter. Anger coils inside my empty stomach as I move behind the table and pull six knives out of the Sheetrock.