by Calia Read
“So, you were the protective older sister,” I remark.
Aunt Ruby sits up straighter in her chair. “Absolutely. I had to be.”
“As you grew older, did you still feel the need to watch over your sister?”
“No, not as much,” Aunt Ruby concedes slowly.
I look down at my notes. “And then there’s Selah. How was your relationship with her?”
“As far as aunt and niece relationships go, I’d say we were pretty close. We saw each other several times a year.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “She was a very shy kid. Always let other people do the talking.” “So she was a lot like her mom?”
“Oh, no. She was… cautious. It took a while for her to warm up. She became more closed off after that awful tragedy.”
Even though I know what tragedy she’s referring to, I lean in closer; this is news that the viewers, the one that haven’t researched Selah and her entire family for hours on end, will by dying to hear.
“What tragedy?”
Aunt Ruby looks down at the ground. She laces her fingers together. “The passing of her dad.” Nervously, she licks her lips before she continues. “It was a normal day. Susie said he got up for work, made some coffee. An hour later, when she got up, she saw that his car keys and wallet were on the kitchen table. She asked Selah to go into the garage and see if her Dad’s car was still there.” Aunt Ruby takes a deep breath. “When she went out there, she found her dad. He’d shot himself in the head.”
“That’s tragic,” I say after a beat of silence.
Aunt Ruby nods. “It really was. Robert was a good man. Him taking his own life just seemed unfathomable.”
“Death is always hard but to find your dad in such a way must have been really horrific for her.”
“Oh, you have no idea. She was closed off and withdrawn. Susie and I were really worried about her for such a long time. During her youth, she acted out. Hung out with the wrong kids. Dated older boys she had no business being with.”
“Over time she grew out of this dark period?” I asked, checking my notes.
“Thankfully, she did. But, like I said, I really wondered if she’d ever recover.”
“What was your impression of Selah and her mother’s relationship?”
A shaky sigh escapes Ruby’s mouth. “It was rocky.”
“How so?” I ask gently.
“They were like most mothers and daughters. They could be really close but at times they were almost too close. Susie gave Selah everything. That girl could get away with anything she wanted.”
“Some people might think that you’re alluding that Selah was deceiving or spoiled by her mom.”
Aunt Ruby kicks back her head and laughs. “No, no. She wasn’t deceiving. Spoiled?” She shrugs. “Possibly. But deceiving? No.”
“My next question is going to be difficult but I’m going to ask it: when they found the body, what went through your mind?”
Tears well up in Aunt Ruby’s eyes. “I don’t remember much. I just sank to my knees. My world stopped. I’ve felt grief like this before but I will never get used to it. I hope to never feel it again.”
I take a deep breath. “And cut.”
Within seconds people around us start moving around the set, but Aunt Ruby and I sit completely still. Tears stream down her cheeks. I motion a production assistant to find a Kleenex. She hurries to the kitchen and rushes out with a paper towel. I take it from her and hand it to Aunt Ruby.
With shaking hands she grabs hold of it and dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is embarrassing.”
“Don’t be. I know this was really hard for you.” I stand up from my chair and pat her on the shoulder. “I’m really proud of you. Thank you.”
“Everyone has a side in this story, an opinion of what they thought really happened.” She stands up and moves toward the living room. I follow behind her, my curiosity getting the best of me. She stops in front of the fireplace and grabs a glass picture frame on the mantel. She brushes her wrinkled fingers across the faces in the photo before she looks up at me, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue. “I think it’s important that I get my side out. If I didn’t, I’d be failing my family.”
I stare down at the smiling faces and my heart speeds up because the next person I want to interview—no, have to—is in this photo. The only problem is, I didn’t know if they’ll say yes.
“IT’S THE BOYFRIEND. It’s always the boyfriend who kills!”
“Can we turn this?” I reach for the remote.
“No, Selah.” She swats my hand away. “It is just getting good.”
No. It isn’t. Mom has watched every single episode of Law and Order: SVU. Twice. And no, I’m not kidding. I wish I were.
There are very few things I miss about living on my own. But one is the ability to watch what I want when I want. Another is the freedom to walk around in my own space and not worry about anyone else. Those seem like selfish things, but I can’t help it. It’s hard to live on your own for almost ten years, then move back into your childhood home where there’s a whole different way of living.
“Tell you what, when the show’s ten minutes from ending we’ll turn it back and you can see if your boyfriend theory is correct.”
Mom snorts. “Of course it’s correct. It’s always correct. Sure, they mix it up a bit and make the villain the least person you expect but that doesn’t happen very often.”
I sigh loudly and keep my mouth shut. We’ve had many conversations about this theory of hers. Spent hours dissecting each episode. Which is just sad. It crosses the border of Patheticville and enters Pitifulville. Population? Two.
The confines of the house are starting to drive me crazy. I swear these walls can talk. And you know what they’re saying? “Get out. Get out. Get out.” A few days ago it started out as a whisper but now it’s a scream.
It’s not that I don’t want to go out, I do. It’s just I’ve never been a particularly outgoing person. I’m more than happy to spend my time at home reading or writing but it makes me feel removed from reality. When I venture outside I get a dull headache from the sunlight beaming down on me. The fresh air assaults me, revealing that the house is stuffed up and I should probably open up a few windows.
But I never do. The blinds stay shut. Whenever they’re open I become paranoid. My skin tingles with awareness and my daily activities become altered. I feel like an actress putting on a show for some unknown audience. You’re ridiculous, my mind whispers. And it’s right. I am being ridiculous.
There’s always Sam to lean on. But there’s only so much I can tell her before I start to feel like an emotional vampire, slowly sucking the life out of her. And friendships shouldn’t be like that. Talking with a friend should make you both feel energized and just plain ole’ happy. Sam doesn’t feel happy when she ends a conversation with me. Of that, I’m certain.
And I have Jackson. How he makes me feel is enough to get me through each day. At least I think so. Lately, our conversations have become fewer and fewer. There’s a small wall that’s ever so slowly building between us and I don’t know why. I partially blame that for how I’m feeling.
Today we’re having lunch. I’ve been looking forward to it for the past few days. I plan on asking why he’s being so distant, but I don’t know how. We’re still in the beginnings of a relationship and the last thing I want him to think is that I’m nagging him.
“Are you going to hole yourself up in the house again all day?” Mom asks.
“No. Jackson is picking me up. We’re going to have lunch.”
Body language can tell you so much more than words. Right now Mom is as stiff as a board. She’s quiet for a few seconds before she says, “You’re still seeing that boy?”
My eyes slant in her direction. “His name is Jackson. And don’t call him a boy. Makes me sound like one of those creepy teachers who sleeps around with one of her students. Besides, you seemed pretty chummy with him when he came over here two days ago.
”
Mom’s lips flatten into a thin line, but the subject isn’t remotely close to being over with. She obviously has something to say and I want it out in the open; otherwise her feelings will just fester inside of her until she explodes.
“Mom, you’re clearly thinking something. So just say it.”
With a heavy sigh, Mom sits up and shocks me by turning off the TV. She twists around in her seat to face me. “I was nice to him because I have manners, Selah. I wasn’t raised in a barn and neither were you. But if you must know the truth, then here it is: I’m not happy about your relationship with Jackson.” She puts extra emphasis on his name.
“And why not?”
“Because it’s unhealthy.”
I laugh darkly. “How can you possibly know our relationship is unhealthy? You’ve met him once.”
She gives me a condescending smile and says, “Trust me. I know.”
“You really don’t.”
Of course I knew the risk of meeting someone online. But fortunately, things didn’t go bad for me. I always expected that the biggest uncertainty with Jackson would be meeting him in person and discovering whether or not we had chemistry. We had that, so I thought we were in the clear. I didn’t expect my mom to be so upset about it.
“If you get to know him, you’ll see what I see.”
She leans back into her chair and groans dramatically as she adjusts herself. “Selah, I just want to help you. And this whole thing with Jackson just screams wrong.” The last thing I want to do is grab a ticket onto the ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’ train again.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I jump up so fast I resemble a puppet—all loose limbs and jerky movements as I rush to the door and swing it wide open. I have a smile waiting and ready for him, but it fades the second I see him. Jackson looks like he’s seconds away from vomiting in the shrubs.
Instantly I step forward, ignoring the cold wind that cuts through my paper-thin sweater. “Hey. Are you okay?” I ask.
He leans over, his fingers curled around his knees. He holds up one shaking hand and smiles faintly. “I’m good.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”
“Thank you, Selah.” There’s an edge to his words. Not razor-sharp but acute enough to make me take a step back.
Glancing into the house, I quietly shut the door and take a small step forward. “If you’re sick, maybe you should go home and get some rest,” I offer.
“No,” he rushes out. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. “I’m fine. I promise. Let’s go eat, all right?” Another smile but he never lets go of my hand.
I look at him and back at his fingers. “You’re hurting me.”
He glances down at his fingers and instantly drops my hand. My fingertips start to tingle as the blood rushes back into my hand. I take in Jackson, dissecting him as I would an insect. His face is clammy. There’s no way in hell that he’s in any condition to go eat, let alone drive.
“Why don’t we just sit here for a second? If you feel better in a few minutes then we can go eat?”
“It’s freezing out.”
“Some cool air might be good for you.”
He nods and sits down on the first porch step. I sit right next to him, resisting the urge to go back inside and get my coat. We stay quiet for a few minutes. But this isn’t a comfortable silence. It’s filled with unspoken questions and answers and tension.
“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” I finally ask.
Jackson drags his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath before he looks over at me. “If I tell you then you’ll never speak to me again.”
I look him straight in the eye. “That’s not true. We’ve only known each other for a brief amount of time and I already feel like I can tell you anything. Hell, I already have,” I say with a half-smile before I continue. “So don’t worry about it. Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”
I want to shake him for his silence, yet simultaneously cover my hands with my ears. Because I have a feeling that what he’s going to tell me is a big reason he’s been so distant with me.
“What I say could change everything between us.”
Then he opens his mouth and tells me everything.
THE THIRD PERSON we interview is named Donald Warrick.
Everyone calls him Donnie.
He’s lean, bordering on skinny. He’s dressed in jeans and a blue dress shirt but from the way he tugs at the collar every few minutes it’s apparent that he doesn’t wear it very often, if ever.
His brown hair is shoulder length. He face is sprinkled with freckles across the cheeks and nose—which hardly makes him intimidating, and his pocked-marked scars reveal a case of stubborn acne in his youth. He has a five o’clock shadow and dark circles beneath his eyes that make it look like he hasn’t slept in days. Without question we needed the makeup artist to get rid of them. His fingernails are chewed to the quick.
He seems amicable, looking around the room and the cameras with a bit of awe. The conference room is set up a bit differently today. We placed a rented table between the two chairs. His interview is important but not crucial to the episode. It will help give the viewers a more in-depth look at the story.
Donnie drums his fingers on the table. If I’ve learned one thing in my eighteen years at this job it’s that you can’t always predict the person being interviewed. Sometimes they’re completely eager to tell you everything they know and then some. But then there are the shy ones. You have to pry the answers out of them. And you can’t forget about the hostile, defensive ones. They treat the process like you’re invading their privacy even though they agreed to the interview.
Suffice it to say, Donnie seems like the first category. Like Claribelle, minus all the makeup and wardrobe fuss.
“So how does this go?” he asks me.
I give him the whole spiel and he listens, but the longer I talk the more he tugs on his collar.
“How does that sound to you?” I ask.
Donnie shrugs, as though it’s of no concern to him. “Fine, fine.” He swallows and leans in. “But you’re not gonna, like… pry into my business, right?”
There’s a touch of fear in his eyes and I wonder how many and how strong the skeletons are in his closet.
“Nope,” I reply. “This is only about Jackson and your relationship with him.”
Donnie visibly relaxes. “Great, great.”
“We’re just about ready. All right?”
“Yeah, totally.”
We go through a sound check and then like all the other interviews, we dive straight into the questions.
“So, Donnie, how long did you know Jackson?”
Donnie shrugs a shoulder. “Ahh… maybe two years?”
“Did you consider him your friend?”
“Yeah. I mean… we didn’t share each other’s deep and darkest secrets.”
“Did he ever talk about Selah to you?”
“He vaguely mentioned her, but that was it. He made it seem like they weren’t too serious.”
“There’ve been conflicting opinions about the whole tragedy. Some say Selah enabled him and that Jackson—”
Donnie snorts. “Let me cut you off right there. I liked the guy. He was great. But Selah didn’t enable him to do nothing.”
I nod my head like I’m his therapist calmly listening to everything the patient has to say. This is the fascinating part of my job, watching the interview come alive. My silence, which should deter Donnie, only spurs him on.
‘The truth is he was doing drugs before Selah, and he was doing them while he was seeing her.”
“What kind of drugs?”
Donnie looks away, just for a second, and it’s crystal clear that Jackson wasn’t the only one who’s had multiple encounters with drugs.
“He was addicted to meth. Actually, he was addicted to any drug out there.”
“A lot of people watching this, Donnie, are going to ask themselves if that ever concerned
you.”
“Not really.”
I don’t bat an eye as I ask the next question. “Is drug use what you two had in common?”
“No, no, no,” Donnie quickly says. “He was having a hard time. Family issues, was all he said. I knew some people who could help him out and the rest is history.”
“Do you regret that decision?”
Donnie places his elbows on the table. He turns slightly away and rubs at his chin. Out of all the questions I ask, I can tell this is the one that’s going to pull out raw emotion.
He straightens and takes a deep breath. “Of course I regret it. But I didn’t make him do what he did. And I didn’t force him have a relationship with Selah Kerrington.”
DIDN’T I TELL you that there’s a dark side to love?
Well, you’re getting ready to experience that and you don’t even realize it. Yet.
But you will. Your heart will pain you like never before. It will be pulled back very slowly. Dissected. Raw and exposed. You’re going to ask yourself why you put yourself through this pain. You have to ask yourself if Jackson is worth that pain.
Any discerning eye can tell it’s about to happen. The way you look down at your phone with a mixture of fear and happiness. Happiness because you want to talk to Jackson. And fear because you don’t know what he’s going to say or do.
Since your last conversation there have been two relapses. Yet you still believe that you have the power to turn him around.
Newsflash: you can’t save him on your own. No matter how hard you want to, Selah. It doesn’t work that way. Only he has the power to save himself. He has to want it more than anything. Not you.
I suppose you’re expecting me to say that this isn’t part of my gift. But it is. Not every gift is good and pure and filled with happiness. Some gifts are dark to the core, but wrapped in a pretty package.
Please don’t be afraid. I don’t want to scare you. I’m just keeping the lines of communication open. I think it’s vital that we always tell the truth to each other. I just want you to be cautious, not afraid, because I have a plethora of gifts for you.