His hand is resting on my open door, eyes shut tightly as if he’s in physical pain. All this over me not wanting him to escort me to the front door as if I’m incapable of operating my legs by myself?
He inhales deeply, starting his sentence over, more calmly. “Listen, I just want to know you get in safe, that’s all. Just give me a break and let me do this, okay?” His eyes implore me to give in to his request, which of course I do; I can’t seem ever to deny him anything he asks for.
“Fine,” I huff. “Just know I’m allowing this under duress.”
“Noted. Now get your cranky butt inside before I put you over my shoulder and take you in myself.”
I’m cranky? I was perfectly fine until his sour mood started this whole debacle. What a jerk to even think such a thing, let alone say it to me. “You wouldn’t dare. Now get out of my way.” I can’t get past him, no matter how hard I push at his chest. His body is solid like a statue.
“Move,” I snap. Why is he being so antagonistic tonight?
“You think I wouldn’t dare?”
Oh no, I see a strange look in his eyes. What is he planning? A chain of events happen that goes much like this, I’m sitting in my seat. I’m no longer sitting in my seat. Bruce has moved infinitesimally. I’m balanced on Bruce’s shoulder, looking at the world upside-down. I’m watching my front door open. Finally, I’m right-side-up, the pool of blood in my head opening like a dam to the rest of my body.
It takes a few seconds before my equilibrium is stable. As soon as it is, I punch Bruce in his gut, causing him to gasp. I know it isn’t because I hurt him; I think just out of shock that I did it at all. He deserved it!
“Ow! What was that for?” he asks, rubbing his stomach area as if wounded.
“You know damn well why! You really can be such a jerk sometimes, you know that?” I scold as a mischievous smile spreads across his face. Soon we’re both doubled over laughing like morons.
“Something funny?” Mom’s voice cuts through our ridiculousness.
“Not really, just Bruce being Bruce. I’m not sure if you’re aware, Mom, that he has a tendency to overreact and throw perfectly capable girls over his shoulder instead of letting them walk on their own two feet. He’s a dangerous one, that man,” I say playfully.
“Men!” Mom exclaims, throwing the dishtowel in her hand at Bruce’s face. Mom and I both break out in a fit of giggles.
“Geesh, you two are vicious. I wouldn’t want to mess with either of you that’s for sure.” Holding up both his hands in surrender, he steps over the threshold and back onto the front porch. “I’m outta here. I’m scared of the two of you together.” He shivers in a dramatic fashion.
Now that he’s leaving, I’m overtaken with the need to beg him to stay. This can’t be natural, my need to have him around me so often, to feel so comfortable around him.
Seeming to sense my shift in mood, he motions me in for a hug. “You can text me later if you need to, okay?” he whispers into my ear while squeezing me tight to his chest.
Breathing in his scent, I fight the tears threatening to spill, the tears over his kindness, and the tears over everything this devil of a day has thrown at me. I need to get into my room before I break down in the entryway like I did at Rogan’s funeral. Oh, Rogan’s funeral! How could I have been so selfish? What I must have put Mrs. M through.
“Thanks for being so great today, Bruce,” I manage to squeak out before I dash for the stairs and the safety of my bedroom. I can’t take any more of this, of anything. I need this day to be over.
The smack of my bedroom door latching closed welcomes me like a fuzzy blanket. I feel as if I can strip the layers off. The layers of tears from the day, those shed and those waiting to be let loose; the layers of heartache; the layers of disgust at my behavior; the layers of uncertainty of what my life will become; the layers of funeral clothes I’m wearing. Ugh! I have to get out of these clothes!
Stripping down to my underwear, I throw the pile of clothes in my hand into the wastebasket by my desk. I’ll never wear them again anyway. They’ll always be “Rogan’s funeral clothes” and I don’t need any reminders of this day beyond those already singed into my brain cells.
Rogan is really dead, like really dead. I saw him; well, I saw his casket, but that was enough to confirm my worst fears—he’s gone, never to return to my welcoming arms or me again.
I cry.
Tears dry up at some point, but when is of no importance to me. It was all useless activity in the useless hours that now make up my useless life. Hours; that’s all that matters now. Hours will drag on, sure, but that’s what I deserve, and I can dream that one day the sum of those hours will lead me to my Rogan.
The vibration of my cell phone on my nightstand pulls me from my self-inflicting punishment, forcing me back into this reality; a reality I don’t belong in, a reality I’m stuck in as if in limbo.
Rubbing my eyes, I look at the screen of my phone. It’s 2:08 in the morning. When did I fall asleep? It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since Bruce dropped me off. I guess time flew by while I was pouring my heart out into my pillow while stripped down to bra and panty. I never stopped for a t-shirt or anything, just passed ‘go’ and went straight to bed and an onslaught of tears. Honestly, is it normal for one person to have this many tears stored up inside?
Checking what Bruce’s text message says, because, of course, it’s Bruce; who else would text me at two in the morning! I read this:
Bruce: Are you awake?
Me: I am now.
Bruce: Oh, did I wake you?
Me: No, I had just woken up. What’s up?
Bruce: Not much. Just wanted to check on you.
Me: Afraid I had broken irrevocably?
Bruce: Hardly. You’re stronger than all this. One day you’ll know that. I just know this has been a hellish day for you, so I wanted to see how you’re faring. So?
Me: I’m fine, really. The day is over and I survived. I suppose I’ll live another day.
Bruce: Don’t sound so thrilled about that. It’ll start to get better.
Staring at the screen, I debate what to say. Do I want to tell him I am not thrilled about living through another day? Do I tell him I hate when people say “It will get better,” “Just take one day at a time,” or best yet “They are in a better place;” all trite expressions that no one means, words that people are programmed to say in these types of situations.
They’re all just useless, meaningless words, and Bruce just sent those despicable words to me via a text message. Gotta love how modern technology manages to perpetuate these hated expressions.
Bruce: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you must hate hearing it. It’s a nasty habit I have from all my years on the force; you lose creativity on how to express sympathy after so many tragedies. Not that I’m saying I pity you or anything. Ugh! I don’t think any of this is going to come out right. Maybe I should just leave you alone before I say anything more. I don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.
Me: Relax. I’m not mad. I do hate any and all expressions associated with death or any other tragedy, for that matter, though. I find it fake and trite, doing no more than irritating those spoken to, so I’m sorry if I seem snippy.
Bruce: How about we just move on, forget I ever mentioned anything of the sort. So, about that pizza. I think that after the sucker punch I took to the gut, you now owe me a pizza.
Me: I do NOT owe you a pizza! And yes, I used shouty capitals!
Bruce: I’m not sure if I want to buy you pizza now . . . you’re MEAN! Don’t think I won’t use shouty capitals on you!
Me: Who’s being mean now? Do I need to remind you that you’re the one who suggested it to begin with? Don’t be an Indian giver!
Bruce: Did you really just accuse me of being an Indian giver? I thought only six-year-olds made that accusation. You can’t give me ammunition like this for all the times you tell me you aren’t a child. Just saying.
<
br /> Me: I just said it, so I guess six-year-olds don’t hold the patent to the expression and fyi, I’m not a child for stating how childish you’re acting over this conundrum we seem to have found ourselves in, all over a pizza, might I add.
Bruce: The fact that you just associated a six-year-old with a patent, I’ll concede on buying you a pizza. I would never have thought those two things could go together. You never cease to amuse me.
Me: I’m not sure if the fact I amuse you should be taken as a compliment or an insult, but since it’s getting me a free pizza, I’ll let it slide.
Bruce: You should take it as a compliment. That was how it was intended. Few people make me laugh, so it’s a good thing—trust me.
Bruce and I continue with useless banter via text for roughly another hour before I relent to his nagging me to go to sleep.
Sleep is anything but restful. I’m thrilled to see the sunrise out my window. Smelling the coffee brewing downstairs, I know mom is up. Sliding into my blue fuzzy slippers, I run my hand through the mess that is my hair; I never brushed it after the swim yesterday. It feels and smells funky, but I don’t care at the moment.
I stop briefly outside Cass’s room, wondering if she’s home yet. Surely she would have come in to see me if she were. Maybe she’s downstairs already?
Taking the stairs two at a time, I bound into the kitchen with a flourish, excited to see my baby sister. I miss her so much, it feels like I haven’t seen her in months, but there is no Cass. Mom is sitting at the island, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Looking up, she nearly chokes on the sip of coffee she just took.
“What on earth are you doing up so early? And what’s going on with your hair?” Her face is contorted in confusion or pain at my appearance, I can’t be sure.
“Good morning to you, too, Mom. Geesh, I’m going to remember to point out your flaws in the morning from now on.”
“I might be threatened by that if you were ever up when I was.” Her face lights up in amusement. “Would you like some breakfast or coffee?” she asks jokingly, knowing I hate coffee.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”
Her brows furrow in. She’s looking at me as if I’m a walking, talking riddle. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” Shaking her head in confusion, she pulls out a mug from a cabinet and pours me half a cup of coffee, guess she thinks I won’t like it.
Taking a tentative sip—it’s not that unlikely that I won’t like it. I never have before—I find the taste and warmth refreshing as it washes down my throat. “Mmmm, this is delish. Why have I waited so long to drink this?”
“Because the times you tried it, you hated it. You said it tasted like, well, it’s not important what you said it tasted like; you just never had a taste for it.” Her head is hiding behind the newspaper she just shielded herself with.
A giggle pushes its way past my lips. Lowering the paper, she looks at me quizzically for a moment, a smile spreading across her face. “You don’t want to say what I said it tasted like? Are you all of a sudden a demure sophisticate?”
Mom will break every now and then on her curse words. Mostly she leaves that to me. That’s not to say I curse all the time, but I can’t help the few that slip out.
“I may not be prim and proper, but I do try, you know? Besides, I can always leave that up to you. I should be stricter with you,” she says with no conviction.
She could try, but it would never stick. What can I say? I’m not trying to be demure or sophisticated.
“So, now that you have your coffee, would you like some breakfast? Maybe some Fruity Pebbles?” Her words are barely audible. She’s laughing uncontrollably. Fruity Pebbles are my favorite cereal. Am I not supposed to like them now that I like coffee? If that’s true, here’s my mug, pass me the Pebbles, and no one will get hurt.
“You’re just mean, you know that? I’m sure plenty of adults manage to fit coffee and Fruity Pebbles into their lives,” I say matter-of-factly.
Her laughter starts anew. Resting her forehead in her hands, she says, “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to pour myself some cereal, drink my coffee, and hope I can do it in peace.” I glare my best glare at her. It doesn’t work. We both break into an epic giggle fest. This is much too early for such antics, but it feels cathartic somehow, so I relish it.
“Is Cass home yet? I miss her so much. I didn’t want to wake her, but I’m about ready to. I can’t stand not seeing her.”
“You know, I think the cereal bowl you like is in the dishwasher. I’ll get it out if you want to grab the milk and cereal.” She’s busy rushing around the kitchen, rifling through the dishwasher, for what, a bowl?
“Mom?” When she doesn’t respond, I call for her again. “Mom? What’s going on with you? Why do you change the subject and start acting weird when I mention Cass? Has something happened you’re not telling me about?”
I can’t help the panic that’s rising in my throat. I feel like I’m going to be sick. What’s the big secret? “Mom! Please! Tell me! I deserve to know!”
Her back is to me, but I notice that her shoulders are hunched over, as if she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, about to cave from the pressure. Something is wrong!
I don’t know how long I wait, maybe a few seconds, maybe a few hours. What I do know is that whatever is going on, she doesn’t want to tell me. Fine! I’ll find out for myself!
The bar stool nearly falls over, wobbling on its feet instead, almost like me, not wanting to fall, but almost unable to stand as I leap to my feet, running up the stairs as if a mass of people with torches are following me. My breathing is erratic, my heart thumping as I stand in front of Cass’s door. I was so ready to step inside, so ready to figure out the big secret, but standing here now a part of me wants to hide behind my door instead, go back to my blissful ignorance. I can’t do that, though. For Cass, I have to follow through. I have to know!
I thought mom would have followed me up the stairs, try to stop me in some way, but she hasn’t. Maybe she wants me to know.
My hand is trembling as it loosely holds the door knob, my nerves seeming to know something I can’t comprehend. Something is going to be behind this door that I don’t want to see, I know that with absolute certainty, but I need to know. I have to know!
With both hands, I turn the knob slowly, taking one long deep breath as if I’m going under water because that’s what this feels like, as if I’m preparing to dive into the deepest depths of the ocean, aka, the deepest depths of my psyche. I can only hope I’ll return to the surface, that this won’t be my final undoing.
The room is dark, like pitch-black dark. It’s early morning. I don’t understand why it’s so dark. Cass hates her room being dark. She’s always been a morning person, up with the sun and annoyingly peppy all day long, unlike me, who’s a night owl through and through. All my energy comes at night, something Cass could never understand, but then the same went for me with her boundless energy throughout the day. Polar opposites in every way; probably why we were so close. We were intrigued by the way the other lived.
I run my hand along the wall searching for the light switch. Found it! Flicking the switch, I’m momentarily blinded by the brightness. I slowly regain my bearings, only to have them ripped back out from under me. What is going on? I’m losing it. This is what it truly feels like to be driven mad, finally being pushed over the proverbial cliff!
The windows are covered with black drapes, the walls are bare, but for signs of there having been things hanging on them, the bed is standing, leaning against the far wall near the closet.
There are boxes haphazardly stacked in a corner, some open and some taped shut. The white dresser that used to be by the door is standing near the bed, as if all the furniture has been purposefully pushed out of the way, ready to be moved or gotten rid of. Maybe that’s it! Mom and Cass decided to redecorate; that’s why everything is off the
walls and the furniture is moved. You would have to do that in order to paint, right?
Moving toward the boxes, with a heavy thud, I fall before them as if begging for mercy to get answers and mercy to find my sister. I reach for the box closest to me, tugging at the top flaps to open it. I see . . . me; not me as in a reflection from a mirror, but me from my first volleyball game where I scored the final point to win the game. I was so happy that day that Cass made sure to “immortalize” it, as she so eloquently put it. She loved this picture. There’s no way she would box it up just to redecorate. She would have stuck it on the fridge or given it to me, something.
Digging farther down I see more pictures, pictures of her and me at school or at the park, silly pictures from the photo booth at the mall, pictures that had covered almost every bare spot available in this room, so why take them down? Even more important, why put them into a box as if she was sick of seeing them, wanting nothing more to do with the memories they captured?
Lowering the flaps of the box slowly as if it might explode if I react too rashly, I use its weight to steady my upper body. I try to stand, but my weak legs make it an unattainable feat. I decide to crawl instead.
In front of the dresser, I open the bottom drawer, the drawer where her pj’s always were. Nothing! There’s absolutely nothing in here except a thick layer of dust, as if her room hasn’t been cleaned in months. What’s happening? Where’s Cass? Why is her stuff packed away? Why? Why!
Balancing on my knees, I lower my head in an attempt to calm my short, erratic spasms of breath. I can’t breathe. My head is swimming and I can’t breathe. I think my lungs are collapsing into nothing, taking all my air with them. My body drops into the fetal position, gasping for air, fighting tears that may drown me if I let them free. I’m dying. I know I am. What else could hurt this much if not death?
Cass? Where are you? Please come back to me, please! The room remains silent, still, empty. She isn’t coming back to me. Wherever she is, she isn’t coming back. Why would she leave without me? Why would she leave me alone?
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