After Ever

by Jillian Eaton

  AFTER EVER

  a novel by

  JILLIAN EATON

  After Ever is a work of fiction

  All of the characters, organizations, and

  events portrayed in this novel are either products

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Jillian Eaton 2012

  All Rights Reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the

  reproduction or utilization of this work in whole

  or in part in any form is strictly forbidden.

  eBook ASIN: B008B9G3JE

  www.jillianeaton.webs.com

  For my Mom. Without you, I never

  would have dared to dream this big.

  I love you.

  “TO DIE WILL BE AN AWFULLY BIG ADVENTURE.”

  J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Winnie, want to play the animal game? Winnie? Winnie, pay attention to me!”

  I pretend I don’t hear my brother. Slouched low in the backseat of the rented Volvo, I adjust my headphones and turn the volume up on my walkman as high as it will go. Adele croons in my ear, singing of love lost, and my eyes close as I wonder what it would be like to be rich and famous. You could do anything you wanted to do. Go anywhere you wanted to go. What is Adele doing this very minute? What is she doing while I am trapped in a car with my dad, his new girlfriend, and my whiny five year old brother?

  A small fist digs in my ribs and my eyes pop open. I give my brother my most withering glare, perfected after years of practice in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. He glares right back, his fat face scrunched in a scowl that threatens to dissolve into tears. Great. Just what I need.

  “Don’t cry,” I say in disgust. I speak louder than I should because the volume on the walkman is still turned up. In the rearview mirror my dad catches my eye and shakes his head. That’s it. Just a quick, almost imperceptible twitch of his chin. I have the sudden urge to stick my tongue out at him, but I manage to restrain myself.

  I turned sixteen last month. Sixteen year olds do not resort to such childish antics. However they are definitely allowed to be sullen, so I cross my arms and slouch even lower until I can’t see the rearview mirror anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

  Now if my dad wants to reprimand me he will actually have to talk to me, which we both know he won’t do. At least not in front of Girlfriend #3, who hates kids, but loves my Dad’s income. Funny how that works. I imagine she dreams of marrying him and shipping Brian and I off to some Swiss boarding school. The thought makes me smirk, because I know my dad will never get married again. Not after what happened to Mom.

  “Winnie I want to play the animal game!” Brian wails, kicking his small feet in frustration.

  My dad clears his throat. Just a quiet hem hem to remind me it is my job to keep Brian under control. Girlfriend #3 takes it one step further. She actually turns around and fixes me with a smile that is supposed to be sweet and friendly, but I don’t look at her lips, I look at her eyes, and they tell a different story entirely.

  “Is everything all right, Winnifred?” she asks.

  “Everything is peachy keen,” I fake smile back. I hate it when she uses my full name, something she knows all too well.

  “Your brother seems a little upset. Why don’t you play a game with him? We’ll be at the resort soon. How much longer, Tom?”

  My dad won’t talk to me, but he doesn’t have the same problem with Girlfriend #3. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he reaches across the center console and pats her bare knee. How he doesn’t think anything is wrong with a woman who wears mini skirts in twenty degree weather is beyond me. “Just about an hour sweetheart,” he says.

  “See?” She turns again to look at me. “We’ll be there in an hour. Can’t you entertain Brian until then?”

  Why can’t you and your brother just shut the hell up? I didn’t even want to bring you on this trip, but your father insisted. I guess that means I’ll actually have to do stuff with you and act like your mother. Ugh. As if anyone would ever believe we’re related.

  Yeah, as if anyone would ever believe those are your real boobs.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I hold eye contact longer than necessary. Girlfriend #3 blinks and turns away first, giving me a small sense of satisfaction.

  Straightening up a bit because my back is starting to hurt, I yank off my headphones and toss them on the seat between Brian and me. They land next to a half eaten box of animal crackers and a pillow with frogs on it that is still damp from my brother’s sleep drool. Gross.

  “Want to play the animal game now?” I ask him.

  “That would be boring,” Brian says.

  I have to agree with him. A quick glance out the window reveals the same bland scenery that has been rolling past mile after mile. Pine tree after pine tree. Every once in a while there is a small house with smoke curling up from the chimney, a silent testament to the freezing temperature outside our cozy car. I hope it is a long walk from the parking lot to the ski resort. That would teach Girlfriend #3 not to dress like a hooker.

  “What about the license plate game?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, his voice muffled.

  I look at him. He is hunched over staring at his hands. His knuckles are red and raw. Even as I watch he lifts his right arm and begins to suck on his pinky finger like some deranged wild animal. I reach across the seat and slap his hand away from his mouth. “Knock it off!” I hiss.

  “No.”

  “If you keep chewing your fingers they are all going to fall off and you’ll be left with nothing but a bloody stump,” I threaten.

  Brian tilts his head to the side and looks at me suspiciously. “Nuh uh,” he says.

  “It’s true. I knew a boy once a few years older than you. He sucked on his fingers too, until one day they just fell right off. He even swallowed one by accident.”

  His blue eyes widen. “That didn’t really happen,” he says, but I can tell by the way his voice wavers and he bites at his bottom lip that I have planted a seed of doubt in his mind. He looks down at his hands again and then tucks them under his legs. “But they hurt, Winnie,” he whimpers in a soft voice intended only for my ears. “They hurt all the time.”

  “We’ll put some vaseline on them when we get to the resort. Until then wear your mittens and you won’t think about it so much.” Yeah right. Brian needs to suck on his hands like chain smokers need cigarettes. It is an addiction, the same as any other. But Brian trusts me and obediently he pulls out his red and white checkered mittens from his bag and slips them over his chapped skin. I look back out the window.

  We’ve begun to climb up the side of Black Hawk Mountain. Valleys and hills fall away below to form a patchwork of white and brown. A guard rail appears on either side of the narrow road to shield the car from the steep drop, as if a flimsy piece of metal could save us from falling into the great abyss of nothingness. Wool scratches at the side of my arm.

  “I’m scared,” Brian says timidly.

  Too late I recall my brother’s fear of heights. This is his fifth trip up the mountain. We have come here every year since before he was born, since almost before I was born. But this is the first time without Mom, which means this is the first time without silly songs and fun games to distract us all from the winding road and stomach churning drop on either side of it.

  I cast a surreptitious glance up to the front of the car. My dad’s face is pale and he has a death grip on the wheel. He doesn’t like heights either. Even Girlfriend #3 is looking a little green and is distracting herself by pretending to read a travel magazine. With both adults occupied, it’s up to me to keep Brian from going AWOL. Because
I’ve been doing such a great job so far.

  Unfortunately, I can’t remember any of the silly songs Mom used to sing. There’s one about pie high in the sky and another with a woman dressed in black, but they are all burred together in one long song that doesn’t make any sense. “Want to play the Alphabet Game?” I ask, deliberately inserting excitement into my voice.

  Brian shakes his head.

  Come on,” I cajole. “It will be fun. Here, I’ll start. A for Alphabet.”

  His pink baby lips pucker into a frown. “That’s cheating.”

  “No it’s not. Go on, your turn. B. Say something that starts with B.” I know I have him when his forehead creases into three fat lines. His ‘thinking lines’, Mom used to call them. Then she would tickle under his armpits until the lines disappeared and he laughed and laughed. Now he doesn’t laugh at all. None of us do.

  “B for b,” he says finally.

  “Like a bumblebee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good one. Okay, let me think… Uh, C for capricious.” For a fleeting moment my dad’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror before they veer back to the road. The muscles low in my belly clench painfully. I shouldn’t have said that word. “Go on,” I tell Brian quickly. “Your turn. D. What starts with D?”

  “What does caf-cafish-cafishus mean?” he asks curiously.

  Shit. I peek at the rearview mirror again. My dad has his eyes planted firmly on the windshield. Coward. “It means, uh, doing something on a whim. Doing something without planning it out. To be unpredictable.”

  “Oh,” Brian says. He scratches the side of his face with his mitten. I hold my breath. “Well… how come you said that one?”

  Because that was Mom’s favorite word and it’s the reason she died.

  “None of your business. This is a stupid game anyways. I don’t want to play anymore.” I guess sixteen year olds can be childish after all. Clenching my teeth so tightly together my jaw aches, I yank my headphones back on and turn up the volume to ear splitting level. Brian says something. I can’t hear him. If both of my parents can leave then so can I.

  It is snowing when we finally pull into the parking lot of the resort. My dad manages to find an empty spot right next to the front entrance which makes Girlfriend #3 happy. She goes in first, carrying her garment bag and nothing else even though she still has three more suitcases in the trunk. My dad follows close behind, leaving Brian and I to fend for ourselves.

  “I don’t feel good,” he says as I lean across him to unbuckle his car seat.

  “If you barf I will kill you. When we get to our room I’ll order you a cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. That will make you feel better.”

  “And vaseline for… for you know?” he asks.

  “And vaseline,” I sigh. I take my bag and Brian’s out of the trunk and leave the rest. Brian pulls out the little black handle on his bag and turns it so the wheels rest on the pavement. I just pick mine up and carry it inside. I packed light. A few sweaters and jeans. Two pairs of leggings. Six pairs of underwear. Nothing fancy.

  A blond receptionist with a round face and a bright smile greets us the second we are through the sliding glass doors. “Welcome to the Blackhawk Mountain Lodge!” she calls out cheerfully.

  I ignore her as I take a look around. The lobby of the resort/lodge has not changed. Wooden beams still run across the ceiling, giving it a log cabin feel. Colorful throw rugs cover the floor. At one end of the lobby a floor to ceiling stone fireplace flickers and snaps with real fire. The huge moose head above the mantle looks freshly dusted, but just as dead. Christmas music plays softly in the background even though it is the twelfth of February and when I inhale the strong scent of pine clogs up my nostrils.

  My dad and Girlfriend #3 are no where in sight, which means they must have already gone up to their room. I drop my bag in front of the receptionist’s desk. Brian follows close behind me, the wheels of his bag bumping and skipping across the wooden floor.

  “I’m here to check in,” I say.

  The receptionist smiles. It is a genuine smile, one that pulls at the corners of her eyes and lifts up the tip of her nose. She’s young, probably in her early twenties. Still young enough to be optimistic in the customer service business, which is always nice. “Certainly,” she says. “What name is your reservation under?”

  “Coleman. Winnifred Coleman.”

  Her head ducks down and I hear clicking noises as she brings up my name on the computer. For all its attempts at looking rustic, Blackhawk Mountain Lodge has fully caught up with the twenty first century.

  “Coleman… Coleman… Coleman…” she mutters. Her head pops back up. “Do you mean Thomas Coleman?”

  “No, I mean Winnifred Coleman,” I repeat patiently. I have checked into enough hotels over the past year to have the routine down pat.

  “Oh there you are!” she chirps. “Room two twelve. Second floor. How many room keys will you be needing for your stay?”

  “Just one.” As if I would trust Brian with a key. He stirs beside me, already bored. I point to the big moose head. “Go over and say hello.” I give his shoulder a gentle push. “That’s Max the moose. He won’t bite.” Brian wanders off and I turn my attention back to the receptionist.

  “I have you down for six nights and seven days,” she says.

  “That sounds about right,” I grimace.

  A few more clicks, the familiar whirr of a printer, and she slides the room contract across the desk and says, “Now I just need your autograph!”

  Maybe optimistic customer service people aren’t such a good thing. Blondie is so sweet I can feel a cavity growing inside my mouth just listening to her. Not wanting to delay the process any further, I sign my name without looking and push the contract towards her. My right foot begins to tap, a sure sign my patience is growing thin.

  “And I will just need to see a form of identification before I can give you your key,” she says.

  I rummage through the purse on my hip for a copy of my student ID and pass it across the desk. The receptionist’s smile falters as she tips the ID towards her.

  “Oh…” she says, looking at the picture stamped on the left hand corner and then back up at me. “When, ah, was this photograph taken?”

  I know what she is looking at. Haven’t I seen her expression duplicated a hundred times before on a hundred different faces? My friends at school. My relatives. My own father. Only Brian looks at me like always did; like nothing ever changed. Like I don’t look any different. I really need to get an up to date picture taken. I’m tired of seeing the same stupid expression over and over again.

  “A year ago,” I inform her coolly. “It was taken just about a year ago.”

  The receptionist smiles as she hands me my ID and the key to room two twelve, but her nose doesn’t tip up and the corners of her eyes don’t wrinkle.

  Such a shame you did that to yourself. You were so pretty and normal. Well, you are from the city.

  Yeah, because they don’t have hair dye and piercing studios in the country. Idiot.

  “Thanks so much.” I bend and lift up my bag.

  “We have a continental breakfast every morning in the dining hall which is right around the –”

  “I know where it is,” I interrupt her. And then, because I’m feeling just a little mean, I say, “I’ve been coming here thirteen years now. Always a different receptionist. I hope they keep you longer than they did the last one.”

  Her smile turns brittle. “Yes well, I hope you have a wonderful stay with us. My name is Bridget. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to call down to the front desk. We look forward to making your stay a pleasant one.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble under my breath. I feel guilty for being so rude, but it’s not as if I am ever going to see her again. At least not after this week is up. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said there has been a new receptionist every time we come. I don’t know if they quit for get fired, and I don�
��t really care. Everything changes. Nothing ever stays the same. Not for long.

  Bypassing the elevator, I head for the stairwell around the corner. Brian catches up to me as I step through the door. He is sweaty and out of breath, his round cheeks flushed with color.

  “You were going to leave me!” he accuses.

  “I wasn’t going to leave you,” I say automatically, even though I did completely forget about him, at least for a second. Being rude to the receptionist and forgetting my own brother. This vacation is starting off on a great note.

  “You were.” Brian sniffs back tears. “You were too! I know it.”

  “All you had to do was ask the lady at the front desk what room I was staying in, dummy. It’s time you started looking out for yourself.”

  “I’m only five years old,” he points out logically. “I’m not s’pposed to look out for myself.”

  You’re right, I think silently as I lead the way up the stairs and then down the hall to our room, your parents are supposed to look out for you. Bad luck for you, pal.

  I turn on all the light switches as I enter room two twelve. In his haste to explore his new surroundings Brian tries to push past me, by the doorway is too narrow and the corner of his bag crashes into my ankle.

  “Son of a bitch!” I curse, hopping on my good foot while I clutch the bad. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “It was an axi-dent,” Brian whimpers. His lower lip trembling he backs away from me and abruptly bursts into tears.

  I pick up his bag and throw it across the room. It bounces against the side of the bed and falls to the carpet. Swearing again, I hobble into the bathroom and slam the door behind me. Brian begins to wail in earnest, so I take the hair dryer from its wall holder and turn it on full blast. The noise muffles his cries, allowing me to inspect my ankle in relative peace.

  I kick out of my sneakers and prop my foot up on the edge of the toilet. The skin around my ankle has already started to swell. I can roll it in a circle, which means nothing is broken, but it still hurts like hell.