Spiral

by Jacqueline Levine

  “Cherie’s parents? What happened?” I repeat.

  “They – there was ice on the road, and, I don’t know. They say the car skidded, and slipped, and it went over the guard rail.” She has that look on her face, the look that says she blames herself. For what? I wonder. She feels guilty for having Christmas Eve dinner on Christmas Eve? It’s not her fault it snowed!

  “Are they okay?” I ask hesitantly, although I know by everyone’s reaction that this is a stupid question.

  A police officer steps forward. “Son, I’m sorry to say your aunt and uncle were killed in the crash. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I’m stunned into silence and stare at the cop, slack-jawed. Killed. He definitely said killed. Those two people that were here tonight, singing songs and laughing, they’re gone. Dead.

  No, killed.

  The cop pats me on the shoulder, and I know I don’t deserve the sympathy. Aunt and uncle? I met them once, at the wedding, for about six minutes.

  I didn’t even speak to them tonight, didn’t even know their daughter was famous actress, and Cherie was such a tornado of mean that I made a special effort not to spend more time with them than I’d had to. Now I’ll never have a chance to see them again. No one will, not even their daughter.

  Suddenly, that thought arrests my mind. “Where’s Cherie?”

  Mom coos at me, “She’s in the other room, honey. The officers brought her here; she’s too young to stay alone. Maybe you can talk to her? I’m sure she’s very upset and might want some company.”

  I nod stiffly and follow my mom as she points toward the living room. I don’t see Cherie at first, as if she blends with the expensive furniture that no one is supposed to sit on. Not only is she perched on one of my mom’s fine satin sofas, but she’s holding a glass of water. Food and beverages are supposed to be another no-no in this room. Clearly, tragedy knows no rules.

  “Um, hi Cherie,” I call softly.

  She looks up at me, stone-faced, her green eyes slicing through me. Her features are so small and delicate, like a China doll. Her cheeks are ashen and her eyes are a little glassy, as if there is a giant waterfall of tears on the brink of gushing through them. Despite all of this, she still manages to look glittery like Hollywood with her trendy clothes and her sparkly makeup. She’s dressed markedly different from the Cherie I saw at dinner, not as prim and proper but more risqué. Had she been out somewhere when this happened?

  “Hey.” She mouths the word more than she says it.

  “I’m…” I’m really stupid, I think as I struggle to find the right words to say. “I heard what happened. I’m really sorry.”

  And just like that, her face crinkles, her dam breaks, and she’s in tears. Full-on, face-in-hands, body-quaking, sobbing. I stumble over myself and my words.

  “Oh, uh, okay – I – I’m sorry,” I sputter and make my way to her side. What did I say? She was fine a moment ago! I look around; I don’t have a tissue or a napkin or anything I can give her.

  She doesn’t need it. She swivels and buries her face into my chest. At first, I’m frozen and incapable of thought. Cherie Belle is practically in my lap, hysterical and latching onto me like I matter. My stomach twists. What do I do? Am I allowed to touch her? My inner-gentleman, the one who’s used to handling crisis situations, is oddly slow to respond. I make a careful hoop around her small body with one arm.

  “How?” she whimpers. “How could this happen?”

  You must mean: how could this happen in a world as perfect as yours? I’m shocked at my own rude thought. I shake it from my head.

  “One minute, I’m talking to this guy, and the next I’m being escorted in a police car back here!”

  I should be ashamed of the twinge of jealousy I feel as my mind runs away with another mean reaction. What guy? Where is he now? Why am I stuck picking up the pieces of this night and not him? Where’s that girl she brought to dinner with her – isn’t this her job?

  I look around. “Where’s, um…”

  “I can’t even find Danika,” she murmurs into my shoulder. My shirt is now wet with her tears, but I don’t care. They’re celebrity tears, which are probably like Holy Water or something. “I’ve texted and called – stupid idiot! What am I paying her for if she can’t even be with me at a time like this?”

  My thoughts exactly. “Oh, so she is your assistant,” I conclude.

  “How can I go on without them?” Cherie cries into me. “Oh, Daddy!”

  I hesitate, digging into my mental rolodex of things people used to say to my mom when she’d cry like this in our mandatory post-Dad family therapy sessions. “You’ll find the strength.” The reasoning fits, so I go with it. “You’re a strong, brave person, and you have a lot going for you. A lot of people love you. You’ll be okay.”

  “No! No, I won’t!” she hiccups, pulling away from me to reclaim her breath. “Oh, God…why? Why did this happen?”

  I shake my head, spilling more memorized lines. “No one knows why God lets these things happen, but we can’t let them break us. We just have to keep going.”

  She quiets.

  I’m good at this, I think proudly. All those months of therapy were good for something.

  Wrong. All wrong. She looks at me like I have four heads. “How could you act like this is no big deal?”

  I’m a sputtering, fuel-less engine again. “I – I didn’t mean – it’s just – ”

  She’s angry with me. If she could grow spikes and a tail, she would. “I just lost not one but both of my parents, and you tell me to move on?!” Holy God is she mad.

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never…” I stop and think. I’ve never had someone close to me die except my grandparents, and that was years ago. Well, then Dad left, so maybe that’s kind of like losing someone.

  I turn that thought off like a light switch. “I’ve never lost someone before,” I tell her. “Maybe I should get Chloe or Claudia…their mom died, you know.”

  She’s looking at me funny again, and I realize she probably already knew that. Her eyes narrow into slits. “You just made all that up?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “Kind of. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffs and drags her sleeve beneath her nose. “You’d make a pretty good actor.” She looks longingly at the window.

  Thank you, a different topic, no more crying! I nod slowly. “Yeah, but I’ve got a perfect face for radio.”

  She turns, and a ghost of a smile plays on her lips at my joke. My insides are pretzeling as I ponder how to keep her on this path and not the crying one. I’m great with jokes, not good with crying.

  “Don’t be silly; you are definitely pretty enough.”

  Pretty? “Pretty?” I ask, almost offended, although I’m not really sure if I should be offended. I would prefer “hot,” “handsome,” or “heartthrob.” Pretty is a word reserved for girls. But Cherie Belle just called me pretty, so that’s probably a good thing.

  “Yeah, like little boy pretty. Trust me, they like that at my studio; I could set you up with an audition.” Her chest falls suddenly and she slumps. “Oh my God, I can’t go back to work like this! This is going to be all over the news – I’m going to have to give all sorts of interviews…”

  I watch her collapse into the couch, silent tears running down her cheeks again. People think of the weirdest things when they’re devastated.

  “Do you have to go back to work?” I ask meekly. “Maybe you could just take a break and stay home.”

  She looks at me. “Stay home with who, Jack?”

  She remembered my name. Even says it like we’ve been friends for years. I’m a little shocked, but I don’t let on to her. I try to think about her question instead. There is the glaringly gray area of who her guardians are now.

  “Your grandparents?”

  Cherie rolls her eyes and takes a sip of water. “I can’t live with them; they’re in an assisted living community.”

  “Well, if your mom and dad had a will, t
hen…”

  Waterworks again, and this time I can only blame myself. The conversation of wills, legalities, her life being in the hands of others; these were all things she had not yet thought of and normal kids shouldn’t know about. My dad’s exit from our family opened a whole world of things to me that only adults have to know. Cherie’s not there, yet. She’s not there yet, but she will be soon because her parents are dead.

  At sixteen. On Christmas Eve – even if she is Jewish.

  I hear wailing upstairs. Britney! I curse to myself and jump to my feet.

  “What’s that?” Cherie practically spits.

  My mother calls out, “Jack? Jack, is that your sister?”

  I look from Cherie to the stairs and start to inch my way toward them. “I, um, I have to get my little sister. I’m not there, and if she wakes up and I’m not there – you see, she sleeps with me, at night. Like, not in a weird way but, like, she climbs into bed with me – ” It is sounding worse the more I babble.

  “Go. Just… go,” Cherie insists, closing her eyes as if the sound of Britney’s crying is nails on a chalkboard to her ears.

  I race up the steps and burst through the door, probably scaring Britney even more. Her face is warped with anguish, but she still holds her arms out for me to pick her up.

  “I’m sorry, Brat,” I mumble into her hair, holding her close. “I’m here.” She still cries for a little in my arms, but the screaming has stopped.

  Now the whole house is awake. I hear Brenton race down the stairs, shouting, “Santa!” Claudia and Chloe are brushing their teeth in the bathroom next door.

  Oh, no, I think. Now they’ll start crying, too.

  I close my eyes. Part of me wants to return to Cherie and sit with her. I don’t know if the terrible twins will be nice, or if Brenton will pester her about her show.

  I look down at Britney, who twists a lock of her hair between her fingers and stares vacantly, listening to the sounds of the house. She’s my obligation right now. Cherie has plenty of people to worry about her tonight.

  Maybe Danika will finally see her text messages and come running, I think, slinking to my door and closing it softly. Then I carry my little sister back to bed and lay down with her tucked inside of my arm. She nuzzles me and sucks her thumb, a habit Mom’s trying to break. I let her be for tonight. I’ve officially had my fill of teary-eyed females for one evening.

  DIRTERAZZI.COM

  TRAGEDY STRIKES CHERIE BELLE: BOTH PARENTS KILLED IN CHRISTMAS CRASH

  It was a blue Christmas indeed for sixteen year old Cherie Belle as she lost not one but both parents in a terrible car accident this morning. Mark and Camille Goldman were braving some unexpected New York snow on their way back to the hotel from a relative’s home in the suburbs when the driver, Fernando Suez, lost control. After hitting an oncoming car head on, the limo spun and crashed into the highway’s guard rails with such force that the vehicle flipped over the sides and made an almost 18 foot drop to the ground below. All three passengers, Mark, Camille, and the driver were instantly killed.

  Fortunately, Cherie Belle was not in the car at the time, and she is currently staying with an uncle in Westchester County, New York. Unfortunately, she wakes up today an orphan, and the only list she will be on this Christmas is CPS – Child Protective Services.

  Dan Friedman, VP of Kidz Channel, gave this statement this morning when he heard the news:

  “The Kidz Channel community is deeply saddened and shocked by this awful tragedy, and we are keeping Cherie and the Goldmans in our thoughts and prayers.” Dirterazzi also extends its deepest sympathies to Cherie and her family during this time. Reps for Cherie have yet to return any of our calls, but we will keep you updated as we learn more.

  CHAPTER 6

  With Christmas abandoned and nothing worth getting up for, I stay in bed even after Britney leaves me. I stare at my cellphone as it charges on my nightstand, secretly hoping one of my friends will call and give me a reason to leave the house. They’re all busy with family stuff, though. I know I could be busy too, but not with the open-presents-and-have-breakfast kind of family stuff. I do my duty and shovel the driveway and the walk, but I watch movies and sports highlights on my laptop and altogether campout in my room afterward.

  My mom finally demands my presence for dinner at six o’clock. Cherie doesn’t join us for the meal, opting to instead stay hidden in the basement/makeshift guest room of our house. While the adults sniffle and force smiles at the table, the kids use manners to pass the plates of food around. It feels like I’m caught in a strange dimension where the twins care and our parents aren’t forcing conversation. We don’t open our presents, which are still sitting under the Christmas tree/Hanukkah bush, sad and lonely. We all help to clear the table, and Claudia loads the dishwasher. Chloe carefully puts the leftover food into plastic containers. Brenton brings plates of food down to Cherie and Danika, ever the grateful servant.

  My mom almost cries just from how nice and civil we are to one another. The twins hug her. Britney hugs Jim when he starts to cry. I take out the garbage, lower my head, and retreat back to my room.

  Mom comes by with a soft knock on my door later. “Can I come in?”

  I get up from bed and unlock it, swinging the door open. I don’t make eye contact but go right back to my bed. I pause my fifth movie of the day and avoid her gaze, waiting for her to speak. I don’t want to see her eyes rimmed with red, her nose pink and swollen. It bothers me to see my mom sad; it brings me back to a time I don’t want to remember.

  “How are you doing?” she asks, sitting on the foot of my bed.

  I check my empty email inbox for the twelfth time. “I’m fine. How’s everyone else?”

  She shrugs and sighs. “As good as can be expected, I guess.” She tugs on the leg of my sweatpants then sighs when I won’t look up at her. “Hey.”

  “What?” I don’t mean to groan it, but I do.

  “I know why you keep hiding in here, Jack, but it’s not going to make it go away,” she says.

  “I’m not hiding,” I reply. “I just don’t feel like being around a bunch of people crying all day.”

  “Jack, don’t be insensitive,” she chastises. “I didn’t raise you to be that way.” That’s the dreaded Mom argument that she always uses on me – as if I’m making her fail some test by not being perfect. I roll my eyes.

  “I’m not being insensitive. I just don’t have anything to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Jack, you just have to be there for them. We have a lot of people here who are very deeply hurt by this tragedy. I know you can shut everything out, but – ”

  “Mom, I’m not shutting it out, I don’t feel like being out there right now. I don’t even know any of these people!”

  Mom purses her lips at me because she knows the truth. She knows I’ve seen enough crying and hurt to try to avoid it at every turn. She cocks her head and murmurs, “Treat them like family, Jack. That’s who they are. It’s not Brenton and Britney who need you to step up this time.”

  I’m annoyed with her for bringing that up. We don’t talk about that.

  I’ll do anything to stop this conversation from going forward. I close my laptop and cast an icy glare at her. “Fine. Where’s Cherie?”

  She waves a hand toward my window. “She’s with her publicist and her manager, I think. They’re helping her prepare statements for the press.”

  Mom pauses before adding, “But Jim’s sitting downstairs by himself. Why don’t you ask him to watch a game with you?”

  Because he doesn’t watch sports, he watches the History Channel, I mutter in my head. But I can offer, especially if he is alone, and especially if Cherie is already occupied. I nod and grunt as I roll off the bed.

  DIRTERAZZI.COM

  WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO LITTLE ORPHAN CHERIE?

  While Kidz Channel star Cherie Belle, 16, prepares to bury her parents after a terrible car accident claimed both their lives early yesterday
morning, her handlers are scrambling to find out just what lies ahead for the teen queen. Sources very close to the family tell us that Cherie’s parents had a will and designated her uncle, James Goldman, as their executor and Cherie’s guardian years ago. Goldman, however, has twin teenage daughters (super-hot 15 year old daughters, apparently) and recently remarried to Eva Hansen, a woman with three children of her own. All of them reside in Pleasantville, New York, a suburban area of the state in which Cherie is none too keen on settling. Though Mark and Camille had a trust prearranged for Cherie, adding another child to James Goldman’s house may be too much. Carl Shwartz, Cherie’s long-time manager, is pushing for Cherie’s grandparents to step in as her temporary guardians and move to California with her so that she can continue her career. With movie deals, a new album, and ad campaigns on the horizon, Cherie’s entire brand hangs in the balance until a decision is made. Things would be so much less complicated if Cherie was 18 years old!

  Somewhere in LA, Caz Farrell is thinking, “Now you know how I feel…”

  CHAPTER 7

  Just as Cherie had imagined, the word of this catastrophe is all over the news, and Mom tells us to leave the TV off so our houseguest doesn’t have to listen to any of it. I genuinely feel bad for Cherie. She is bratty and self-centered and all, but she doesn’t deserve this kind of attention at a time when she just wants to disappear. I know exactly how she feels.

  The Jewish religion insists on quick burials, so it’s 48 hours before we find ourselves standing in the cemetery, dressed in suits and dresses. Everyone is ankle-deep in fresh New York snow, watching the two caskets descend into plots that Jim’s parents had purchased for themselves many years ago. Today, they’re using those plots to bury a child and his wife who hadn’t bought their own plots because they hadn’t planned to die the way old people do. The thought makes my insides curl.

  Cherie had been right about the paparazzi, too, who are suddenly everywhere, snapping photos, following our cars and the hearse. Her limo leaves the funeral home first, and ours follows.