by S. E. Akers
I continued down the hall, not knowing if the pains rising from my belly were actually from hunger or my own sorrow. I staggered into the kitchen and threw a couple slices of bread in the toaster. I was feeling a bit parched, so I poured myself a glass of orange juice as well.
I nibbled on my modest breakfast while I absorbed the loneliness of the kitchen. I would have given anything to turn back the clock — just to be in this very room with Daddy, eating his blueberry pancakes. Why was I such a stickler about tardiness? I would’ve run late in a heartbeat if I’d known our conversation that morning would be our last. In fact, I wouldn’t have left at all.
I aimlessly looked around the kitchen as I sipped on my last bit of juice. There was a note written on the white message board above the phone. It read:
Ramsey Funeral Home
Wake at 11:00 AM
Funeral at Noon
Graveside Service
Luncheon to follow at Welch Annex
The terrible-twosome rarely wrote anything down. Whether either of them did so for my benefit or not, I felt compelled to make some sort of peace offering.
I really don’t want this day to have any more drama added to it. I’m already on Charlotte and Chloe’s shit-list. I could make them some breakfast, and a little cooking might serve as a good distraction. After all, it’s going to be a long morning, and even though I’m still pretty steamed about the applications, I did break the living room window on purpose…But the curio was truly an accident!
I sprang from my chair and whipped up a batch of buttermilk biscuits, complete with sausage gravy, in about an hour. It was officially confirmed that I’d lost my appetite when I finished the gravy and didn’t have the slightest interest in even tasting it. Once the eggs had been scrambled and placed in a serving bowl, I started brewing the coffee.
My eyes fell on Daddy’s thermos, which always rested to the right of the coffeemaker. That thing will never leave the house again. As soon as the coffee stopped brewing, I grabbed the old container and filled it up. I don’t know what possessed me to do it. Maybe I just wanted it filled one last time, the way Daddy would do so, right before he went off to work — no cream or sugar, just strong and black. I had something in common with the old thermos. It had been “abandoned”, just like me — but not by choice.
I heard someone coming down the hall. It’s probably Charlotte. She must smell the coffee. I really didn’t want to see her just yet, so I grabbed the thermos and fled out the backdoor, headed straight for Daddy’s workshop.
The weather was still dreary and the rain didn’t seem like it was going to let up one bit. At the sound of the thunder roaring above, I bolted across the yard and pulled the hide-a-key out from under the small terra cotta planter that set by the door. I fumbled with the lock and hurried inside where I knew I could prolong my solitude. Charlotte rarely came out to the workshop. I knew she certainly wouldn’t venture out here in this weather, just to pick a fight with me. At least I didn’t think she would.
One thing was certain — it was still clean. Daddy hadn’t been out here at all. I still didn’t see the rush in cleaning it up for him that day. Even though Daddy had claimed, “he had a lot of projects to work on”, I’d be willing to bet he hadn’t stepped one foot in here since Thursday evening, when I showed him how I’d cleaned it up.
Odd…
I paused to take a drink of coffee from the thermos. Yuck! How did he drink this stuff? No cream, no sugar — No taste! I decided to forgo any thoughts of a second sip and got right to work.
There were a few little things I hadn’t gotten around to, so I figured, What the heck, and grabbed a broom to sweep up all the remaining scraps of wood lying on the floor. I found a little comfort in knowing I was finishing this for Daddy. It was the last “official” thing I could do for him.
As I swept, the broom accidently knocked over a drawer from Charlotte’s dresser that he’d been fixing. It was almost finished, all that lacked was a new front to be cut and attached to the unfinished drawer box.
I spotted the furniture-grade, mahogany board Daddy had picked up to use for the new drawer front lying on top of the table-saw. I looked out the window towards the house and then back at the lonely piece of wood.
Daddy would hate the thought of a project being left unfinished. It wouldn’t take much, just a few cuts, countersink some screws, a couple of coats of stain, a little sanding, and slap on a new handle.
I noticed the board had already been measured and marked. It was just lying there screaming, “cut-me, cut-me”. I felt a little roguish as I approached the only piece of equipment Daddy had ever forbidden me to touch, let alone use. But he wasn’t here to fuss at me. I turned on the table-saw. A part of me wished the door would fly open, and that he would come running in to punish me for even thinking about using such a dangerous piece of machinery. I stared at the spinning blade. I never understood what the fuss was about. Daddy always said it could “kick-back”, and I might “pull back a nub”. But he never did. It never “kicked-back” on him — ever.
Two cuts…That’s all. I placed the board against the guide and took a deep breath. Carefully, I ran it through the sharp titanium-blade and cut off the excess width. Like cutting butter…Perfect. I took a second to admire my work. See, that wasn’t so hard. I still didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
I flipped the board around and lined up its length, preparing for my final cut. As I started to slowly maneuver the piece of wood through the blade, suddenly, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was flailing about, knocking against the window. I glanced over to see my feathery little friend flapping its wings, perched on the outside windowsill. Unfortunately, I stared a little longer than what I should have, because at that moment, the table-saw unexpectedly “kicked-back”. The jerking force threw my hand, along with the board, up and under its razor-sharp spinning blade.
I automatically closed my eyes and screamed to brace myself for what was sure to be a horrifically gory mishap. I didn’t want to see what tragic scene lay before me, so I was too scared to open them. I could envision an ambulance carting me off and missing my father’s funeral. That was, if Charlotte even bothered to call 911 before I bled out.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel any real pain, just a minor tap against my hand. My rigid body began to loosen up, and I forced open my eyes. I spied my hand firmly wedged under the saw blade that had stopped spinning. Its claw-like teeth were just pressing against my hand. The blade appeared to be “stuck” while the motor continued to hum.
My hand isn’t cut at all! There wasn’t even the slightest scratch. I pried my hand out from under the blade and raised it for a closer inspection.
NO freaking WAY! I was stunned by the miraculous turn of events. I started thinking about what Tanner Grey had said about my “abilities”. This surely has to be one of them.
Awestruck, I sidled over to the miter saw. Any sane person would think I’d gone off the deep end with what I was about to do, but curiosity had just killed that poor little kitty. I flipped the switch and lifted up on the handle of the saw blade. I positioned my left forearm on the cold metal guide, took a deep breath, said a quick prayer that I was right, and slowly lowered the spinning blade.
The blade’s sharp teeth were just inches from my skin when I heard Charlotte scream out, “What are you doing out here THIS EARLY?”
Alarmed and a bit embarrassed, I stopped, threw the handle back up to its original position, and fumbled to turn off the saw. I whipped around.
“Nothing…Just fixing that drawer front. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted it to go unfinished.” I prayed she hadn’t seen what I’d really been doing, but I wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there. Charlotte walked over to the table saw and picked up the jagged board I had ruined.
“Oh, good job,” Charlotte cracked, sneering at me. “Caiden would be sooo proud.” My mother tossed the mangled board into the trashcan and rolled her eyes as she prowled closer.
“That doesn’t make up for your behavior yesterday or my smashed curio…not to mention, MY HAND!” she barked and waved her cast in my face. “And you broke the front window, just because you were too stupid to remember to take your keys before you ran off…Ugh! I hope you aren’t planning any of your little tantrums today. I’ll have the police lock you up this time. Don’t think I won’t!”
I had to force myself to bite my tongue. I was only doing it for Daddy. I stood there wide-eyed, tuning out most of what she was saying while I thought, Why is she so evil? That had been a 24 hour / 7 day a week job of hers for the past several years, which was done for the most part behind Daddy’s back. With his passing, it would be a cold day in Hell before I ever saw an improvement in her attitude.
Yep, it’s all downhill from here…Graduation can’t get here soon enough!
Being nice and thoughtful gestures weren’t going to work on Charlotte. She wasn’t about to cut me any slack, not even on the day my father was to be honored and laid to rest.
Best to just avoid her altogether.
“Excuse me, Mother…I need to get ready.” I started to walk past her, but she jumped in front of me, totally blocking my exit on purpose. When I attempted to maneuver around her, she drove her shoulder into mine. Assertively, I shoved her back, with just enough force to move her out of my way, but somehow I misjudged my strength. I accidentally sent her stumbling backward, knocking her into Daddy’s red metal tool-chest.
She let out a snide gasp and stared at me in a state of disbelief.
Stunned and slightly regretful, I turned to head for the door. As I pulled the knob towards me, I heard her say,
You’d think that selfish little twit would’ve
at least had the courtesy not to kill
herself on the same day I’m burying Caiden!
I’ll give her credit for a creative way
to slit her wrist though…
Maybe I should’ve let her finish?
I slammed the workshop door shut and whirled around.
“Did you SAY SOMETHING, Charlotte?” I demanded. I was furious she couldn’t have cared less if I was dead or not, but I was even more irate at the notion she thought I would have actually done something like that in the first place!
“I didn’t SAY anything to you!” Charlotte snapped and shot me a look like I was crazy. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of guilt dancing within her eyes. She never made a sound, but her words rang in my ears as clear as a bell.
Crap! I didn’t say that out loud…Did I?
No, no…I couldn’t have…She’s nuts!
If her attitude doesn’t change,
I’ll have her committed.
Nah, I would have to pay for that…
She’s eighteen now…
I can legally kick her ass out!
My face couldn’t have been any more motionless if someone had just pumped it full of Botox. It wasn’t “what” she’d said that had me in such a stupefied state, but the realization that I’d heard the innermost thoughts of a person who wasn’t myself — AGAIN! A grin stretched across my face as I turned and ran through the pouring rain towards the house.
Well, add “telepath” to the growing list.
I stepped into the kitchen to find Chloe seated at the table, wolfing down a hearty helping of the breakfast I’d fixed. In a juvenile fashion, she never spoke and kept on devouring her food. Though she did manage to stick out her tongue as I walked past, obviously still ticked about the window.
I headed into the hallway, but I paused so I could peek back into the kitchen. Let’s see how this “trick” works exactly.
I cleared my mind and gazed fervently at my unsuspecting little sister. She piled a second-helping of eggs and two more gravy-laden biscuits onto her plate. The way she was scarfing down her breakfast, you would think she hadn’t eaten in days. See…You wouldn’t have to gorge yourself if your diet didn’t consist of Diet Coke and celery sticks, knucklehead. The corners of her mouth rose into a smirk as she tore into one of the biscuits.
Ha! She’ll be the one cleaning up a mess when
she puts on her black pumps and
finds hair gel all gooped-up in the toes of them!
That little WITCH! I started to head back into the kitchen to confront her immature, dastardly deed, but there wasn’t any way I could explain how I knew about it. Another sneaky grin crept across my face as a playful thought ran through my mind. I’ll have some “fun” with her later.
I ran upstairs and grabbed the shoes in question out of my closet. Sure enough, they were filled with her pink-tinted hair gel. Ugh! I hurried to the bathroom to clean them up and dried them out with my hairdryer. Disaster averted.
I spent the rest of the morning getting ready for the service and reminiscing about Daddy. I lingered in the shower and pretty much poked through all of my morning rituals. I pulled out a black fitted blouse and coordinating pinstripe skirt from the rear of my closet. As predicted, they were more than a bit wrinkly.
I hurried downstairs to the laundry room. While I waited for the iron to heat up, I noticed a familiar item of clothing wadded up in the laundry basket. Daddy’s blue and white striped-shirt…The one he wore when he went on his “secret errand” to buy my dress for the dance. I snatched it up and held it close, the way a toddler would embrace their favorite blankie.
Tears began to well in my eyes. I could still smell him. His scent was unmistakably stirring. I laid the shirt down and quickly ironed my clothes. Once my garments had been properly pressed, I secured my newly discovered memento under my shirt and snuck back upstairs to my room. I didn’t want anyone else to know I had it or even worse, mistakenly wash it. I wanted it. I needed it.
I placed the shirt in a bag and hid it in the back of my closet. No one will touch it in here. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d just uncovered a chest of buried treasure. I shut the closet door and then finished getting dressed. I looked over at my bedside clock. It was already 10:20 AM. Time to head out.
Chloe bolted into my room. “It’s time to go.” She looked down at my bare feet and asked sweetly, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I replied with the same loving tone I was dealt, “but I’m going to take my own car. I just need to slip on my shoes. Give me a second.”
I purposely pulled the shoes out of my closet, from the exact spot where she’d placed them, and laid them well within her view. I guided both of my feet into the conservative black pumps and watched her eyes light up with triumph.
I grinned as I threw my purse over my shoulder and strutted past her, noticing my little sister’s victorious smile had shifted into a look of sheer puzzlement.
“Come on, Chloe. We don’t want to be late,” I simpered with just a touch of drama. She knew the jig was up. Her daze turned to disgust as she pushed past me, knocking me into the doorframe.
“Hey, I’ll give you an ‘A’ for effort,” I called out as she stormed down the steps.
We all piled into our vehicles and headed off down the mountain, straight for Ramsey Funeral Home. Charlotte and Chloe were in the Cadillac in front of me, and I was alone in my Charger. An attendant instructed us to line up behind the boxy black hearse when we arrived. A chill would always run down my spine whenever I’d see one driving down the road, but today’s viewing was especially unnerving. I knew who would be in there — not some random stranger, but Daddy. The feeling of sorrow in my gut continued to swell.
Upon entering through the building’s double-doors, Mr. Bob Ramsey, the funeral home director, received us with a warm, heartfelt greeting. I hurried over to the pedestal where the guestbook had been placed for visitors to sign. I wanted my name at the top of the list. I pulled the white quill out of its elaborate holder and started to pen my name in a very beautiful and precise script. I hesitated. I hadn’t signed my name with its correct spelli
ng in years, not even when I’d gotten my driver’s license. Daddy had given me that name, but with everything that had happened to me on that ridge, I still had mixed feelings about it.
Just as I’d made my decision and began to write, Charlotte rushed over and snatched the feathery pen out of my hand.
“I’ll be the FIRST to sign that, dear,” my mother scolded with a smile. Clearly, she added that little endearment for Mr. Ramsey’s sake.
I watched her struggling to grasp the pen with her right hand, which was clad in a bulky plaster cast. After fumbling with the frilly quill-like pen for a minute, she placed it in her left hand with an irksome glare. She tried her best to sign her name on line number one, like she would if she was using her right. I’d seen eight-year olds write their names in cursive better.
Fitting… After all, she’s acting like one.
As soon as Charlotte had finished, she passed me a smirk and the pen to Chloe. Once her name had been signed, my little sister carried on with their juvenile display and handed the pen straight back to our mother, not to me.
I shook my head. Of all times…NOW?
Charlotte placed the feathery pen back theatrically in its holder, threw her nose in the air, and trotted off into the viewing room. I looked at the third line of the register and thought, It really doesn’t matter now. I just signed my name like I’d done every other day of my life. That “y” served as a crutch once more.
I took a deep breath and proceeded to head into the room where my father’s body would be lying. I was halted when Mr. Ramsey placed his hand on my arm. He motioned me back to the guestbook and flipped it over to the next page. The tall, and usually intimidating man seemed very docile at that moment.