A Life, Redefined (A Rowan Slone Novel Book 1)

by Tracy Hewitt Meyer

  “Miss Slone?” I glanced over, hoping to steal one more minute, but the receptionist was staring straight at me.

  I stood, bringing me to Mike’s shoulder. His question would just have to wait.

  “I guess I’m being summoned. Do you, um, have my number?”

  “Yeah. I got it from Trina.”

  My eyes widened. “From Trina?” I’m sure that conversation went well.

  Mike laughed, but Delilah squirmed her way out of his grasp, jumped to the floor, and trotted around the waiting room toward a man who held a wide-eyed cat in his arms.

  “Gotta go before I get sued.” He darted toward Delilah and caught her just as the cat hissed. “I’ll give you a call,” he said over his shoulder and dragged his dog out the door. I swear I could hear Delilah’s laugh echoing off the tiled floor.

  A swift and painful bite to my lip stopped the smile that threatened to stretch right across my face to show everyone in the room just how much that boy affected me.

  THE KITTEN, a girl, was given a full checkup and a clean bill of health. I stopped by the grocery store on my way home to get litter, a litter box, toys, and food. Then I thought about the empty refrigerator and picked up orange juice, a gallon of milk, apples, bread and peanut butter. Dad had given me a credit card for household errands. There was a low limit on it, but I managed with coupons.

  After paying, I sped home actually excited to see my family. We had a kitten! I could see it now: the four of us sitting in our small family room, huddled over the kitten as it played with a small ball. We were laughing, even Mom, who was out of bed, showered, and dressed. Dad was also laughing, breaking out into a rendition of “Isn’t She Lovely” while our kitten jumped and batted at the toy. Trina’s face, free of heavy makeup, was bright and beautiful, smiling and showing off the straight teeth that two years of braces had given her.

  But when I pulled into our yard, Dad’s truck wasn’t there, and Gran’s was. Bounding up the stairs, I shoved open the door.

  “Gran?”

  “Here, honey.” She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Shhh.” She lifted her finger to her lips.

  “Why?” I narrowed my eyes, scanning the family room and kitchen.

  “Your mom’s asleep.” She motioned down the hall.

  “Okay…she’s always asleep. Why is today any different?” I usually wasn’t rude to Gran, but if Mom was in bed that meant she wouldn’t be a participant in my daydream.

  Gran walked back into the kitchen without responding.

  “I found a kitten and Dad said we could keep it.” The kitten tumbled out of my backpack and skidded across the faded tile floor. “See?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, it’s cute!” She turned back to the stove and stirred something that smelled like cream, spices and chicken. My stomach grumbled. Another day had passed by and I still hadn’t eaten much. That was why I was so thin, and I knew it. Food didn’t always sit well with me, though. At least it hadn’t the past seven years.

  I fell into the kitchen chair just as she set a steaming bowl in front of me. It was chicken and dumplings. My mouth watered and I grabbed a fork.

  “How’s school?”

  “Good.” I shoved a bite into my mouth.

  “You’re still making good grades? On track to graduate next year?” Her back was to me as she ladled food onto another plate.

  “I’ve been back on track. Why?” The food turned hard in my mouth.

  “Just asking.” Her tone was vague, full of hidden meanings and unasked questions.

  She put a cup of water down in front of me. I gulped it to try and moisten the ball of food. I choked as I forced myself to swallow. The food, at first bite delicious, was stale and plain now; the smell suddenly offensive.

  Gran refilled my water, watching me from behind heavy lids. I frowned back at her, not trying to hide the irritation that was growing inside of me. I hated these how are you coping talks. There had been countless over the years. They were always the same and they were always unhelpful.

  “How’s your mom been?”

  I let the fork fall into the bowl with a loud clang. “What’s going on? Gran, why are you here?”

  With a sigh, she pulled out a chair and sat down; the bowl of dumplings in front of her untouched. With fingers forked under her chin she stared at the table and then wiped away non-existent crumbs.

  “Your mom is in bed again. She’s been there since you left for school.”

  “You’ve been here all day?” I looked around. The house was clean. Gran did that every now and then; showed up to clean, do laundry and cook while Mom, as was typical, spent the day in bed. There was nothing unusual here.

  “Yes. I got here right after you left for school.”

  “She stays in bed every day.” The knots in my stomach started to unroll. This conversation was no big deal. Just a regular check-in to see how life at the Slone house was flowing along. I put a piece of chicken into my mouth, judging the taste. It was creamy again, flavorful and mouthwatering.

  I had another bite ready as Gran continued, “So she’s still doing that every day? Staying in bed?”

  I shrugged. “She’s been out of bed a little bit more, I guess.”

  “Rowan?”

  I looked up, wiping my mouth on a napkin. “What?”

  “How are things around here?”

  “Things are fine,” I answered, visions of the four of us playing with the kitten fresh in my mind. I shoved in another forkful of food.

  “Rowan.”

  “What? Quit saying my name!” I demanded. Couldn’t she just be quiet? Nothing in this house had changed. Nothing ever would.

  I pulled the kitten, meowing by my feet, to my chest and nuzzled it against my face; letting her nearness take the entire focus of my mind. Her fur smelled dirty but sweet. I’d give her a bath in the sink after dinner. Then she could sleep in the bed with me, snuggled against my chest. Trina would lose interest in her and she’d be all mine. Maybe she could go to college with me. Maybe I could leave for college right now and avoid the rest of this conversation.

  “Today is the anniversary of your brother’s death.”

  I shoved the bowl away and scowled at the table. I didn’t eat another bite.

  I HAD forgotten what today was. I shouldn’t have, though. The somber, hopeless mood of this day wove its way into our souls and rested there like a black mass. Not moving. Not lessening. Each passing year made the mass a little bigger, a little deeper.

  Seven years since Aidan died. Seven years since I became the daughter known as the one who put that blanket on him and caused him to die.

  I grabbed my bag and went to my room without saying anything else. Gran knew there was nothing to say. She’d tried to help over the years, to tell me it wasn’t my fault; to help my mom wake up from her stupor; to help deflect Dad’s resentment toward me that always simmered behind every glance he cast my way. But there was no hope for us anymore.

  My hand shook as I locked my door. I didn’t have any of the things I’d bought at the store so I crawled out my window and darted to my car. I threw the bags through my window and crawled back inside. After peering down the hall to make sure it was empty, I darted to the kitchen, threw the things into the fridge then hurried back to my room.

  I pushed my earphones into my ears and turned the volume up on the iPod I’d bought with money I’d earned from working. It was so loud, I almost couldn’t stand it. But it made it impossible for any thoughts to take root.

  Several minutes passed and with each pounding note, my mind released a little more of its hold on the pain. I rubbed my left arm with fingernails that needed to be cut, but I didn’t pull up the sleeve of my shirt. I was determined not to go back there.

  AN HOUR or so later while holding the kitten, which I named Scout, I cleaned out an area near my desk for the litter box. I set her down in the gravel and watched her watch me. Then I cleared space for food and water bowls near my
closet door, putting an old ragged towel underneath so spills wouldn’t hurt the floor. I’d give my dad no reason to change his mind about letting me keep her. In fact, I wouldn’t even let her out of my room. Trina would forget about her, if she hadn’t already. I’m sure Mom already had. And Dad would forget his gracious deed soon enough, if there were no traces of our new inhabitant.

  While Scout explored her new home, I shut my window so she couldn’t climb out and then fell back on my bed, suddenly exhausted. There was no escaping this day; no stopping the blackness that oozed through my body like oil. I tried not to think about Aidan’s little face, how it looked in his peaceful sleep, or how it looked in his cold death. But the images flipped inside my mind anyway; with each new beat, a new picture appeared.

  Soon my cheeks were wet and the hole in my heart ached with the ferocity of a tsunami. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to hold in my insides.

  He was beautiful; sweet, so sweet. I turned up the volume so high my head pounded as flashes of chubby, pink cheeks and light blue eyes loomed in my mind. I slammed my fist into the pillow.

  He was so cold that day, cheeks like cool marble. His hands were frigid. His feet, too. I could feel that coldness now as I thrashed in bed. I should never have put that blanket on him. I should’ve realized that there wasn’t a blanket in his bed–in his room–for a reason.

  The next morning, I woke up eager to see Aidan again; hoping I could give him his morning bottle. But when I opened his door, I saw that he was still asleep. There was a strange, unnatural color to his skin that pulled me forward, lured me to the crib’s side. The blanket was still on him, covering his chest and the rest of his body. But he was blue, like he was really, really cold.

  I shook his tummy. He didn’t move. He felt cold. Stiff. Solid. I pushed again. Feelings I can’t put into words bubbled up through my body. His lips were blue. His eyes steadfastly closed. I picked him up and held him tight to my chest, hoping my warmth would make him melt back into the baby he was last night.

  Then I heard Dad’s truck pull up in front of the house and the front door slammed shut behind him.

  Mom bolted out of her room. She was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, a stained white T-shirt and cotton skirt.

  “Let me have the baby, Ro,” she’d said from the doorway to the nursery.

  “I want to hold him, Mama.” I turned my back to her. I didn’t want her to see him. To know what I wasn’t even sure I knew yet.

  “Give him to me, Rowan.” Her voice was urgent, heavy with fear and determination. I could hear Dad walking down the hall.

  I clutched him closer. “No.”

  She shoved her fingers, strong and pudgy, between his body and mine. She pulled. I clutched him to me. She pulled harder. I held on tighter.

  “Where’s my boy?” Dad demanded. His voice was gruff and scratchy, like it often was when he drank.

  My mom and I locked eyes. She broke away first and looked down at Aidan. I watched the wave of insanity tear its way into her eyes. It would nestle there, take root. After this day, her eyes would never return to normal–like her eyes before this day had never really existed.

  “Amy, where’s my boy?” His voice boomed and I envisioned the picture frames shaking on the walls. “Where’s my–” He stopped. His eyes jumped from Mom, to me, to the baby in my arms.

  “No!” he shouted.

  The world went black.

  My nose ran and my eyes burned. I rocked back and forth to the rhythm and the pain of the nightmares. Scout meowed by the bed, wanting up. I almost didn’t hear her through my sobs.

  I scooped her up, opened the window, and climbed outside. I stumbled to the woods, just out of reach of Levi’s chain. I let Scout go.

  I couldn’t be trusted to care for the little kitten.

  She meowed softly and jumped on my shoelace. I staggered back.

  “Go. Go, Scout. I can’t take care of you.” I ran back to the house before she could follow and I cried myself to sleep.

  “GET UP! Get out of that bed!”

  I was on my feet before I even opened my eyes.

  “Get out here!”

  It was Dad.

  I darted toward the window as he banged on my locked door. Then he kicked it with his boot. My body erupted in shivers. I watched the door shake under his foot, unable to move, unable to flee.

  “Open this door now!”

  “Jack, please!” screeched Mom.

  “Open it!” he yelled.

  “Daddy!” cried Trina.

  “Shut up!” he shouted.

  “Jack, I’m going to call the police.” It was Gran. She was still here.

  “Call anyone you want,” he spat. “Rowan!”

  My feet shuffled forward even though my mind screamed not to. I swung the door open then stumbled back to the window. Dad filled the space of the doorway, then stalked toward me.

  “Did you know?” He grabbed me by the shirt and lifted me to my toes.

  “Know what?” I rushed. “Mom? Mom, did I know what?” But she just hovered there, a sweater pulled tight over her large stomach.

  Trina huddled in the hallway behind Mom, streams of black makeup running in parallel lines from her eyes down over her cheeks. She wouldn’t look at me.

  “Did you know that your sister is pregnant?” His tone was full of accusation, like I’d led her to have sex with my own hand.

  I shook my head. “No. No, I didn’t know. When? How?” I sputtered. Trina’s pregnant? She was only fifteen!

  Dad dropped my shirt and I stumbled away. Then he yanked Trina into the room, his hand an iron clamp around her arm.

  “Jack,” warned Gran.

  He ignored her. “Rowan, when did your sister have a chance to get pregnant? Aren’t you supposed to be looking out for her? She’s fifteen, for God’s sake. Fifteen!”

  Mom turned away and shuffled down the hall.

  The walls inched toward me, threatening to close in. “I picked her up every day I was supposed to. I only didn’t if she had to stay late. And then she always found another ride and was home in the evening. I don’t know.” My palms were moist. I wrung them in the hem of my T-shirt.

  “You.” His words slammed into me like powerful punches. “You are responsible for this.”

  I stared at him then at Trina. He released her arm and she slid down the wall into a ball. There were no new tears on her cheeks but she was pale and looked nothing like a fifteen-year-old pregnant girl. Instead, she looked like the little sister whose hair I used to comb and whose nails I used to paint.

  I didn’t bother to ask Dad how I was responsible. Since that day seven years ago, I’d become the responsible party for every bad thing that happened to our family. It didn’t even faze me anymore. At least I told myself it didn’t, scratching my left arm like I was being bitten by fleas.

  I could sense the strength waning from Dad as he watched me, like a balloon with a tiny pinprick hole that allowed the air out so slowly you almost didn’t notice. He’d found the one responsible. And now he’d tell me to fix it.

  “Take her to get rid of it.”

  “Take her to get rid of it?” This is how I would fix it.

  “Tomorrow. Your worthless mom can’t do it.” He stomped down the hall then the door slammed behind him. He started his car. The kitten!

  Please don’t let her be under his truck.

  The truck’s tires spun out on the dirt driveway, but then I heard the truck drive away and silence was all that was left.

  “Trina?” I whispered.

  She looked at me through empty eyes.

  “Is it true?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “How’d they find out?” I’m sure she wasn’t broadcasting this news.

  “Gran found the test in the trash.”

  “You didn’t think to cover it up? Throw it away somewhere else?” Buy herself some time before someone found out?

  “Yes, Ro,” she spat. “I shoved
it to the bottom of the trash. How would I know today Gran was going to come and clean? It’s not like I wanted Dad to find out.”

  “Gran told him?”

  “No,” she huffed, as if my questions irritated her. “He overheard us talking about it.”

  Was she so careless to not try to keep this quiet? “Who…who’s the father?”

  Her eyes narrowed, flashing an emotion that I had never seen in her before, an emotion that sent a cold shiver across the back of my neck. “Mike. Mike Anderson.” Then her head fell into her crossed arms and she didn’t look back up.

  I PULLED my old razor out from between my mattresses and ran my finger over the edge. It sliced through the skin. Small bubbles of blood formed and I squeezed. The cut was shallow, though, and didn’t bleed freely. I wrapped a tissue around it.

  Slipping out of my hoodie, I pulled up the sleeve of my T-shirt, exposing my left arm. Angry red slashes, healed wounds, ran in uneven lines up and down my arm. With a slow, deep breath, I focused on the cold steel between my fingers letting it become the only thing I could feel. I rested the razor against my skin. And cut.

  Inhale. Exhale. The world slipped away.

  I WIPED the razor blade clean with a tissue and slid it back under my mattress. I sat on the bed for several minutes, breathing in, breathing out, and letting the release ease into my mind and my heart.

  Then I lifted the window and climbed out.

  “Scout?” I called into the night. “Here kitty, kitty.” It was dark, only a crescent moon and a cloudy sky overhead. A dim bulb illuminated the square, concrete porch but did little to light up the yard. “Levi, where did the kitty go? Have you seen her?” I stumbled around the side of the house. Levi bounded to my side and licked my hand.

  “I…I accidentally let her go. I need to find her. Levi? Have you seen her?” I moved in a circle taking in the yard. Then I did it again. And again. I looked under my car. “Is she here, Levi? Did she go under here?”