Since September

by Noelle MacLeod

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t good enough for me. Besides, Cyn, it’s not like you never fucked anybody you never planned on seeing again.” I took a drink of beer.

  “This is you we’re talking about here, Sher.” She unfolded her arms and looked me in the eyes.

  “I know,” I admitted. “I wish last weekend never happened, okay? It was wrong.”

  “It wasn’t wrong. It was two people enjoying themselves. And each other. What’s so wrong about that?”

  “It’s not me, Cyn, you know that. You just said so. I don’t know what happened. I was drunk. I haven’t had that much beer in a long time, Cyn, maybe ever. And then we smoked all that weed. Fuck. I don’t want to hurt him but he’s not… he’s just not what I want.” I took another sip of beer. “Besides,” I said, “When he sees what the real Sheridan looks like he’s gonna run for the hills anyway.” I grinned, trying to soften her up.

  “I showed him pictures, Sher.”

  “Pictures?” I stuffed another spoonful of mashed potatoes in my mouth.

  “Of you. The ones in my wallet of us in that photo booth at the mall. I showed him before you met.”

  “Cyndi! I look awful in those pictures!”

  “Ralph thought you were gorgeous. Then he called here one day looking for Matt and got the machine. He heard our voices on there and fell in love with yours. He said he had to meet you.” I stared at her in disbelief, but at least she didn’t sound angry anymore. “Sher,” she said. “After last Saturday night, the guy’s head over heels. All he’s done since Sunday is talk about how fucking great you are!”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Just give him a chance,” she pleaded, looking at me with those sea-blue eyes of hers. “For me.” I could never say no to Cyndi. I wasn’t sure anybody ever could. The phone rang and I grabbed it, thankful for a way out of the hot seat.

  “Hello?”

  “Sheridan? Is that you?”

  “Hi, mom.” I was twenty-two and my own mother still didn’t recognize my voice on the phone. I couldn’t count the number of times she’d carried on a whole conversation with Cyndi thinking it was me.

  “I just got my email.”

  “Your email?”

  “The pictures of you and your friends last weekend,” she said.

  “Pictures?” I looked at Cyndi and raised my eyebrows at her. I vaguely remembered Matt taking a couple of snapshots of us with his digital camera but I hadn’t even seen them yet let alone emailed them to Mother. Cyndi was rummaging through her purse and pulled out an envelope. She took two photos out of the envelope and laid them on the table. One was me and Cyndi, the other was me, Cyndi and Ralph. I was sitting between them. I put my hand over the phone.

  “What are you doing? Showing my picture to everyone these days?” I whispered.

  “Sheridan? Are you there?” Mother was yelling in my ear. I moved my hand from the mouthpiece.

  “I’m still here, mom.”

  “Well don’t you remember sending these pictures to me?” Mother asked, a familiar accusatory tone in her voice.

  “No, mom, I didn’t send you any pictures. That was Cyndi.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t know who the hell did your hair and make-up that night but you look like a hooker.” I was pretty sure she knew exactly who had done my hair and make-up that night, just as I was pretty sure she noticed the email hadn’t come from me. But Mother would use any excuse to stick a thorn in my side.

  “A hooker?” I asked. Cyndi mouthed the word sorry.

  “Well, my God, Sheridan,” Mother continued. “Didn’t you look in the mirror before you got your picture taken like that? You’re wearing enough make-up to sink a ship! I hope to God you aren’t walking around the city like that. You’re going to get yourself raped.”

  “Mom…”

  “The boy looks nice though. All clean shaven and he’s at least had a recent hair cut unlike most of the boys you go after.” She was referring to my last boyfriend, Pete, who’d been the guitarist in a local rock band. Mother had hated him, hated that he had long hair, and hated that he was a musician like my father. All musicians cheat! She’d chanted. Just like your father!

  “He’s just a friend, mom.” I told her.

  “Oh, right, well, he’s probably after Cyndi anyway. All the nice ones are. I don’t know why you don’t -” I hung the phone up with a slam before she could finish the sentence. I wasn’t living in her house anymore and that meant I didn’t have to listen to her ridiculing me anymore.

  “She said you looked like a hooker?” Cyndi asked.

  “Yeah.” I forced a chuckle through my clenched teeth. “And that Ralph must be after you because, you know, nobody could possibly want me.”

  “Jesus, Sher, I’m sorry. She’s always putting you down and you looked so beautiful that night. I just wanted her to see how great you look.” She sighed heavily. “What the hell is wrong with that woman anyway? What kind of mother says things like that to her daughter?”

  There was no way to answer that question so I didn’t even try. Instead, I picked up the pictures and ripped them in two.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  I made it through Saturday with no phone call from Ralph, which suited me just fine. Matt had picked up Cyn shortly after she got home from the salon, and I curled up on the sofa with a Hawaiian pizza and a Stephen King book. It was my secret desire to one day write a book like that. The kind of book Mother loved.

  In the fifth grade the teacher had given the class a list of essay questions. One of the questions was what do you want to be when you grow up? Explain why. I’d written five pages on how I wanted to write scary stories like the ones my mom read. The night before I had to hand in my essay I’d given it to Mother to read. I was smiling from ear to ear anticipating her joy over my choice of career. She’d read all five pages quickly and then handed them back to me, laughing.

  “You can’t write!” she’d scoffed. My heart sank. “You can spell pretty good, and your grammar seems to be okay, but you can’t write!” It was one of those defining moments that Dr. Phil was always talking about, for even though I’d gotten an A on the paper and the teacher had scrawled well-written! across the top in red ink, I never told anyone else that I wanted to be a writer. And I never again mentioned it to Mother.

  It was just after midnight when the phone jolted me awake. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, book clutched tightly to my chest, empty pizza box on the floor. I was pretty sure Ralph wouldn’t be calling at such an hour but opted to let the machine get it just in case. For all I knew, Matt and Cyndi were with him, egging him on after smoking another one of his blunts. On the fourth ring the machine answered and I heard my and Cyndi’s voices giggling about how we were having too much fun to come to the phone. After the beep I heard Mother’s voice.

  “Sheridan? Sheridan?” She sounded like she’d been drinking – something she’d been doing more of since I’d moved out. Judging by the hour and the fact that it was Saturday night, I guessed my father was at a gig, leaving Mother home alone. It was unusual for her to call so late. I picked up the cordless on the coffee table.

  “Mom,” I said. “You’re up late. Is everything okay?”

  “Sheridan? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. What’s up?”

  “Oh thank God you’re home!” She was definitely drinking. “I was afraid you’d gone out gallivanting around the city looking like you did in those pictures you sent me! All I need is for the cops to call and tell me my daughter’s been raped and murdered.”

  “No, mom, I stayed in tonight.” I sighed.

  “Well,” she said. “That’s a relief.”

  “What’s up, mom? It’s after midnight.”

  “I know what time it is! I was just sitting here thinking about our last conversation and how you hung up on me and I decided to forgive you. Even though you didn’t ask me to.” I heard the sound of ice hitting the sides of a glass on the other end of the phone.

/>   “Forgive me?” I laughed. “You forgive me?”

  “What’s so funny?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m twenty-two, mom. I no longer live under your roof. I pay my own bills and I reserve the right to hang up on anybody who insults me.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she said, emphatically. “What did I ever do to deserve such hatred from my own daughter?”

  “I don’t hate you, mom. But I’m tired of you putting me down. I mean, how could you tell me I looked like a hooker? Don’t you think that stuff hurts my feelings?”

  “Oh, Sheridan!” Defiance. More ice clinking. “Just forget I even called! You always blame me for everything! I’m sick to death of you!” she yelled. Sick to death was one of her catchphrases. I’d been hearing it my entire life. I was just about to say something I might have regretted when the line went dead. Only this time it was Mother who hung up on me.

  I heard a raspy chuckling to my left and turned my head, slowly. There was nobody there.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I pulled into Mother’s driveway and sat, looking at the house for a while before shutting down the engine and stepping out of Cyndi’s beat-up Toyota. The house stood three stories high - if you counted the massive attic, which I did - and it was menacing in the darkness, illuminated only slightly by the moon. Hundred year-old trees formed an umbrella over the entire structure, their lower branches dancing in the late night autumn breeze, forming ominous shadows against the backdrop of the house.

  I went to the side door and used my key to get inside. A few small steps to the left took me into the magnificent kitchen where shiny copper pots hung from the ceiling beams. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was ripped from the pages of Home & Garden magazine. Mother spent hours pouring over those magazines for ideas, traipsing through run-down antique stores for hidden treasures, and combing the beach at Hall’s Harbor for oddly-shaped driftwood that she could turn into charming conversation pieces.

  The soft glow of the moon coming in the windows lit my way nicely through the archway that led from the kitchen into the adjoining den. Mother had painted the elaborate archway to look like yellow roses were growing up and down the sides. The roses looked exactly like the ones on the little curtains hanging in the window over the kitchen sink. Mother’s house was a bit of a masterpiece, every room touched by magic.

  In the roomy den three spider plants, as Mother referred to them, hung in the picture window overlooking the big back yard, their finger-like ends dangling, reaching for the floor. An expensive Oriental rug lay in front of the fireplace, the hardwood around it shiny and slick. A prominent bookcase against one wall displayed rows of perfectly lined classics that no one had ever read. No one in this house anyway.

  I heard a faint sound and looked down to see a tiny mouse scurry across the floor and disappear into the kitchen. I jumped and let out a small yelp, forcing myself to take several deep breaths before moving on, and reminding myself that despite the immaculate interior, this was an old farmhouse. Mice had always been a part of it. Moving slowly into the hallway, keeping an eye out for more mice, I noticed a definitive change in the air the closer I got to the staircase. It was thicker, heavier. I moved slowly, deliberately, my left hand gripping the banister tightly as I climbed. Pictures of the family, looking happier than any of us ever really were, lined the wall on the way up. By the time I reached the top of the stairs the air was so thick I could barely breathe. Moving quickly now I made my way down the hallway, past my old room to the master bedroom. It was dark in the bedroom. Mother had the curtains drawn, so there was very little moonlight getting in. I wasn’t sure what time it was but I knew my father wasn’t home from his Saturday night gig yet since his car wasn’t in the driveway. That meant Mother was here alone. I tiptoed to her side of the bed and reached for the lamp.

  It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the bright light. And then I screamed. I screamed so loud the giant house shook. There, propped up on that old paisley maroon sofa cushion, was Mother’s head. Blood had pooled around her neck, her deep-set emerald eyes were uncharacteristically lined in thick black, and her lips had been carelessly smeared with what appeared to be her own blood. Her body was nowhere in sight.

  “Mom!” I screamed, over and over until my throat was raw. “Mom! Oh my God!” I saw my hands before me, clenched into fists and flailing the air. “No! Mom!” I wailed. My heart was beating so hard I thought for sure it would leap from my sobbing chest. “Who did this? Who did this to you?” I shook all over.

  Mother’s black-lined eyes rolled up to look at me as a slow smile spread across her bloodstained lips.

  “Oh, Sheridan,” she said. “Why, you did, of course.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was my own blood-curdling screams that woke me at six in the morning. I sat with a jolt, shaking and drenched in sweat. “Jesus,” I whispered to the darkness. “Fucking nightmare from hell.” Stretching to reach the lamp on the bedside table, I felt an unfamiliar stiffness in my arms and legs.

  “Are you sure that was just a nightmare?” It was the raspy voice from last Sunday. I quickly scanned the room, my eyes wide and full of fear. Cyndi had spent the night at Matt’s and I’d spent the past week convincing myself that what I’d heard in the bathroom last weekend was just my imagination after a night of booze and pot. But here it was again. And last night I’d had no booze. And no pot.

  “And no grease monkey riding you like a race horse, either!” The voice shouted from nowhere.

  Was I still asleep? I tossed the blankets aside and put my bare feet on the cold, hardwood floor. My heart was pounding wildly as I got down on all fours to peer under my bed. Only a few dust bunnies greeted me. I stood and walked slowly over to my closet, swung the door wide. There was no one there.

  “Come out where I can see you!” I screamed.

  “Oh, Sheridan,” she croaked. “You know I can’t do that.”

  A chill crept up my spine. “What do you want?”

  “I just want to help you, Sheridan,” she soothed.

  “I don’t want your help!” I cried. “I want you to leave me alone!”

  “Oh, Sweetheart,” she said. “It’s much too late for that.”

  My legs threatened to give out with each step as I made it to the bathroom across the hall. I opened the shower curtain. Nobody was hiding in there, either. Next, I went to Cyndi’s bedroom and looked under her bed and in her closet as I’d done my own. Nothing. I went into the living room and checked under the sofa, the chair, and then in the kitchen, even going so far as to open the oven door and the refrigerator. There was no place left that a person – no matter how small – could hide. The windows were closed and the only thing in the parking lot below was Cyndi’s car. Not a soul sat on the flimsy metal staircase that led up to our kitchen door, and I knew that there could be nobody in the bookstore below, either. My boss and I were the only ones with keys and he was in Vancouver on vacation with his family. I was completely alone.

  Unless all those stories I read lately were true and ghosts really did exist.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” sang the woman. “Mamma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird…” Tears welled in my eyes. “… And if that mocking bird don’t sing…” The voice cracked and hissed as it floated around me. “Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

  The phone rang and I jumped. Grabbing the receiver from the wall by the stove I gave a silent prayer that it would be Cyndi on the other end.

  “Hello?” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Sheridan?” It was my father and he sounded like he’d been crying. I had never seen (or heard) my father cry.

  “Dad?” I held onto the counter for support, my body still shaking all over with fear. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t wake you guys up, did I?” He sounded frail, not at all like himself.

  “No.” I answered, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was seven. Where
had the past hour gone? “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, God, Sheridan,” he said, his voice cracking. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Sitting down?” I realized that with the way my legs were shaking sitting was probably a good idea. I wobbled over to the closest kitchen chair to sit. “I’m sitting down. What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this on the phone, but I’m in no shape to drive.” He was sobbing now and I could hear other people crying and speaking in low voices. “The police just left.” He gave a ragged sigh.

  “The police? God, Dad, what’s going on? Where’s mom?” It was unusual for him to call me instead of Mother. A vivid image of her head lying in a pool of blood as it had in the nightmare flashed through my mind. “Where’s mom?” I asked again.

  “She’s…” he sniffed and blew his nose before continuing. “I… Sheridan, I came home from my gig, around, I don’t know, two or so, and found her.”

  “Found her? What do you mean you found her? Dad… what the hell is happening there?” The crying in the background was getting louder. “Who’s there with you?”

  “Oh, uh, your aunt and uncle, and the Pattersons from next door…” I could hear my heart beating in my ears, thump, thump, thump. My aunt and uncle were my father’s brother, Paul, and his wife, Jenna. He only had the one sibling and Mother’s family had never had anything to do with us. I couldn’t imagine why they would be there this time of day. And I couldn’t imagine why the Pattersons would be there at all. Mrs. Patterson had always been more than a little friendly with my father, and she wasn’t bad looking, so it didn’t take her long to reach the top of Mother’s hate list. The two families had never stepped inside one another’s houses in the 15 years that they’d lived side by side. Now all of a sudden they were standing in my mother’s kitchen as my father cried on the phone to me. I felt a sudden urge to throw up.