by C. E. Wilson
I would forgive her, I supposed. It was the magnanimous thing to do.
After all, I had finally proven that not only was I worth her time, but I was better than her.
“It’s me, Mom,” I said, noticing some loud shuffling on the receiving end. “What’s going on there?”
She sighed loudly. “Always so busy, aren’t you? You don’t know?”
I dared to chuckle. “I think I’m aware.” How could she be so rude? Did she think it was right to call me and inform me as though she was the one who found out first? “I guess you’ve seen the papers then, huh?”
She sucked a sigh between her teeth. I loathed the sound. Every time I heard it I imagined pulling out those two front teeth just like she had done to me when I was a child. I wanted to see how she liked someone pinning her down and pulling out her teeth. But I wouldn’t use my bare hands. I imagined using a rusted wrench, something that would scrape and tear her gums. She could bleed on my hands. I would wipe her face down with my fingernails. Let her taste her blood. I bet it felt like judgment.
“I didn’t need the papers, Emma. My God, what is wrong with you? Are you taking your medication?”
I narrowed my eyes at her over the phone. My meds. Always with the fucking meds. As if I couldn’t function without them. I hated my meds. They made me sluggish and foggy. I slept too much. I didn’t care enough. But Mom, she liked me on my meds. I was ‘calm’ and ‘reasonable’. I was a dummy who would lay around and do whatever anyone told me because I was too disinterested to come up with another idea. I hadn’t taken my meds for years and I was better off without them.
“Did you see the papers or not, Mom?” I snapped, clutching the phone tighter in my hands. “Did the package not arrive?”
“Package... what... what are you talking about? Have you been drinking?”
“Of course,” I said with a sassy smile. “But that doesn’t take away from what I asked you.”
“God, I swear, Emma. Nothing gets to you. You’re inhuman.”
Her lack of congratulatory words made me frown. And while I wasn’t surprised to hear my mother insult me within two minutes of calling me, saying I was inhuman seemed a bit excessive. Even for her. I stood up and went to the refrigerator to grab a cup and some vodka while I waited for Kevin to come back. I suddenly realized that I was gripping the phone tightly with white-knuckled, clammy hands.
“I get the feeling we’re talking about two different things, Mom.”
“I should hope to God we are.” She sucked in another sigh. “So what are you talking about? Did something happen to you and Kevin?”
Yes. “No.”
“Did something happen with your writing hobby?”
Writing hobby. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“That would explain why you’re not picking up your phone.”
I rolled my eyes. “You never call me.”
She scoffed. “That’s right, Emma. Whatever you need to tell yourself. I don’t call you nearly every day. I don’t ever call you. You’re still convinced that I’m the devil walking the earth, I guess. And I guess I can only assume that you’re not on your meds.”
“Mom,” I snapped, resisting the urge to hang up. “My meds make me feel funny.”
“You act even more ridiculous without them, so I guess—”
“What the hell do you want?” I snapped over her. This weird conversation was making me anxious. I was tired and took a long drink of my vodka, holding it in my cheeks for a few moments before I swallowed it down.
It burned.
I wanted a cigarette.
Why wasn’t Kevin home yet?
“You... you really don’t know why I called?” She sounded surprised.
“No, Mom. I was hoping for recognition for becoming the best-selling author in the c—”
“You don’t know?” she interrupted. “You’ve... you...” she stammered for words and I resisted the urge to hang up on her. Drama drama drama. Me me me. Would she ever grow up? “My God, Emma. You don’t know.” She sniffed suddenly, a sound letting me know that she was getting ready to cry. Right on schedule.
“Spit it out.”
“I guess there’s no easy way to say this...” she sucked in another warning sob. “Your father...”
“What? He’s what, Mom? Is he leaving you?” God, I wouldn’t blame him.
“He’s dead, Emma. Your father... he died nearly a week ago.”
For a moment it felt like the world stopped. I dropped my cup to the table with a dull thud that echoed throughout the tiny townhouse. And though I wanted to laugh, my brain wouldn’t allow it. It knew something more than I did.
“Very... funny.”
“I’m not... I’m not joking, Emma.” Mom’s voice cracked. She wasn’t drama school crying right now. She was crying. Loud and ugly sobs pierced right into my ear. “He... died last week.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Emma. He did.”
“No. No, he didn’t.” I grew desperate for her to say this was all a joke. I waited for the punchline. I waited for her to say something about how terrible she was with staying in touch so this was my punishment. Maybe I would pick up the phone. Maybe she would call more often. “Mom,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Dad isn’t dead. He’s fine.”
“He’s dead, Emma.” I swear I could hear the tears falling. “I’ve been trying to reach you ever since, but you didn’t answer your phone. I’ve been calling every hour. Every day.”
“That’s a lie,” I snapped.
“You haven’t picked up. We’ve already had the funeral. You didn’t pick up.”
More tears prickled and I pinched them away. “You... you’re lying. Dad isn’t dead. You would have called me. You would have told me this.”
“I did try. Everyone tried. Sweetheart, you don’t answer your phone—”
“My dad isn’t dead!”
“I’m afraid he is. Oh, Emma, I’m so glad I finally got ahold of you. When you said you saw the papers, I was so frightened that you already knew and you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I never want to talk to you,” I snarled. “And you didn’t call me. No one called me. Dad’s not dead, Mom. He’s fine. Do you want to fuck around with me? Fine! Consider me fucked and—”
“Emma, please watch your language. I know that’s not you speaking, but the illness—”
“What is wrong with you?” I said, barely able to find my footing as I moved towards the couch and crashed down into the thick cushions. I left my drink in the kitchen, but I didn’t care. I wanted to dissolve into the sofa. Fade out of this nightmare my mother created to teach me a lesson – about what I wasn’t even sure. “Why are you telling me this? Telling me Dad is dead and you already buried him? That I can’t even see him? Mom, seriously...” my heart hiccupped, “... are you... Are you serious? You can’t be, right?”
“I wish I was lying,” Mom said, steadying her voice again. “But he is dead.” I hiccupped over the phone, afraid that Mom would start crying again, but she managed to keep her voice level. “Wrong place, they said. Wrong place. Wrong time.”
I swallowed the brick building in the back of my throat. This was real. This was happening. I pulled a pillow into my lap and glanced over my shoulder, wondering when Kevin was going to come back with my cigarettes. I needed one so badly that I could kill for one. Ugh, no. Not kill.
“What happened?” I asked in a harsh, raspy voice. “When did it happen?”
“A few days ago...”
“When, Mom,” I hissed. “Give me a date. Give me a day of the week. When?”
“I suppose it was Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Wednesday or Thursday? Goddammit, Mom. It’s the day your husband – my dad – died. Can’t you fucking remember one thing?”
“I’m a mess, Emma! What do you expect? He was murdered in bed when I was sleeping right next to him!”
I dropped the phone and quickly darted forward to pick
it up. No. No. No. I misheard her. I was going crazy just like everyone said I was. I needed my meds. I needed a drink. I needed a cigarette. I needed Kevin. I swallowed again. “W-what?” My voice shook. “What... what did you say?”
“He was murdered,” Mom said in a softer voice.
“And... and you saw it?”
“No, of course I didn’t see it. I was sleeping. I didn’t even know.”
“You were sleeping when someone killed Dad? How?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“Tell me everything. Every last detail.”
She seemed to tremble on the other end. “I went to bed normally that night. So did your father. Everything seemed fine. He wasn’t restless or anxious or anything like that. You... you get some of those problems from his side, you know, but he seemed fine. And the police checked for suicide notes—”
“Suicide notes?” I could barely keep my voice from rising to a shriek.
“Like I said, the police didn’t find anything. He went to bed that night. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“I’ll give you a hint.”
“When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t notice anything amiss. I got out of bed and took an early shower. Your father always slept in a little later than me. I started work at six, and he started at seven, and I began wondering if something was wrong when he was still pale as a sheet and snuggled under the covers.” She took a trembling breath. “I shook him a few times... I thought he might be sick. I shook him and pushed him. I even slapped him playfully. But he didn’t move, Emma. My God, Emma, he didn’t move an inch. And then I noticed his body felt stiff. Like someone had shoved frozen steaks under his sleeves, and they were only just beginning to thaw. I pushed his chest and immediately I felt...”
She fell silent, and I clutched the phone to my ear. “Felt what? Felt what, goddammit?”
“The damp.”
“Damp,” I breathed.
“Y-yes. Our covers are navy, and the sun hadn’t risen yet, so I didn’t see anything strange. If I had turned on the lights – oh and you know how your father didn’t like the lights on when I was getting ready – I might have seen something earlier. Those precious minutes, maybe they could have saved him. If I hadn’t taken a shower. If I hadn’t made a cup of coffee. If I had just checked on him.”
“You said you felt something damp,” I said, trying to get her to continue. “So what... did he pee—”
“It was blood. Someone, we still don’t know who, came into the house and stabbed him in the chest. Straight through his heart. While he was sleeping, Emma.” She sucked in a sob, this one the most painful sounding yet. “And I was sleeping right there next to him. Whoever did it didn’t do a thing to me—”
“Or didn’t realize you were there.”
“My God, Emma! Stop, please! Your father is dead, and you’re as vulgar as ever.” She sniffed loudly. “As I was saying... whoever did this to him came right in somehow without either of us noticing.”
“They don’t know yet?”
“No, they don’t. There was no sign of a struggle, not a trace. No one struggling to get in. No one fighting to get out. And whoever did this, didn’t care about taking the weapon. The knife was laying right there at an odd angle, perched on his chest.”
“Did you touch it?”
“Of course I didn’t touch it!”
“So they must have fingerprints, right? They’ve got to have fingerprints!” I started to shout. “If they left the knife behind then they must have the prints. You should be able to find who did this. Bring whoever would do this to justice. Fucking kill the bastard.”
“There were fingerprints, but none matched.”
“What do you mean none matched? Mom, that’s impossible.”
“You think I didn’t tell them that? The police have a bloody weapon in their possession, and they claim to have everything they need to figure out who did this, but as far as I can tell, they can’t figure out anything other than...” she trailed off. “Are you alone in the house?”
“Yes. I live alone. You know that,” I said, growing exasperated. “Go on.”
“Is Kevin by coming later?”
“I don’t know. He said he was going out to get me a pack of cigarettes—”
“So you’re smoking again?”
“Give me a break, Mom. I never stopped.”
“He said – er, you told me you were going to quit.”
“I just said that so you’d stop asking.”
“So you’re still living alone?”
“As far as I know.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being alone. Not with someone on the loose who killed your father. Do you want to come home?” Her voice filled with sickly sweet hope.
“To where he was murdered? Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stay here.” I cleared my throat, longing for the door to open and Kevin to step through. Suddenly, I wanted him by my side. I wanted to hold him and shed the tears that I couldn’t share with my mother. Even with my father dead, there was something painfully detached in the way she spoke. Maybe she hadn’t come to grips with it yet. Maybe she wouldn’t think this was for real until she talked to me.
“Dad didn’t have any enemies, did he?” I dared to ask.
“My God, Emma, this isn’t one of your little stories.”
“Dad didn’t have enemies, did he?” I snapped, raising my voice.
“No, Emma. He didn’t. Your father didn’t have enemies. Besides, even if he did, I’m not even sure if I should tell you this. Not with the way your mind works. Not with you off your meds.”
“You just told me that my father was dead – murdered while you were fucking sleeping. I’m sure I can handle whatever you’re going to say next,” I said, finally hearing a familiar car in the parking lot. Despite the heaviness in my joints and the paralyzing pain I felt from holding in my tears, I managed to find my footing and trudged over to the window. It felt like cement blocks were glued to my feet. Relieved, I noticed my cigarettes were here – or rather – Kevin was pulling up and taking his damn sweet time about it too. “What is it, Mom? Kevin’s here, and I want to be able to talk to him about this. You know, the fact that my dad is dead and my mom only felt the need to tell me a week later.”
“The prints they found on the knife...” she said, speaking slowly enough that I wanted to kill her myself. “They can’t tell who it was, but they do have a general idea of the age of the assassin.”
“Assassin? Mom. Just tell me.”
“They think it was a child. Maybe a teenager.”
I swallowed. Something prickled in the back of my mind. “A... a teenager?”
“Yes. Middle school age. I forget what that is these days.”
“Thirteen or fourteen, I think,” I said carefully as Kevin turned up the pathway towards my place. “Mom, I have to go.” I had to get off of the phone. I couldn’t talk to her. I couldn’t bring myself to say what I was thinking. It was too crazy. I was too drunk. Too crazy. I needed my meds. Maybe Kevin could get them for me.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “We can still talk about this.”
The key plunked loudly in the lock. “I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Emma, we both know that’s not true—” I hung up before she could get in her last words, swiping violently at my nose and drying up whatever tears dared to fall as the door swung open.
“You would not believe the traffic out there,” Kevin said, smiling widely until he noticed my face. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
I wiped my face again. “Nothing,” I stammered. “Nothing’s wrong. Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“You look like you’ve been crying.” He shut the door behind him and unwrapped the pack for me, setting a long cigarette in my trembling fingers. It fell right out, and he stooped over to pick it up for me, not handing it back. “You’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t,” I said, frowning as I strode past him to loo
k out the window.
A teenager murdered my father. My dad was dead. They had no idea who did it.
My heart pounded violently against my sweater as I remained standing there looking up at the sky. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about this with Kevin. Not yet. Did he know? Did he know and not tell me? If he knew, he was a better liar than I gave him credit for. It was terrifying that my father had been dead and buried for days and I hadn’t known. Did Kevin know? And if he knew, why hadn’t he said something?
I reached up and pushed the hair away from my eyes. I noticed the sky looked dark with rain just like my eyes felt wet with tears. Kevin stepped up behind me and tried to rest his hands on my shoulders, but I pulled away like he was about to strangle me. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn’t move to answer it.
“You should go,” I said. “Sounds like one of your whores needs to be serviced.”
“Huh?”
“Your phone. It’s buzzing.”
His expression shifted. “Oh... uh... yeah. I’ll get it later.”
“Good for you. You can get out now.”
He smiled, but it looked forced. “What? You think I’m just your errand boy now? That you can send me out for smokes and tampons and then send me on my way?”
I didn’t return the smile. I needed to be alone. I walked to the door and flung it open with my face set. I didn’t say anything, just jutted my chin towards the stoop.
“You’re serious,” Kevin said, taking a step towards the door. His phone buzzed again. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features, and he growled under his breath.
I hoped to God he wouldn’t touch me. If he touched me, I would come undone.
Maybe I was already dead. Maybe this was all a dream.
Grown men aren’t murdered in their sleep by unidentified children. Something was dreadfully wrong, and if Kevin even brushed a single fingertip against me, I would tell him everything. Tell him all of my worries and questions.