All of It

by Kim Holden

  I burst in before he can finish, “An accident? What kind of accident? Are they okay? Can I talk to them?” Suddenly I’m frantic.

  “I’m afraid their vehicle was struck by a semi, head on, at 75 miles per hour on Interstate 80.” He pauses, and I know the rest before he says it.

  For a moment the world stops. Time stops. My heart stops. I inhale deeply and speak in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine anymore. “They didn’t survive, did they?”

  The man’s voice turns weary, human, and sad. “I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly.”

  I allow the words to wash over me. I feel numb, as if I’m outside my body, disconnected, watching this all play out.

  “Miss Smith, are you there?”

  My voice is monotone. Dead. Like my family. “Yes.”

  “Miss Smith, I will arrange to have local law enforcement officer visit you as soon as possible. Are you home?”

  The shock is setting in, seeping in through every pore. “That won’t be necessary.” I want to be alone.

  “Miss Smith, this is protocol.” His voice is calm.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I repeat.

  “Miss, your parents have been taken to the Lincoln Mortuary in Lincoln, Nebraska. The director there—a mister Russell Clark—will be in contact with you later this afternoon to make arrangements.” The formal, official voice flips back to the human voice. “I am so sorry, Miss Smith. Do you have a family member that we can call? I see here you’re only eighteen. In times like these, we are able to phone family members if need be.”

  “No … no, sir I don’t … it’s just me … call me … just have them … call me.” The room is starting to spin. A vortex that I’m certain will suck me in whole.

  “Miss Smith, are you sure I can’t have someone local stop by to check on you?” His voice is still calm but laced with concern.

  “No one … thank you.” I hang up and drop the phone on the floor, where it shatters into pieces.

  I stand there, half-wrapped in a towel. Shattered.

  My mind is numb, yet my senses are momentarily heightened and I’m acutely aware of the smallest, most inconsequential details. I feel the wet carpet beneath my feet where I’ve been dripping since I got out of the shower. I hear the hum of the air conditioning unit just outside my window. I smell the floral scent of my freshly-washed hair. I see the tear in the wallpaper above the switch plate on my wall.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, not moving an inch, still half-wrapped in the towel, still staring at the tear in the wallpaper. Everything else has faded away, except that tear.

  I don’t hear.

  I don’t smell.

  I don’t feel.

  And then … I drop.

  I drop to the floor and begin to cry. It isn’t a hysterical cry, just a quiet, almost detached cry. I hug my knees to my chest and lie there, helpless. I close my eyes and see nothing. I decide I like that better. The tears subside.

  I am not sad.

  I am not scared.

  I just am.

  And that is enough, preferable even.

  Time goes by.

  I am vaguely aware of sounds outside and a voice. I do not allow myself to receive them, or try to decipher them.

  I just am.

  I am vaguely aware of someone’s hands on my face shouting at me. I do not allow myself to focus on them.

  I just am.

  I am vaguely aware of my body shaking violently and the sensation of something heavy and soft draped around me. But I do not allow myself to feel.

  I just am.

  And then I hear cries of pain, someone shouting my name as though being tortured. I snap back to reality, opening my eyes to see Dimitri’s agonized face hanging over me.

  “Veronica,” he sobs. “Ronnie what’s wrong? What happened?”

  I can’t move. I realize how warm it is. I’m under a blanket. “How did you get in here?” is all I manage to squeak out.

  He pulls me into his arms and sobs. “You didn’t answer your phone. You didn’t answer the house phone. I thought you were sleeping, but I’ve been calling for three hours,” he gulps, swallows, and continues, “I was worried, so I came over. You didn’t answer the door when I rang the bell. I went around to the back and peeked in your window, and saw you lying on the floor.” He sobs again, coughing and sniffing. “I broke out the window in the back door. What happened? Are you hurt?”

  I don’t answer. My brain has completely shut down and I have to focus to even remember why I’m lying on the floor in the first place. A hollow, disengaged voice begins retracing my steps. “I was in the shower, and then there was a phone call. And then I got the carpet all wet, and did you realize that there’s a tear in the wallpaper by the door?” I point weakly at the wall.

  He takes my shoulders firmly in both hands and sits me up to face him. He looks at me with wet eyes. “I don’t care about the damn wallpaper, Ronnie. Are you okay? What happened?”

  And then the curtain drops. The barrier that’s allowed me to feel nothing for the past few hours disappears. It all comes flooding through, uninvited, and completely overwhelming. The man’s voice in my head repeats over and over, “I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly. I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly. I’m very sorry, they were killed instantly.” The tears are immediate and fierce. I begin pounding the floor with my fists and repeating along with the incessant chant in my head, “I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly. I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly.” It’s almost unintelligible, but grows in volume with each iteration. “I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly. I’m very sorry. They were killed instantly.” The chant nears a blood-curdling scream.

  Dimitri has taken me by the wrists forcefully and effectively restraining me, afraid I’m going to hurt myself. He’s shouting my name over my endless rant. “Ronnie!” His primal scream brings me out of my trance. I collapse forward into his lap and sob uncontrollably.

  He strokes my hair gently. His voice is suddenly calm. “It’s your parents, isn’t it?”

  Words don’t come, so I nod instead.

  “They were killed? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” The calmness radiates through his hand as he continues to stroke my hair.

  I peek up at him through puffy, tear-filled eyes and nod again.

  “Ronnie, I am so, so sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “How did you find out? What happened?” His voice cracks again and I see his eyes welling with tears.

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, unsure if I’ll be able to speak. “A highway patrol officer called. He said there had been an accident. They were hit head-on by a semi. They were—”

  Dimitri finishes my sentence. “—killed instantly.”

  I nod, and my bottom lip begins to quiver uncontrollably again.

  Dimitri bends down and kisses me gently on the cheek. “What else did the officer say? Where are they now?”

  I sit up slowly, cocooning myself in the blanket. “He said it happened near Lincoln, Nebraska. They’re at the mortuary there … oh, damn it!”

  “What?” he says urgently.

  I point at the shattered remains of my cell phone on the floor. “I broke my phone. They’re supposed to call me this afternoon.”

  “Baby, it’s six o’clock at night. The afternoon is gone.”

  “What? Six?” I glance at the clock on my nightstand—6:07. “How’d it get so late? What should I do?” I start gasping for breath; the hysterics are starting in again.

  Dimitri takes my face in his hands, shushing me gently. “You put some clothes on while I go upstairs and check the phone for messages. Someone probably called the home phone when they couldn’t get through on your cell.” He kisses my forehead. “Will you be okay? I’ll only be gone a minute.”

  I nod slowly. After Dimitri leaves, I pull a T-shirt and jeans out of the dresser drawer and dress as quickly as my sluggish mind will allow my body to move.

 
Once upstairs, I drop into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and watch Dimitri making us tea while he talks quietly on his cell phone. The conversation is a gentle hum in the background. Numbness has permeated every inch of my being. I unthinkingly drink the tea he presents and feel the mild sensation of being warmed from the inside. It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

  I begin to wonder if my life, as I’ve known it, is over. What happens when your world’s torn apart? What happens when everything changes in the blink of an eye?

  Dimitri finishes his call and sits down next to me. He takes my hand and wipes away the tears I didn’t realize are trickling down my cheeks.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I called Sunny and she’s on her way over now. There was a message on the answering machine from the Lincoln Mortuary and one from the Nebraska State Patrol. I called the mortuary to let them know you received the message and that you would call them in the morning. Is there anyone else you need me to call, anyone you would like to talk to?” His voice is calm and gentle. Rational.

  “No. Thank you for being here. I don’t know what to do.”

  He strokes my hair. “I know. You have me and Sunny and Sebastian. We’ll help you through this. You aren’t alone. We love you.”

  I hug as tightly as I can, fearful he’ll slip away. He’s all I have left. Letting go scares me to death.

  There’s a knock on the back door and through blurry eyes I watch Sunny appear. She leans down next to us and begins to rub my back, but I still can’t let go of Dimitri. She doesn’t speak for several minutes.

  Finally I find the strength to let go and turn to face her. Her eyes are puffy and moist with tears. “Veronica, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  Sunny and Dimitri insist that I come with them to spend the night at their house. Dimitri boards up the window he broke out earlier and Sunny packs a bag with some clothes, pajamas, and my toothbrush. We all leave in Sunny’s car.

  The majority of the night is spent sitting around Sunny’s kitchen table. Sebastian joins us and they don’t let me out of their sight. The evening is a blur.

  The next morning Sunny guides me through a maze of complex questions with delicate, efficient precision. Unfortunately, she’s been in my shoes not so long ago after losing her husband, and she knows what I’m in for. She makes notes of everything we talk about because she knows I’m in no condition to remember my own name, let alone the decisions that are being made. Anything she overlooks Dimitri and Sebastian add to the list.

  I’m so grateful that my parents shared their wishes with me after my grandmother’s death two years ago. It wasn’t a morbid conversation at the time; my dad said that death is a fact of life, and one of the only things that we are all guaranteed. My parents made it clear that they wanted to be cremated and have their ashes spread in a place of the surviving family’s choosing, someplace we would enjoy visiting—not a depressing cemetery. And there is to be no funeral—they made that very clear.

  I quickly learn, in the sleepless days that follow, that death is not an easy process for anyone, save one: the deceased. My own grief is somewhat postponed, due to the shear amount of time and focus I have to expend on planning and doing what needs to be done. There are meetings with a lawyer to administer the will and grant me power of attorney over all of my parents’ assets. There are meetings with insurance companies and banks. Sunny or Dimitri accompanies me to each meeting. I’m surprisingly composed given the overwhelming severity of the situation. It’d mechanical. Dealing with finances is preferable at the moment to dealing with my emotions. I’m grateful that my parents had the forethought to ensure that I’ll be taken care of financially for a while.

  Their bodies were cremated in Lincoln and then shipped to me. I make Dimitri handle the boxes at first, which are rectangular and heavy, like shoeboxes filled with sand. Their wedding rings are in a small envelope wrapped in bubble wrap. I don’t think I’ll ever look forward to receiving another package in the mail after having to sign for my parents’ ashes.

  I return home on Thursday—four days after I received the phone call. Sunny begged me to stay with them, but I insisted on some time alone. I haven’t slept since Sunday, and my mind and body are beyond exhaustion. Putting off returning to my parents’ home, to my home, is only delaying the inevitable grieving process. I can only hope that the house will provide me a haven to rest.

  Dimitri drives me home and hesitantly drops me off at the back door only after my repeated insistence to be left alone for the night. His familiar hug is warm and comforting, a security blanket. With my ear pressed against his chest, the beat of his heart becomes almost hypnotic. My own breathing and heart rate slow and the world begins to dull and fade. Then everything is quiet.

  Life is sometimes … dead.

  Chapter 16

  Occasionally I think better at night

  I wake from a dreamless, seventeen-hour sleep to the reality that is my new life. Just me, alone … in my empty house. I stretch and my body, still wrapped in sheets, protests painfully. Apparently, so much time in a prone position is not good for the back.

  As I head for the bathroom I notice a vase of pink lilies on my desk. Beside it are a brand new cell phone and a note from Dimitri. It reads, “I hope you had a long, peaceful rest and that these flowers make you smile. Call me when you are up and about. I Love You!’

  The lilies do make me smile.

  I take a long, hot shower and relish in every second of it. Even though the previous days at Sunny’s had felt like staying at a luxury resort, returning to my own home is comforting, even my tiny bathroom with its old, thin, faded towels.

  Walking upstairs and through each room is like reacquainting with a childhood friend I haven’t seen in a long time—familiar, yet different. It’s like I’m seeing things through older eyes. Tragedy has an aging effect. Maturing decades in the mere span of a couple of days is not something I welcome, but given the situation, I don’t have a choice. I can face this head on or I can submit and fail miserably. I’ve never been much for failure.

  After walking through every room, I stop in the middle of the front room and stare at the piano. It’s an opponent, a confrontation in the making. Determined, I walk to the piano bench and lift the top. My mom’s music books are piled loosely inside. She attempted to learn how to play several times, and there are numerous lesson books inside. I select one of them, mainly because the white margin on the cover has my mom’s handwriting on it.

  With trembling hands I open it, place it in the music holder, and sit down. I played tenor sax in my elementary school band, but it’s been years since I’ve even looked at a page of music, and even longer since I attempted to play the piano. Luckily, the book is written for a beginner and illustrates the keys, so I’m able to follow along. I spend the better part of an hour fumbling my way clumsily through the exercises. I lose myself in my concentration, and when I finish the book, I pull out the next one. I like this book much better because my mom has notes written on almost every page, most of which don’t even pertain to her lessons: “Pick up Ronnie at 4:00;” “Make dentist appointment;” lists of groceries; doodles. My mom could never focus on one thing at a time. I imagine her stopping her instructor in the middle of a lesson to jot down whatever popped into her head. It’s so her. It makes me smile through teary eyes.

  I flip through book after book. My fingers grow more confident, and reading the music is coming back to me like riding a bike. Hours go by and it’s only when my stomach begins growling louder than the music that I decide I’d better stop for the evening.

  My appetite, like sleep, has eluded me for days. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I call Dimitri to see if he wants to join me for dinner.

  He answers on the first ring. “Hi baby.” His voice is sweet and cautious.

  “Hi Dimitri. Thanks for the new phone and the flowers.” It feels like days since I’ve seen him. His voice is comforting.

  I can hear the relief in his voice. “You�
��re welcome. We can exchange it for another model if you don’t like it.”

  “No, no, it’s great, really. Much fancier than my old phone though. It may take me a while—and apparently a degree in computer programming—to figure it out. But I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.”

  My joking relaxes him and he laughs. “It’s just like Sebastian’s. He can tutor you on it. He probably won’t charge much.”

  “Not much.” I smile. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

  “Actually I haven’t eaten all day. I was kind of waiting for you to wake up so that I could take you out for breakfast or lunch, but dinner’s perfect.”

  “I was hoping we could just eat here if that’s okay. Looks like I’d better get used to cooking for myself, so I may as well start right now.”

  His voice is tentative again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

  I peer in the refrigerator as I consider this. Bleak—it is almost bare, and what is there looks beyond expiration. “Don’t have a choice, do I? Looks like Jo was planning on being gone for a while … huh, that’s irony for you … because there’s not much here in the fridge.”

  “No problem, I’ll stop at the store on my way over. Anything specific you need?”

  I half laugh. “Everything. Do they sell that at the store?”

  He laughs at my sad attempt at humor. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I clean out what remains in refrigerator while I’m waiting. He arrives with the Porsche completely full of groceries, which isn’t saying much. It maxes out at a five bag limit. Dimitri even has bags under his feet on the floor. Clearly Porsches were not manufactured for mundane, domestic chores.

  He helps me put all of the food away and we decide on spaghetti for dinner. He starts boiling water for pasta while I cut up a head of romaine lettuce, a tomato, and two carrots to make a salad. Dimitri dumps a jar of spaghetti sauce into a pot and heats it on the stove. Food has never smelled so good—even just store-bought pasta sauce. As it turns out, when you don’t eat for days on end your appreciation for food only grows. When it’s all ready, we sit down and devour our food in silence. When we’re both satisfied, we clear the dishes. Dimitri makes us tea as I load them into the dishwasher. Then we talk.