by Lynn Moon
Whispers
by Lynn Yvonne Moon
© Copyright 2018 Lynn Yvonne Moon
ISBN 978-1-63393-591-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
NOTE TO PARENTS
CHAPTER 1
BRIGHT AND SHINY BROWN with golden trim, the casket rested only a few feet away. Reminded me more of a cigar holder than something to sleep in for eternity. Tucked inside the bright cotton folds of white silk slept my father. For some reason, the church packed with mourners left me with a bitter taste. All their sniffling and nose blowing raked through me like fingers against a chalkboard. The more I listened, the more I wanted to run and hide.
Pastor Johnson said a few last words before nodding to those sitting below. With nothing left for me to do, I allowed my feet to take over and stood. All eyes landed on me like flies on honey.
“Musetta,” my mother whispered. “Please sit down, sweetheart.”
At her slight touch, I glanced at my mother’s distraught and tear-soaked face. She reminded me of a scornful Halloween mask I once saw in a store. For some reason, I just couldn’t feel anything for her. Neither smiling nor frowning, I took several bold steps toward my father and punched him directly in the face. The casket rocked several times before settling back into place, as if never touched. Gasps echoed through the overcrowded room. Holding back an urge to kick the darn thing over, I whispered, “Effin’ bastard.” Glaring at the dent that now creased the side of his face, I added, “I hope you rot in Hell!”
Remembering his probing fingers, I cringed. A slight chill ran up my back just as my aunt grabbed me around the waist, pulling me from the dark and musty room. A deep, grimy emptiness was consuming what little sanity I held inside my weeping soul. A loud shriek escaped as I yelled again. “Rot in Hell, you bastard!” The words reverberated through the congregation as my eyes filled with tears. “Rot in Hell!”
***
“Feeling any better?”
Auntie Delphie, short for Delphina, always seemed to know how to cheer me up. Didn’t work this time. One of six girls, Delphina was the prettiest. Standing at five and half feet, her long dark hair glided effortlessly down her slender back. Many times, I told my aunt that she should have been a movie star. With my grandmother coming from Middle-Eastern descent and my grandfather emigrating from Germany, Aunt Delphina had only the best chromosomes, sculpting the beauty that now stood beside me.
“I guess I wasn’t at my best today.” Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I stretched before dropping my tablet on my pillow. “Mom’s not too happy with me.”
Auntie Delphie shook her head. “It’s dark in here. Let’s open the curtains.”
“I like it dark,” I replied.
“I know you do. Just like you enjoy your dark clothes.”
“No, really, how’s Mom?”
“Honestly, Mue? How do you think she is? Her twelve-year-old daughter gets into a fistfight with her deceased husband—your father by the way—in front of everyone and is then pulled from the church . . . screaming, and using the F-word. You tell me how she’s feeling.”
“Don’t know.” Glancing into my mirror, the girl staring back at me didn’t look so good. The dark shadows that creased her eyes seemed to be growing. Her complexion reminded me of unbaked biscuits—a dull, flat white. Picking up the brush, I stared at it before tossing it back onto the dresser.
“Musetta Weavers!” Auntie Delphie picked up the brush. “I know you and your father didn’t get along.” With every stroke of that brush, I cringed. “But to actually punch him in the face? In his casket? Whatever were you thinking?”
“How good it felt.”
The brush, flowing through my hair, sent strong waves of dread down my back. Closing my eyes didn’t help them go away. I shivered—remembering. Taking a deep breath, I huffed only once before jerking away.
“Now what?” Auntie Delphie stepped back, slapping her hands against her hips.
I shook my head. “I need some alone time, please.”
“Are you sure there’s not something about your father you’d like to tell me?”
“What difference would it make? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“But if you need—”
“Need what? A shrink? No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Placing the brush on the dresser, Auntie Delphie walked out of the room. As the door clicked into place, I shivered again. Every time my father finished with me, that was the last sound I heard before crying myself to sleep.
I stared at the disgusting brush. After my mother fell asleep, he’d come into my room and pick up that brush. He said it was the one that worked best with my thick hair. Then he’d stroke my dark curls for the longest time. I would sit on my bed—naked—wondering if he did the same things to my mother. On cold winter nights, I begged him to allow me to wear something, anything, to fight off the bitterness. But he always refused. No, he enjoyed staring at me way too much.
“Something this beautiful needs to be admired,” he’d whisper.
On rare occasions, he’d touch me as the brush pulled through my hair. Other times, he’d just stare at my nude body. With the moonlight falling between the curtains, I’d close my eyes and pray it was all just a bad dream, a nightmare, where I’d wake up and resume my life as a preteen, pretending everything was perfect—that I was part of a loving, but small, family. Ever since my tenth birthday two years ago, he’d visit me late every Friday night. After two years of putrid humiliation, I still refused to accept what was happening to me. Even with his death, my memories survived, secretly growing.
He explained his actions away by saying it was his duty to tuck me in bed. That it was his responsibility to make sure I was taken care of—that he was my one and only father.
“After all,” he’d whisper, so close to my ear that I actually felt his warm breath. “What else is family for?”
Now, running from my room still clutching onto that disgusting brush, I headed straight for the garage. The hard plastic cracked as it bounced several times before coming to rest near the old, yellow bicycle. Something I never rode anymore. A hammer, tucked away inside a drawer, waited just for me. With each strike, I hit the brush, wishing it were his head. Each swing, accompanied by a loud scream, sent little rolls of relief deep into my soul. While venting my anger, a strong grip firmly clasped my raised arm.
“Musetta!” Auntie Delphie yelled. “What in the world is wrong with you?”
“Please, please, please, I have to kill it. I have to kill it.”
“Kill what, Musetta?”
“The pain.” I couldn’t hold back the waves of resentment and fear and hatred that crashed through me. With every roll of dark emotion, I screamed even louder. “Please, Aunt Delphie, please. Make it stop. Make it all stop!”
CHAPTER 2
“ALL SET?” AUNTIE ROE, short for Rosemary, smiled as she turned down the radio. “I promised we’d stop for a new pair of jeans, remember?”
“Cool.” Pulling on the car door handle, I nodded.
It felt wonderful to be away from that stuffy office. You see, my auntie Delphie got her way after all. My “hammer on brush” trick must have sent her over the edge. Now, once a week, on Thursday afternoons at 2 PM sharp, I visited Dr. Shapirro at her office in Heber City, a quaint town of 12,000 in what we called Heber Valley.
My father built our house on my grandparents’ farm. They moved in just a few weeks after their wedding. I never lived any place else. Being so close to my dad’s parents was kind of a good thing—I always had a place to escape. My father, an only child, never found the courage to leave his parents alone. I often wondered what he thought of all the girls in my mom’s family. Only three remained in our town—my mom, Auntie Delphie and Auntie Roe. Not sure why I called them auntie; sounds kinda silly. But it was a nickname that stuck and now it was more of a habit.
“You okay, Mue?” Auntie Row stared at me. Does she think I’m going to explode or something? It’s called incest you dummy! I didn’t have the guts to tell her or anyone else about my father’s weekly visits. Glancing out the car window, I nodded. They’d called me Mue for as long as I could remember. My dad used to call me that, too. Dad—what a joke. “No, honestly. You okay?”
“I guess.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about.” I shook my head.
“I’m here if you ever need to talk, okay?”
I nodded, again.
The ride to the mall would take almost an hour, which meant I was stuck with Auntie Roe for a while. She was a few years younger than Auntie Delphie but could almost pass as her identical twin. Both were absolute beauties.
There were a few clothing stores in Heber Valley. But the best shopping was in Salt Lake City. That meant I would have to suffer through dinner and a conversation. If I kept my cool, I just might survive. Using my phone as a deterrent, I kept the music blaring the whole way. Then while trying on clothes, I dodged most of her roaming questions. But once we sat down to dinner, I was trapped.
“Tell me, kiddo,” Auntie Roe said, starting the torture. “What’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours?”
I sighed, sipping my soda. “Everything and nothing.”
“I’m worried about you,” she said. “I mean, Delphie has you seeing a shrink, and your mom practically ignores you. Speaking of your mother, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Why, just yesterday I said, ‘Ashlynn Paige you’ve gotta suck it up and move on. You have a child to care for.’”
“It didn’t work.” I took another sip. “She hasn’t gotten out of bed since the funeral.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“No, she can sleep the rest of her life if she wants.”
Roe pushed her salad around on her plate, then laughed. “When you punched your dad, I thought everyone in that room was going to faint. After all, he was the best judge Salt Lake City ever had. Everyone just loved Judge Weavers. Everyone that is, except his daughter—you.”
“Is it illegal to hate your father?”
“No.” She glanced over at the next table. “I just don’t get it. Your father was a good man, Mue.”
“Good for who? Me? I don’t think so.”
“What did he do to anger you so?” She whispered this time.
“What didn’t he do?” Tossing the napkin onto my plate, I stood. “I’m ready to go home now.”
***
The next day, I wore one of my new outfits to school. New clothes used to make me feel better. But not today. Sitting at the lunch table, I nudged the fork against my pizza.
“Did you meet the new kid yet?” Charlie, short for Charlene, asked, hitting the table as she sat down. “He’s kinda cute.”
“No,” I replied, picking up my juice bottle just before it fell over. “Is he here?”
“I don’t see him yet.” Charlie glanced around the lunchroom. “Maybe he went home for lunch.”
“Hey, ladies.” It was Quinton, my neighbor. A boy I’ve known my whole life. A boy I learned to tolerate. “What’s up?”
“Life,” Charlie said. “Have you seen the new kid?”
“You mean Hunter?” Quinton replied. “Gotta be around here somewhere. How was the funeral, Musetta?”
“It was a funeral,” I answered.
“It was nice,” Charlie added, smiling. “Except when she punched her dad in the nose.”
“You punched your dad?” Quinton asked. “Your dead dad?”
“That’s the one.” Sulking a little, I glanced up at him. It just didn’t feel right to smile yet. But Quinton and Charlie still laughed. I guess it was almost funny.
“Hey, Hunter, over here!” Quinton yelled, standing and waving.
A cute, dark-haired boy with a deep olive complexion walked toward us. Wearing khaki pants and a dark blue T-shirt, his slender frame made him look tall.
“Hi,” Hunter said, sitting next to Quinton. After taking several sips from an apple juice box, he tugged on the wrapper that covered his sandwich.
“Hunter,” Quinton said, “this is Musetta and this is Charlie.”
I nodded at him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, ditto.” Charlie took another bite of her apple.
Charlie was half Korean and half whatever. But her half-Korean part gave her the prettiest eyes I ever saw. Her thick black hair fell straight down her back, and never knotted up like mine did. She was about my height, five feet, and probably weighted a few pounds less. But we still wore the same size. Charlie was prettier than me.
“Hunter’s from Louisiana,” Quinton said, grinning. I guess he was proud to know something about the new kid that we didn’t.
“What brings you way out here?” Charlie asked, finishing off her apple.
“My mom,” Hunter replied. “She was just appointed as a judge, or something.”
“She must be that lawyer from back East that took Musetta’s dad’s place,” Charlie added.
“Your dad was that judge?”
I frowned. That judge, my father, was stabbed in the back leaving work one night. They never caught the guy who did it. Boy, how I would have loved to shake that hand. “Yeah, that was my dad.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hunter replied. In his eyes, I saw something that made me like him right away. A tenderness, or a caring, that just wasn’t present in most boys my age.
“Don’t be,” I replied. Hunter glared at me as if I had the plague or something.
“Musetta and her father didn’t exactly get along,” Charlie added, glancing over at me. She shrugged and grinned.
“That’s putting it lightly,” I added.
Quinton changed the subject. “I’m having a few people over this weekend. My dad opened the pool. Thought it’d be fun to get together. Think you can come?”
“Don’t see why not,” Hunter replied. “Will you be there?”
Looking up from my lunch tray, I smiled. Hunter was staring at me. “I live across the street. Hard not to go.”
Hunter laughed and his face lit. I had to smile. He made me feel—I don’t know—good inside.
***
The iron front gate pinged as I pushed it open. The trees that lined our sidewalk had turned green from the warmer spring days. Small leaves sprouted on every branch. Soon, the flowers would fill the air with their wonderful scent. I counted the steps as I climbed. One, two, three, four, and five; then a short walk to another five steps before reaching the landing. Our house sat on the top of a small hill. The li
ght red Italian brick stood out against the rolling dark hillsides like a bright red apple hanging from a tree.
My father loved Italian architecture and our home was a tribute to that. With three floors, we had seven bedrooms, a library, a study, and a formal living room. The whole place, encased in marble, hardwood, or tile, was the town’s showcase. My father’s study on the top floor was not far from my bedroom. From my balcony that covered the front porch, I could study the stars at night. It was the only part of my room that I loved.
As the gate swung shut behind me, I stared up at our house. A place I used to love and call home. But for the last two years, I dreaded it. Maybe now that he was dead, the darkness of a Friday night would no longer torture me.
As I walked between the garden pillars, the aroma of food cooking filled me with a longing for something I just couldn’t find anymore. Something my father stole from me. The kitchen, on the ground floor, shared the level with my parents’ bedroom. The front stairs encircled a curved archway that led people to the heart of our house—the second floor. Our double, dark-wood entrance always enticed visitors by causing mass confusion. When people called, they never knew where to go. Should they enter through the kitchen on the bottom floor, or climb the stairs and bang on the extra-large front doors? The front porch only framed half of the house. But it was big enough for our guest to enjoy the surrounding countryside. Entering through the glass kitchen doors, I dropped my backpack on the bench that also doubled as a coat rack.
“Hey, Pumpkin.” It was Katrina, our cook and housekeeper. “Hungry?”
“Eh,” I shrugged.
“I made a cherry pie and there’s still some of that cake you liked.”
“Cake.” I sat down at the long wooden table that could easily seat twelve. “Mom get up yet?”
“Earlier. Rosemary took her to a doctor’s appointment. As soon as she got home, straight to bed. Still refusing to eat.”
“Do you think I did that?”
“You mean, because of the punch?”
I nodded.
“I’m sure it didn’t help, but no. Her heart’s broken, baby.” Katrina placed a small plate with a slice of yellow cake in front of me. “She’ll mend. Just takes time.”