CHAPTER 19
Sam
The only way I could be more depressed is if the rain were actually falling inside my living room. As it stands, the parking lot outside could double for an Olympic-sized swimming pool, albeit a shallow one—and there have been enough lightning strikes in the past hour for Benjamin Franklin to re-invent electricity a dozen times over. The sky has rivaled a fourth of July fireworks display minus the ooohs and ahhhs; I’ve spent more time hiding in the bedroom than watching out the living room window.
The fear is a new thing, something I hope isn’t permanent.
I reach for a cardboard box beside me in an effort to distract myself from the latest rumble of thunder. Pulling out a stack of photos, I settle them on my lap and begin flipping through them one by one. So many snapshots of Kassie that I’ve never seen before—at ballgames, with friends, one taken in the middle of a school cafeteria food fight that was clearly never punished because I was never called. I bring the picture closer to my face and squint through tears collecting in my eyes. There is a large lump of mashed potatoes stuck to one side of her head and she holds an open bag of chips. She’s happy. So happy. How in the world did she clean herself up?
I set the picture on the carpet and blink into the empty room.
This is the first time I’ve been in Kassie’s bedroom since the accident. After Cory drove away earlier, his absence ushered in a wave of grief that hasn’t let up in three hours. Sometimes the only way to assuage grief is to feed it—to cry, to wallow, to let it wrap around you and hold you under. Then when its grip loosens, maybe you’ll come away better and lighter and free from the sharp tentacles squeezing and pressing and sucking and taking.
So I’m feeding it.
It’s sucking the life out of me.
It’s taking me for all I’m worth.
Nothing at all has changed.
I drop the stack of photos into the box, replace the lid, and push it under the bed. Memory lane is a road I’d rather not spend much time on, not with its twists and dips and bumps that are currently leaving me feeling car sick. Closure. I came in this room hoping for closure. Now the idea is laughable; even with roadblocks and detour signs and iron clad gates blocking the entrance, how is one supposed to close something like this? This road will stay wide open. Hopefully I’ll learn how to navigate it.
I stand to leave when I spot it. My favorite red shirt lying in the floor behind the door. I didn’t even notice it was missing until now. I’m frozen, unable to pick it up. To move it seems traitorous. To stare at it feels like a betrayal, yet I can’t look away.
* * *
“I’m running out of time, and I can’t find anything to wear!”
My bedroom door bounces against the wall as Kassie comes flying through it. She’s wearing a flesh-colored bra and cutoff denim shorts, her hair in Velcro rollers, one loose and swinging around her left shoulder. The shorts are standard, the bra can sometimes be optional—at seventeen, she isn’t all that concerned with modesty, especially not at home. Lucky me.
“What happened to the shirt I saw you wearing a few minutes ago? It looked good on you.”
She stops, plants a hand on her hip, and gives me the world’s biggest eye roll. “A white button up? Could that be more lame?”
I don’t mention that the white button up is mine. Along with everything else she has stolen from my closet in the past half hour. She reaches for another shirt and yanks it off the hanger.
“Hey now, careful how you handle that,” I protest.
She spins to face me, clutching the red satin shirt to her chest. “Can I borrow it? I promise not to get anything on it.”
“You always get something on everything.”
She tries to deny it, but the statement is true. “I won’t this time. Not soda or magic marker or pizza sauce or—”
“Butter,” I finish. “Let’s not forget about the butter.”
Her mouth falls open. “It was a scary movie, Sam. I didn’t mean to dump popcorn all over me. Besides, that pink shirt was ugly.”
“Which must be exactly why you borrowed it.” I stand up and walk around her to straighten what she already managed to mangle of my clothing. “Fine wear the red shirt. But hang it up when you get home. Don’t just leave it on the floor like you always do.”
She rushes at me, and I’m once again thankful for the bra. “Thanks, Sam. You’re the best!”
I know I am, I think to myself as she disappears to her room. The best mom, the best sister, the best friend, not to mention the best fashion critic. Who knew I’d be playing all these roles by age twenty-five? I close my closet door and wish for a way to lock it.
Two minutes later I’m sitting on the sofa flipping through a People Magazine when she runs past.
“We’re leaving!” Some people pay thousands to achieve the megawatt smile filling her face. This one is all Kassie. “We’ll be back around midnight, but you don’t have to wait up for us.”
It a weird feeling, the tangle of worry and excitement that travels through me. “Have fun. And you know I’ll wait up. And why aren’t you wearing my shirt?” She’s in a yellow sleeveless blouse that I’ve never seen before.
“Because it’s red, Sam.” I just look at her, waiting for a better explanation. “My hair is red.” She waves a hand through the air. “It was all way too matchy, so I left it on the floor. I’ll hang it up when I get home later, bye!”
“At least you didn’t get anything on it!” I shout just before the front door slams. Laughing to myself, I turn back to the magazine.
* * *
Unable to take another second of the memories assaulting me, I walk out and close the door behind me. It was too soon. Too soon to revisit old pictures and relive old memories and remind myself of old scents.
The room still smells like Kassie. Still looks like Kassie. Still feels like Kassie. All of it is too much, and the tears run down my face before I even realize I’m crying. It’s clear now that I will never stop crying. It’s how I am destined to spend out my days, whether I want to or not. Lonely. Isolated. Forgotten. The only thing missing is ten cats and neighborhood children who refer to me as the Crazy Old Lady Next Door. I’m sure that day will come, and the sad part is I’m beginning not to care. Sometimes acceptance is the only way out of a tortured mind, and my mind is definitely tortured. Has been for months, but now it’s so much worse.
I swipe a knuckle under my eye, reach for the remote control, and turn the television on, more for companionship and noise than for any real desire to watch anything. It’s only five-thirty, and judging from the way things look outside you’d think it was four hours later. The idea of a long night alone at home is almost more depressing than the memories.
I think about working on my book, but dismiss the idea.
I think about going driving to see my father, but dismiss the idea.
I think about taking a long bath, but dismiss the idea.
There comes a point in everyone’s life when the only thing you can manage to do is sit. To sit and stare. To sit and stare and wonder how everything got so messed up that you’ve passed the point of caring. Where numbness is the only safe emotion, a numbness so bone-deep that even alcohol can’t deaden it. The only emotion that won’t hurt you or pierce you or destroy you. I’ve never liked numbness. Yet it keeps coming back for me.
I’m almost asleep when I hear it. It sounds like a knock, but could just as likely be another clap of thunder. I’m too groggy to know the difference. I’m sleepy and confused and dried tears have pressed my eyelashes together, but someone is knocking and rain is falling in sheets and I need to rescue whomever is stuck in the storm.
It’s the way my muddled brain works. I’ve learned to roll with it.
Without thinking to check first, I grasp the front knob and fling the door open. All I can do is blink at the figure standing on the other side of it.
“My flight was cancelled because of the storm and there isn’t another plane leaving until tomorrow. This is the only place I thought to come.”
Cory. Here. Why? How?
“What about your parents?”
It’s a stupid question to ask and absolutely none of my business. I know this when he rolls his eyes and steps around me into the living room. I’m left standing in the open doorway, convinced I’m somehow still asleep.
“You look awful, Sam. Have you been crying?”
And that’s when I fully wake up.
Cory is standing in my apartment.
Not at his parent’s house, but at mine.
And I have no idea what any of it means.