A Life, Forward: A Rowan Slone Novel Page 12

  “Are the Andersons here?” Gran asked.

  The house was as quiet as a deserted castle.

  “No,” Jess said. “They’re at Mike’s college.”

  Gran nodded. “I’ll make you girls something to eat. I’m sure they won’t mind.” She passed by me without reaching out. Never one for idle hands, Gran went into the kitchen. Within a heartbeat she was back. “Trina, come with me.”

  Without a word, Trina followed. Soon the sound of pots banging against pans reverberated through the house.

  I had wanted Gran to hug me. I wanted it so bad my heart fell to my knees when she simply walked past me. But I guess I’d created that—her keeping her distance. We hadn’t spoken but five or ten times since May.

  Today was different, though. Today I wanted someone who I knew loved me to pull me into their arms and tell me it would all be okay.

  The room was starting to spin. Was there no one to comfort me? Mike. Gran. Mom. Trina. They all seemed so out of reach. A sob escaped my lips. I stumbled when I tried to move and someone caught me. It turned out there was someone to hug me—my best friend. She wrapped her long, thin arms around me and held me tight while I sobbed into her flannel pajamas.

  SOMETIME LATER, with the nauseating remnant of eggs wafting through the house, I sat in the chair in front of the fireplace. Jess was in the kitchen with Gran. Trina had been escorted up to my bedroom to lie down after she had started wailing in the middle of eating her cereal. Gran must’ve given her a sedative or something because it was disturbingly quiet upstairs.

  “You’re taking care of the arrangements?” Jess was asking Gran.

  I stared into the black pit that had been alive with fire a few days ago when Mike’s friends were over, when Mike was home, when my dad was still alive.

  No. No. No. He’d only just come back. He seemed changed. Sorry for the past. He seemed like he might want a relationship with me. No! Grief tore through me, ripping through my insides. No! I rocked back and forth, clutching my stomach as that simple, yet devastating word rang through my head.

  At some point, Jess sat down on the floor in front of me. She started to pick tiny threads out of the carpet, and I watched her do it. Levi trotted over and sat on his haunches by my side, his head on the armrest.

  Delilah made her way over and sat by my other side, letting out a long moan as she did so. The sweetness of their faces with their large, searching eyes, and Jess’ closeness, was the only silver lining in an otherwise very black morning.

  JESS CALLED Miss J. to tell her what happened. Gran had been on the phone most of the morning making arrangements. She didn’t ask for my help or input, but I could hear every word she said from where I was sitting. Levi had managed to jump onto my lap. His weight and his size almost smothered me, but I was thankful for his closeness.

  “Call Janie, please,” I asked Jess at one point. “She just promoted me to assistant manager.”

  “I did. She said to call her if you need anything. I really like her.” Jess was eating a bowl of cereal as Delilah watched her with unveiled envy. “You need to eat.”

  I shook my head. Time eased back into a mindless void. Gran darted in and out of the room. She never spoke to me. At one point, she did put her hand on my shoulder. It was a hollow touch, though. What I wanted, and needed, was for her to pull me to her and hold me the way she did the night my dad beat me up.

  Trina had stayed upstairs most of the day, and I’d forgotten about her until she came flying down the stairs mid-afternoon, raced out the front door, and let it slam shut behind her.

  “What was that about?” Jess demanded.

  I shrugged and looked out the window. Trina was leaning in the passenger-side window of a car I didn’t recognize. Within minutes, she was back in the house and up the stairs.

  “She’s on drugs,” I told Jess.

  “Doesn’t surprise me, the little tramp.”

  Gran’s voice droned on from the kitchen, something about flower type, arrangements, and cost. More time passed. Gazing into the empty fireplace hadn’t changed a thing. My mom was still in jail. My sister was still messed up. And my dad was still dead.

  HOURS LATER, I was in the kitchen arguing with Jess about food.

  “Rowan?” Mrs. Anderson’s voice rang through the house. “Rowan, where are you?”

  I walked down the hall from the kitchen.

  “Oh, my sweet child.” She folded me into her arms, enveloping me in her perfumed softness.

  Mr. Anderson came up behind her and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Rowan.”

  “Thank you.” My words were muffled by Mrs. Anderson’s scarf.

  “Rowan?”

  I pulled back at the sound of that voice. Mike stood in the living room, too, all tall and handsome and the answer to so many of my prayers. As I stumbled toward him, he opened his arms and caught me, like he always did, like I knew he would.

  “I’m so sorry, Rowan.”

  My arms wrapped around his solid body, pulling him toward me, trying to absorb the feel of him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “How could I not come? I want to be here for you.”

  “Hi, Jess,” Mrs. Anderson said and gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you’ve been here for Rowan.”

  Jess nodded and slipped out of Mrs. Anderson’s embrace. She sat on the couch and pet Levi’s dark head.

  “How long are you in town for?” I asked Mike, still clutching him.

  “I can stay until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll leave right after the funeral.”

  The funeral. Even seeing Mike couldn’t diminish the gray cloud that hung over everything. He was home because my dad had died. He was alive a few days ago. Now he was dead. And we were having a funeral.

  “We haven’t eaten dinner yet,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I’ll go make something, and you can let me know what I can do to help.”

  She hurried out of the room and Mr. Anderson followed her. Gran and Trina had left about an hour ago. If Gran noticed that the sullen Trina was gone and had been replaced by an overly chipper and bouncy Trina, she didn’t say. To Trina’s credit, she did manage to hide it pretty well.

  WHEN MIKE came into my room that night, he held me in his arms for a long, long time, running his fingers through my hair, up and down my back, over my arm. It wasn’t a time for more than that. Not now.

  Sleep did not come easily and I lay awake for hours, long after Mike’s hand had stilled and his breathing deepened into soft snores. But at some point, I fell into the welcome abyss.

  I jolted awake after only an hour with a desperate need to feel Mike’s closeness. He was leaving today, and I didn’t know when I’d feel him near me again.

  I touched his neck, his lips, ran a hand over his chest until he awoke, too. He turned to me as I turned to him. Our clothes flew to a pile on the floor.

  We had been together too many times to count, but this was different in so many ways; not the least of which we had never been skin-to-skin before because I never took off my shirt. But tonight, or this morning, or whatever time it was, there was such a need in me I couldn’t resist and I’d let him take off my shirt. It was dark, so dark I couldn’t even see his face.

  For the first time ever I didn’t think of my scars. I just thought of Mike and let his closeness obliterate everything else.

  AFTERWARD, HE held me so close I couldn’t tell where his bare skin ended and mine began. Even though it was cold outside, it was warm in my bed and I could feel the sweat on his skin.

  “I love you, Rowan.”

  “I love you, too.” I snuggled close to him and for the first time in days, my heart was happy. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a dreamless place where I was content and nothing could invade to take that away. That was until the faint glow of sunrise came creeping into the room and Mike saw my arm when I moved in my sleep.

  “What the hell? Rowan, what’s on your arm?” He had a hold of my wrist and was lifting my arm in the a
ir before I was even fully awake.

  I yanked away from him and jumped to my feet. With one hasty motion, I pulled a sweater over my head. The dark, gray light was just enough to show Mike’s expression, and it was a mixture of horror and disbelief.

  “Are you okay?” he demanded. “What is that?”

  I forced a laugh that in no way fooled him or me. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sick? Let me see.” He scrambled to his feet.

  “No!” I stepped away from him.

  “Did you do that to yourself?” I could see the truth wash over his face like an icy rain. “Did you?” He reached a hand toward me, but I took another step back.

  “Look. It’s no big deal. It’s just something I used to do. Let’s not make a federal case of it.”

  “Not make a case of it? You used to cut yourself, didn’t you? I’ve heard of girls doing that, I just never thought it would be my girlfriend!”

  “You should go. I need to get ready for my dad’s funeral.”

  “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

  “That’s not true. You’re leaving in a few hours, right? Going back to school as soon as the funeral is over?”

  “That’s not fair, Rowan. I have to get back for practice.”

  “When is your next practice? When is your next game?” I paused then asked, “Why do you have to rush back?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I just do. I have to get back. I have classes. Workouts. And yes, there is practice. We need to keep in shape over the winter.”

  It was light enough now in the room that he could see my eyes roll.

  “What was that for? You don’t believe me?”

  “Look. I appreciate you coming home for my dad’s funeral, but I need you more than that, more than in just a crisis.” And that was it. Mike was amazing when I really needed him. Where he was lacking was being the everyday boyfriend, mostly because he wasn’t even around and didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to change that.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I want to see you more often and actually feel like you want to be around me.”

  “But I do! What are you talking about?”

  This pinball of a conversation was sucking the life out of me. “I have to get ready. I don’t want to be late for a funeral. Or did you forget this day is about my dad and not about me?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. But Rowan, this is your dad’s funeral. You haven’t exactly been close to him. We need to talk about you.”

  “We don’t need to talk about me. How could you be so heartless?” My voice rose with each word.

  “We’ve got to get you help. You can’t go on like this.”

  “I’m not your charity case. I’m not someone you need to fix!”

  “But you’re sick, Rowan. Sick.”

  “I am not sick!” My screams echoed through the room. I heard a door close out in the hall, but it didn’t stop me. “I’m not sick, and I don’t need your help.” My breath came in quick bursts and my heart pounded like someone was taking a hammer to it. “I’m fine,” I seethed through clenched teeth.

  “You are not fine. Your arm looks like a carving block.” He grabbed my wrist, and I wasn’t strong enough to wrench free. Then he yanked up the sleeve of my sweater. His grasp hurt, digging into my flesh. “Look at this! How can you say you’re fine?”

  This was the worst moment of my life—my shame out there for him to see in the now sunlit room. The light caught the scars perfectly.

  As he stared at me, I could feel judgment creep into his mind, like dark, poisonous tentacles covering his brain and altering it; altering the way he would forever look at me.

  His grasp eased and I wrenched away, jumping from him. “Don’t ever grab me like that again.”

  His jaw clenched and his pine-colored eyes flashed with anger.

  “Get out of here. I need to get ready. If you don’t want to honor my father, then don’t bother coming to the funeral.”

  This time it was hurt that flashed behind his eyes and it tugged at my heart; but I couldn’t forget the accusation, the declaration of my sickness. He turned and walked away without another word, slamming the door on his way out.

  TEARS COVERED my face. I walked to the window and looked out. Then I used all my strength to shove the window open. It was early still and the sun cast pink rays along the horizon. Wind blew through the bare tree limbs, not like a storm was coming but like the angels were restless, wanting. I leaned out the window to feel the unrest.

  I knelt down and rested my chin on the sill. With slow movements, I lifted my arm, casting the inside of it out toward the sun. It didn’t shrivel up and die. It didn’t yank its brightness away from me in disdain.

  I looked down at my arm, from the area above my elbow to just below, that was covered with more red skin than white. I started to count the marks:

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six…

  And there in the midst of all the angry red slashes, the blaring red A I’d carved into my skin in the bathroom of the hospital; the day my life had been redefined from the killer of my brother to the daughter of a murderer.

  The sun was higher now. I closed my eyes and lifted my face toward it. The air was so cold my fingers were turning numb. I stayed there for several minutes until I finally pushed to my feet and got ready for my father’s funeral.

  DAD WAS not a religious man so his funeral was held at the funeral home, an old, paint-chipped building that had been a part of this town long before I was born. Mrs. Anderson asked her preacher to conduct the service. I guess, since I’d been going to church there for the past several months, he was my preacher, too. I found little solace, though, in his tall, overly thin frame, slightly crooked at the shoulder like he was always bending to the side.

  He was standing at the front of a small, square room when we arrived, leaning toward the casket as if he were standing guard, or offering tickets for the next show. He wore his most solemn expression, like it was frozen on his face and had been there when he woke up this morning. Had he practiced different expressions in the mirror? Did preachers do that?

  The casket was just to his right, almost like it was floating in mid-air. The top half was open, and I could see just a hint of the body inside. If I didn’t look directly at it, there was no confirmation that it was my dad lying there. It was someone else.

  When the preacher moved toward me, my eyes betrayed me, moving to the casket. Suddenly, the one thing I couldn’t look at directly was the only thing I could see.

  The casket was made of shiny, dark brown wood with gold handles that gleamed too bright in the dreary room. A small bouquet of flowers lay across the bottom half of the casket where Dad’s hips lay under the closed section. I wondered if they were Gran’s touch.

  The preacher made it to my side, but I didn’t look at him. There was nothing else but the casket with Dad’s ashen face and folded hands, and the severe ache of my heart. An earthquake started in my toes and erupted through my body until I was shaking all over like I was stuck in the eye of a storm.

  “I can’t go in there.” I clutched Jess’ arm.

  “Rowan, take your time.” Mrs. Anderson caressed my cheek. “Take your time.”

  Jess put her arms around me and her warmth fought to settle me. It didn’t work.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.” I didn’t cry, but I couldn’t stop repeating this phrase over and over to myself until Miss J. leaned down into my face.

  “Rowan!” Her voice cracked like a whip and the words stopped in my throat. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” She put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed.

  I nodded, feeling so unattached from this moment that I didn’t feel my feet carry me forward.

  “Rowan, hello.” The preacher held out his hand, but I didn’t take it. Instead, I stepped around him and walked to the casket.

>   Dad’s face was angry even in death. No matter how hard the funeral director tried, he couldn’t mask the resentment and anger that shaped Jack Slone.

  He almost looked like the man I remembered. Or rather, he looked like a wax copy. His lips were pale, almost white. A fake color was swiped across his cheeks, but it made them too pink, too clownish.

  I resisted the urge to reach out and poke him, thinking somewhere deep in my brain that that was a kid thing to do. And I wasn’t a kid anymore, no matter how lost I felt at that moment.

  Then arms were around me. I didn’t know whose they were, only that they weren’t Mike’s. He should be the one holding me, shouldn’t he? I looked to my side and realized it was Gran, dressed head-to-toe in black. Even the circles under her eyes were black.

  She didn’t say anything. Trina joined us and Gran put an arm around her, too. The three of us stared down at my dead father lying in the dead wood casket. My heart was breaking. What made it worse was that I didn’t fully understand why.

  We were not close as father and daughter. In fact, for most of my life, I felt like Dad hated me. We didn’t toss the baseball, or practice the waltz, or go to get ice cream when I brought home a good report card. We didn’t do any of those things. He stalked around the house like a simmering pot of boiling water, and I cowered around the house like a little mouse terrified of drawing too much attention to myself.

  But I could feel it—my heart breaking, almost like it was a dried piece of clay that was crumbling in my hands. I was surprised and devastated all at once. Why had it taken his death to realize I loved him?

  “Shall we get started?” The preacher’s voice made me want to cover my ears with my hands.