EXCERPT
:
Chapter
One
The Sweetest Agony
October 5, 1999
The first rays of morning light hit the stained glass window,
and splintered into countless shards of color throughout the
kitchen of the Ridgemont home.
A burst of red gleamed off a copper kettle. Green and blue
splashed over the cream colored counter, and crept up an empty
gray mug. A yellow finger of light illuminated a few words
in one of the many rolled up copies of newspaper in a hand-woven
basket on the floor. KILLING NINE from one row of copy and
VER ARRESTED from another row; words and partial words from
a newspaper that could not be thrown out, but could not be
read.
It
was a lovely home, three bedrooms and two baths, decorated
by a woman with classic taste and the ability to add a sophisticated
touch here and there. Here and there, but not on the refrigerator
where a massive amount of artwork in crayon, paint and construction
paper was displayed, and not in the girls rooms, where it
was further displayed. In the residence of stained glass artisan,
Andy Ridgemont, ordinary light was transformed intoglorious,
vibrant, magical-looking color that crept up walls, reflected
off mirrors and bounced joyfully, playfully throughout the
house. And yet the shaft of blue light that lit the doorknob
of the first bedroom was not playful; it was apropos.
The
shades were drawn in this room, yet every morning, light found
a way to creep in anyway and Andy resented it. It was ironic
how much she, a stained-glass artisan, a painter of light,
resented it. In the black of night, she could indulge her
grief. She could wallow in it. She could revel in wallowing
in her grief. She could marinate in it, rage in it, at least,
silently rage in it, but then the light of another day always
showed up, wanted or not, and she was once again reminded
that life went on despite her pain. She still had responsibilities
here. She still had Alyssa. She still had to go on.
In
the last few months she’d made an attempt, a real attempt,
at going through the motions she was supposed to be going
through. She got up in the morning and brushed her teeth.
She walked into the kitchen, turned on the television and
made coffee. The anchor on the morning show would announce
the headline of the day then state the date, and she’d
repeat it to herself, surprised in a nonchalant sort of way.
Spoken proof that it was a new and different day, whatever
that mattered.
At
some point in time, she’d get dressed. She’d make
conversation with Alyssa. Occasionally, she would even find
herself looking and sounding normal. She wasn’t, of
course. She was removed from herself. On the outside, looking
in. There was no doubt that her heart still beat, but there
was also no doubt that it had been ripped out and handed back
to her, numb and relatively worthless. For Alyssa’s
sake, she would go through the motions, but she’d been
living for thirty-four years before the accident and she knew
what living was. This was not living.
TRACTOR-TRAILER
HITS SCHOOLBUS KILLING NINE blared the headline in the still
rolled-up newspaper. DRIVER ARRESTED. The article explained
the accident in gruesome, meticulous detail. Andy hadn’t
read the account. She hadn’t needed to since the tragedy
had been interwoven into her life. Victoria and Sarah, her
eight-year old twin daughters, were two of the nine children
killed on that sunny Wednesday morning, the second day of
April, more than six months previous. They’d been sitting
on the wrong side of the bus. Sitting together, on the wrong
side of the bus. It was odd because they rarely sat together.
They’d been at a point where they’d been working
hard at being separate, unique individuals, often straining
against their natural bond.
Her
little blonde girls, her identical twins, the two of them
could argue amongst themselves over the air around them and
drive her crazy, then play for hours and never have a cross
word between them. They giggled constantly and looked nothing
less than angelic when they slept. Now, sitting on the floor
of their room, Andy looked around at their things trying to
discover something, anything, that might fill some of the
void, even if just for one tiny, fleeting moment.She hadn’t
changed their bedclothes after the accident because, at first,
the sheets and pillows still smelled like them. She would
lie in one and then the other, breathing in the essence of
her children as deeply as she could. It was the sweetest agony
she had ever experienced. Mostly it was gone now. Once in
a while, she’d catch the barest whiff of scent of them
and she’d try and recapture it but, mostly, it was gone
now.
Down the hall, twelve-year old Alyssa Ridgemont woke. She
looked over at her bedside clock as it clicked from 7:24 to
7:25. Two more days, she thought. If her mom went through
with it this time. She’d been counting down the days
for two weeks now. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment
issuing up a silent prayer that her mom wouldn’t change
her mind.
She
climbed out of bed and traipsed across the hall toward her
mother’s room. Even before she got there, it was obvious
her mom wasn’t around. The bed hadn’t even been
slept in. Alyssa sighed and bowed her head for a second, then
turned and walked down the hall to the girls’ room with
a resolute expression on her face. She felt a familiar pang
of anxiety as she turned the knob and opened the door.Her
mom was in the same spot she usually sat in, staring off at
nothing, lost in her own world. Alyssa studied her for a moment,
unexpectedly struck by how beautiful she was. It was funny,
she usually got so used to seeing her, she didn’t notice.
“Mom?”
Andy
jerked, and then turned to her with a guilty smile on her
face. “What time is it?”
Alyssa
walked in and sat on the opposite bed, then turned the Winnie
the Pooh clock so Andy could see its glowing numbers. “I
thought we agreed you weren’t going to come in here
anymore,” Alyssa chastised softly.
“We
did,” Andy conceded, nodding slowly. “And I even
mean it when I say it but--”
“Did
you sleep at all?”
Andy
rubbed her face, suddenly bone weary. “I’m all
right,” she said, evading the question. The purple half
circles under her eye answered plainly enough anyway.
“We
are still going, aren’t we?” Alyssa asked in a
small voice.
Andy
looked up at Alyssa’s worry-filled brown eyes, confused
by the question. “Where?”
Alyssa
let out a pent-up burst of air. “Aunt Meg’s!”
Andy
ran through her hair, fighting a moment of confusion. “That’s
not today.” Is it?
“I
know. It’s the day after tomorrow.”
There
was pleading in Alyssa’s eyes that penetrated straight
through to Andy’s center. “Have I backed out that
many times?”
Alyssa
gave a sheepish shrug.
Andy
sighed. She was slightly nauseous with fatigue and the though
of being a disappointment. “We’re going this time.
I promise.”
“Let’s
go make some breakfast,” Alyssa said, popping up and
offering a hand.
“I’ll
get started in a minute,” Andy hedged. “Okay?”
Alyssa
drew her hand back. “‘kay.”
Andy
watched Alyssa tiptoe from the room. Why was she always walking
on tiptoe anymore? Because you make her feel like she has
to.Tears filled Andy’s eyes as she realized again that
she was miserable and selfish, and that she couldn’t
stop it. What if she could never rise above this? She already
felt panicked about leaving. They were going to Meg’s
day after tomorrow, and this time, she had to go. For Alyssa’s
sake, they had to go.
She
didn’t realize how sore she’d become sitting on
the floor until she tried standing. After a minute of pressing
on her back, rubbing her numb buttocks, and silently declaring
she’d never spend the entire night sitting on the floor
again, she trekked through the house to her bathroom, shedding
her clothes along the way. She turned on the hot water faucet
in the tub and stared at the running water. Standing was too
much work so she sat on the edge of the tub, ignoring the
impact of cold ceramic.
She
reached for her hairbrush and made several half-hearted strokes
without running into much resistance, then set it down and
dangled her fingers in the water to test the temperature.
It was going from cool to lukewarm to warm. She jerked her
hand out of the stream of water and looked down at bright
pink fingers. She’d dazed out for a moment, or maybe
several moments, and practically scalded her hand. “Idiot,”
she murmured.
She
moved to the sink to run cold water over her fingers. She
glared at her image in the mirror accusingly and the woman
looking back looked like an older, scarier version of herself.
She turned off the water and considered climbing into bed
rather than the shower. But she couldn’t do that because
she had an appointment with Sandra, and it would be the last
for a while, if they were going to Lambert. No, not if, they
were going. She’d promised.
She
went back to the shower, adjusted the temperature, and stepped
in. The spray was hard and hot and it needled her skin. She
turned around, closed her eyes and tipped her head back into
the water, allowing it to fill her senses.
“Mommy?”
Three-year
old Victoria was sliding the shower curtain back with an impish
grin on her face. “Can I take a shower with you?”
The
voice startled Andy, because she hadn’t heard Tory come
in. “I guess so,” Andy agreed. “I was ready
to get out, but you can get in.”
Victoria
climbed in, with some assistance from Andy, who complained
they were going to soak the bathroom floor.
“It’s
hot!” Victoria squealed, holding her arms out as if
to push the water away.
Andy
adjusted the temperature then picked up Victoria and eased
her into the spray. It was a wonderful feeling, an unexpected
high. Victoria tipped her head back, cringing but smiling.
“I like your shower, Mommy.”
Andy
gasped and her eyes flew open. Her arms were crossed, clutched
tightly against her chest. The memory had been so real, so
physical. She leaned against the wall of the shower and slid
down, sobbing.
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