After scurrying through the sodden streets back to Vicki's, I had hoped to gain some respite before the next day. However, my hopes were dashed the moment I pushed the front door open.
"Hi, Brae," my aunt greeted warmly from the living room.
I winced.
"Hi, Aunt Vicki," I replied, careful to keep the despondence I felt from entering my voice as I stepped through the foyer.
I saw her now, sitting in the wing-backed chair where Bianca had sat earli, er that day. Her legs were crossed uncomfortably, though she neglected the use of the matching ottoman in front of her. She noticed me; after placing a cross-stitched bookmark near the halfway point of her Charlotte Bronte, she removed her reading spectacles, folded them, then placed them gingerly on the coffee table.
"Where have you been?" she asked, offering a thin smile.
Her tone was perfectly conversational, but buried beneath the supposedly good nature of the question, I felt the inherent challenge. I could hardly imagine telling her that I had broken suspension by trespassing on school grounds.
Vicki was the type of person to take good news badly, so bad news was like a sign of the coming apocalypse. The woman a frayed bundle of nerves, a rusted hinge that threatened to give way at the slightest strain.
But I also knew the reason why acted that way--and I couldn't really blame her for it.
"I went to see a friend," I answered, not lying.
She sifted to a slightly more relaxed position in her chair. "Stephen McKnight's funeral was today. Did you go?"
"I did," I replied, although I had felt more like an interloper than a guest.
"Oh, honey," she cried, suddenly rising from her seat and rushing over to put her arms around me. "That must have been so difficult for you. You were the one who found the body, after all."
"I suppose," I said without really meaning it. My discovery hadn't bothered me as much as I felt it should. If anything, seeing Stephen lying on that bridge--his mangled face ground into the loose gravel--had caused the funeral to seem like a frivolous event.
None of them were there. None of them had seen. They'd been spared from the ugly sight by a closed casket.
Vicki pulled away from me, and stared at me with large, brown eyes. I was suddenly claustrophobic, too aware of her hand squeezing my shoulder.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked. "I'll put the kettle on."
She filled the teapot with water and placed it on the stove without bothering to hear a reply. That was another thing about Vicki: she was one of the most imposing people I knew--and I knew quite a few--but she was so polite about it than any anger you might have felt toward her would always be accompanied by guilt.
It was infuriating.
I leaned against the spotless white marble of the counter top, my mind drifting back to Stephen. His passing seemed strange; an anomaly of nature. I would no longer pass him in the halls of Bryce Faulkner. I would never again cheer him on as he led the football team to another victory.
"Why don't you sit down, Brae?"
I groaned inwardly, but conceded. I took a seat at the far end of the dining table, closest to the windows. Outside, the dark clouds were no longer discernable from the night sky.
Vicki swabbed the counter where my hand had just rested with a wet washcloth. After a minute or so of uncomfortable silence--a common occurrence in this house--she remarked, "You know, I don't remember seeing you at the funeral."
"I was aloof," I answered, my mind barely on our conversation.
She changed the subject. "Did you hear Bianca was back in town?"
The warmth of her voice was sickening in the context of her words. I felt my teeth clench without my volition.
"Yeah, I heard that," I said without looking at her.
Vicki had always been fond of Bianca, and made no endeavor at secrecy regarding the two of us repairing what had long ago been broken between us. What Bianca had done nearly destroyed me, but Vicki saw it as an excusable flaw.
Suffice to say, I felt differently.
After rinsing the cloth and draping it gently over the faucet, Vicki took a seat at the seat opposite mine.
"So how are you taking all of this?" Vicki asked.
"Fine," I answered plainly.
"Oh," she said, straightening a spoon that had been knocked slightly askew. "I suppose you and Stephen weren't all that close, then."
"Not really," I admitted.
"I suppose that much would be obvious. After all, you two did get into that fight."
That again. While I held no ill will toward Stephen for the fight---it was a cruel misunderstanding, at best--I grew tired of having people bring it up during conversation, because very few were willing to believe that he was the instigator of the fight. My aunt was not one of these few.
"I'm just sorry that was the last time I saw him before he died," I said. And I really meant it; I would never have dared to wish such a fate upon him.
For a long time afterward, Vicki did not speak. I looked up at her, unnerved. It was not like her to indulge in silence . . . such was a rare and glorious occasion, indeed. But the longer it stretched, the more aware I became of what was occurring. It began with a fidgeting of her fingernails--as if she were trying desperately to remove some bug or infestation from beneath them--and it usually concluded with her saying something that she knew I would find completely heinous.
I waited, pulling in a deep breath. Sadie had once told me an old adage: hope for the best, but expect the worse.
I could certainly pull off the latter.
"I spoke with a very nice man today," she finally said, "after the funeral. He's a doctor--well, a psychiatrist. He's in town working as a grief counselor."
"Ah."
"Yes."
She drummed her fingers on the table as she stared at me, a suicidal doe in the highway, just daring the headlights to appear. The conversation stalled as she searched my features, as if to spot the slightest trace of negative emotion.
"Anyway," she continued, "she's originally from here--New Haven, I mean. He left several years back to study psychology at a college in Massachusetts."
She was trying to prolong the inevitable. I could already see where this was going, and I knew that it would end with me being strapped into a strait-jacket.
"Okay," was all I said.
A long, eerie silence pervaded the room. I fixated my eyes on a ceramic blue vase holding a trio of wilted daisies, on the center of the dark, polished table. I braced myself, my face hard, statue-like.
She spoke. "I set up an appointment for you this Friday."
And there it was.
It was no secret that Vicki did not understand me. She saw my introversion as alienation, my reticence as an anxiety disorder. The fact that I had no real friends, she saw a as a fatal flaw in my psychological make-up. What Vicki failed to realize was that, as introverted and reticent and friendless as I was, I wasn't unhappy. Was I jaded? Perhaps. Did I hate the world and everyone in it? Possibly.
But the simple truth was that I wanted very little to do with people, and people seemed to embrace a mutual indifference towards me.
So of course, I had guessed that Vicki would eventually try to put me under the microscope; it wasn't her first attempt, after all. She once tried to force me into joining a focus group. By some happy coincidence, however, she accidentally signed me up for an AA meeting instead. I realized it pretty early on during the convening, but when I tried to explain to the counselor that I didn't have a drinking problem, he calmly explained to me that denial was a common trait among alchoholics.
This time, though, Vicki had actually met with a psychiatrist, agreed to the hours and payment . . . all behind my back. Carefully overstepping her boundaries just enough to get under my skin.
I could do one of two things. I could react the way my spiking pulse was screaming at me to, by telling her exactly what she could do with her psychiatrist then storm out, never to set foot in this madhouse again.
I chose the second option, however--the one I had resigned myself to ever since moving in with Vicki after my mother died. I would act as if my aunt's behavior was perfectly rational, even beneficial to my well-being.
Essentially, I chose to lie.
"Okay," I said, finally gratifying her with a response. "I don't see any harm in that."
I rose from the table and walked into the kitchen, leaving my aunt to sit alone and completely bewildered.
I felt her approach as I pulled the now-whistling kettle from the stove. I had to be careful not to let Vicki doubt me. Quietly humming an aimless tune, I poured the steaming water into the tea cups she had placed on the counter.
"I hope you don't mind that I didn't ask you first," she said, unable to contain herself.
I wasn't sure if she saw our exchanges as some twisted game, but I did. And I had no intention of losing.
"Not at all, Aunt Vicki," I replied calmly, watching the tea steep.
"Are you sure? Because if you don't want to go--"
"Of course I want to go," I said quickly. Resorting to denial now would only impel her notions that I had a reason to do so. "It sounds like an interesting experience."
She clearly hadn't expected this reaction. The surprise in her demeanor was all but bursting forth.
"Okay," she finally said.
"Okay," I agreed, triumphant.
Vicki took an uneasy step forward as she prepared our tea. I found it disheartening that she so desperately sought something to be wrong with me. And maybe there was something wrong with me. I didn't get along with others, and I spent a great deal of my time wandering the outskirts of town, doing my best to take in every crack in the pavement and face in the fog.
Was it so wrong to want different things out of life than the rest of the world?
"Are you sure you're alright, Brae?" Vicki asked.
"I'm fine." Then, hatching an idea, I added, "I didn't have an umbrella when it started raining today. I think I may be coming down with a cold."
Vicki gazed at me, eyes wide. One needn't read her mind to know that she was trying to remember where she last placed the anti-bacterial soap.
"Maybe you should go lie down," she suggested.
I felt a small but genuine smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "I think I'll do just that."
The next morning arrived far too early. In my half-awake stupor, what was real and what was conjured often blurred into one another--black and white seeping together to form a drab sea of gray.
For a moment, I simply laid in bed and stared at the milky-colored ceiling. The events of the previous day materialized in my mind, an obscene tap on the shoulder to remind me that they did indeed happen. It was no different than my mother's death; every morning I had to tell myself that she really was dead, no longer part of my life.
I sat up, attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes, the thrust myself from the bed; I noticed that the clothing I'd worn yesterday wass no longer on the floor. Vicki must have crept into my room sometime last night to steal them for the laundry.
Stepping quietly through the open bathroom door, I flipped the light on and took a long look at myself in the mirror.
I no longer paid an excessive amount of attention to my appearance. The dark circles beneath my tired eyes made me look like a drug addict, and my thick, curly hair twisted wildly in every direction. My scruffy and uneven beard was in desperate need of a shave.
I barely recognized myself anymore.
I quickly threw on a pair of clothes, slipped past my aunt's bedroom door--where I prayed she would still be sleeping soundly. I was mere seconds from leaving the house when a shrill sound erupted from the kitchen counter.
I quickly snatched the phone from its receiver and hoped it hadn't woken Vicki. I was in no mood to explain my itinerary.
"Hello?" I asked, my voice dry and raspy from sleep.
"Ah, yes, hello. I was hoping to speak to Brae Ashton."
I recognized the voice at once and had to deny myself the impulse to fling the phone across the room.
"This is he," I stated coldly.
"This is Dr. Victor Morgan Grant, at Blackwood. How are you, my friend?"
I glanced down the hall. "No friend of yours, Doctor. Make it quick, I have somewhere to be."
He laughed--a low, haughty chuckle that made no attempt to veil his condescension. "I couldn't imagine it. You were expelled, weren't you?"
"Suspended," I corrected, quickly losing my patience. "If you have something to say, I'd recommend doing so now, or else you'll be speaking to a dial tone."
He spoke again, composed and professional. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you would like o meet and discuss my previous offer to--"
"You know why I can't," I cut him off. "Now, I really need to get going. Have a productive day."
"A pleasure, as always," were the last words I heard before hanging up.
The McKnight estate was beautiful--a fine building hewn from tan brick and dark mahogany, with long trails of ivy snaking up the outer walls. The lawn was not a lawn at all, but a lavish garden brimming with an abundance vibrant, colorful flowers despite the cold weather. Stephen's mother was a devoted botanist, and her passion for the caretaking of her plants had earned her the finest flora in New Haven.
It seemed ironic that the outside of the house was so full of life, when on the inside it was likely as sad and silent as the grave.
A stiff breeze against my shoulder, I pulled the collar of my jacket close and ambled up the walkway that wound about the garden, and stopped at the broad and foreboding front door of the manor.
The cheapness of my stratagem debased me. I found no pleasure in using others to further my own goals, and now I plotted to avail myself upon a grieving mother the very day after her only son had died.
Standing beneath the brick archway that bowed over the entrance, I rapped on the door and waited.
Seconds passed, then accumulated into minutes. I knocked again, louder this time.
Again, I waited. Still nothing.
Forsaking the natural response of simply coming back later, I found myself carefully turning the door handle and pushing the door open just enough to step inside look inside.
The room that I peered into was grand, ornate . . . and empty. Not the slightest creak stirred the silence that filled the house.
I did not consider this a complication. In fact, this was potentially a better hand than I had initially expected to be dealt. I could forgo plodding through awkward conversation about how deeply sorry I was for Mrs. McKnight's loss and get straight to the heart of the matter.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, shutting off the faint splashes of light that streamed through. Stealing away through the unlit interior of the house, I began my search for Stephen's old bedroom.
Each step I took with great trepidation; though the house appeared vacant, it was just as possible that Stephen's parents had taken time off from work to mourn and were simply elsewhere in their expansive home. And I certainly hadn't known Stephen or his family well enough to be considered a welcome guest without invitation.
I slipped through the house quietly, avoiding the floorboards by means of a long, crimson rug that ran the length of the hallway. I passed several open doors--but these held no interest for me. His parents would have wanted to keep the door to Stephen's bedroom closed, as if they hoped to shut their pain inside with it.
The feeling of guilt that had gripped me as I planned to pander to Stephen's grief-stricken mother had been replaced by the guilt of breaking into the bedroom of a dead classmate. I may as well have willingly defiled Stephen's very grave.
I happened upon a closed door only a few paces from the staircase. But as I reached for the knob, I halted. This was an enormous dwelling, and its owners incredibly opulent; it was not impossible that there was a housekeeper or two on hire. To walk blindly into a room could put me face to face with a witness.
The longer I stood before the door, the more exposed and vulnerable I felt. Someone may very well have already seen me and left to call in the intrusion--and I never would have known it. The more advisable choice would have been to cut my losses and run.
In the end, however, instinct triumphed over reason, and I opened the door.
As I had suspected, this was indeed Stephen's bedroom. After a quick glance about confirmed that I was alone, I shut myself inside.
Despite the expensive furnishings and designs the house had elsewhere, Stephen's room was very much ordinary. An unmade twin-size bed, a cluttered computer desk, an old pine dresser with clothes draped out of the half-open drawers. The only exception to this rule seemed to be the several mounted plaques and framed certificates aligned along the wall.
I found myself gripped by depression. This was not Stephen's room anymore. He would never make this bed, he would never wear these clothes. These awards that he earned by his upstanding moral character and generous nature . . . what were they worth to him now?
But I was not here to empathize with the dead.
I rifled through the papers on Stephen's desk, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Most of the scribble was comprised of unfinished homework assignments or pending business transactions. Nothing that particularly leapt from the page.
I crossed over to Stephen's bed, where his navy blue bookbag lay opened, its contents spilling out onto the bed before me. I lifted the pack from the bottom and emptied it onto the disheveled sheets.
Among the items were school books, naturally, as well as several notes, a simple wooden pencil, and an unreturned of "Lord Of The Flies." I turned my attention to the notes.
The first note--a wrinkled piece of pink notebook paper that appeared more faded than the others--read as follows:
Stephen,
I'm so sorry for doing this own paper rather than face to face, but I simply do not have the heart to face you. I will not take the time to explain my reasons for leaving . . . you're a fool if you haven't already figured them out. Whatever chance I thought there might be for us is irrevocably gone, and as much as it hurts, I'm letting you go.
Noelle
P.S. Please--and I ask this as a final request--if you pass me in the halls at school, please don't speak to me.
The second note, and the third, fourth, and fifth to follow, were nothing but idle chatter meant to pass time in study hall. It was the final note I studied that demanded the most attention.
Dear Stephen,
We offer our deepest sympathies for the rift between you and Noelle. While you have made it perfectly clear that you want nothing of our business, we simply cannot bear to see you in such misery. We hope you will accept our offer to help ease your suffering through this difficult time of transition--and of course, all will be done in complete discretion.
The fact that this letter was left unsigned was not lost on me, nor was the obvious intention of who had written it. Bryce Faulkner--even in all its dignity and prestige--had done little to quell the growing drug problem. As of this most recent year, New Haven's drug statistics among adolescents had surged to surprising heights. Most had at least dabbled by the time they were freshmen.
From the look of this letter, it seemed like someone was attempting to get Stephen--fresh from his falling out with Noelle--to do the same.
Fear pricked at the base of my neck as the low but unmistakable sound of a door being pulled closed wrenched my mind from the thoughts reeling through it. I hurriedly stuffed both of the notes into my jacket pocket and scrambled into Stephen's closet. I didn't manage to completely close the closet door.
I remained idle, lying in wait for the chance to leave. I could hear the faint footfalls; were fortune my friend, they would continue past and I would be able to escape without notice. Rather than pass Stephen's bedroom door, however, they came to a pause at it.
I felt my blood turn cold.
With a soft creak from the hinges, the distance between the door and its frame widened; instinctively, I flinched backward, into the shadows.
A moment of sickening anxiety passed. Hoping the darkness of the closet did well to obscure me, I peered into the dark bedroom--ill at ease due to the fact that I was no longer alone. Because the dim light did nothing to obscure the face of the late Stephen's lifelong friend: J.T. Davidson.
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