In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(10)
Thanks to Facebook, I’ve learned that Kacey has a small army of friends who beg her to hang out with them on weekends. Sometimes she says yes, that Jenny and she will come. It’s never just her. And sometimes she says that she’s hanging out with her family that day. It’s so obvious that the Clearys were tight.
Her last post reads, “Better luck, next time, Saints! You can’t beat this redheaded Irish girl.” It’s dated April 25th.
The Friday of the accident.
After that, nothing but an endless stream of well wishes and prayers from friends and family fill her wall.
There isn’t a single response from Kacey.
But there are a slew of condemning messages about “the ass**les who did this to you.”
“Aren’t you sick of the dark?” Madison turns on a table lamp. She shivers against the cool basement air. “It’s beautiful out. Eighty-two degrees and blue skies.” Her eyes linger over my unshaven face, my rumpled jeans and T-shirt, and that deep furrow between her brows deepens. “When did you go outside last?”
Murphy hears the word “out” and his head pops up, his tail wagging. I push my laptop closed, half with reluctance and half with relief. “Not today.”
Not yesterday either.
I should probably take the poor dog for a walk. I can handle it now. The doctor cleared me for light exercise last week. My body—in decent shape before the accident, despite my shoulder injury—could use it now.
“Are your parents still at the office?” Madison asks as she perches herself on the edge of the couch as if trying to avoid the dirt. Or me.
Hell, I may not have shaved or chosen clean clothes, but I have showered. I don’t think I smell. I’m half-tempted to take a whiff of myself. But after spending the entire day flogging myself with pictures of dead strangers, I decide that I don’t really give a damn.
“Yeah. More and more lately. Dad’s got a big case, so . . .” So, he’s using it as an excuse to not come home. And when he does make an appearance, he’s got a tumbler full of scotch in hand. He doesn’t get shit-faced, but it’s still concerning. My dad’s never been one for hard liquor.
He and my mom also never fought. Sure, they’d have small spats over taking the trash out and lowering toilet seats, but there were never any major blowouts, no name-calling, no arguments that threw the household into a nuclear winter.
Lately, though, fighting is all they seem to do.
Growing up, my parents were the ones all my friends wanted to hang around. They liked to laugh and joke with everyone and never took anything too seriously. My mom was the agreeable chauffeur, and my dad loved swearing at the hockey commentators as much as we did. You’d never even guess that he’s a high-priced lawyer and my mom runs her own small but successful design firm. On weekends, my mom could be found in the kitchen with flour on her nose and my dad would spend hours trimming our front hedge to perfection.
He was the husband who made his wife’s coffee every morning, because she’s not a morning person. She was the wife who ironed his shirts, because he hates ironing. Together, they were the couple who always went to bed together.
But all that has changed.
Silence hangs between Madison and me. I wait for the break in it. I know it’s coming. She’s picking at her fingernails. She only does that when she’s about to do something uncomfortable.
“My grief counselor said she could fit you in, if you’re interested in talking to someone.”
“I have talked to someone.” I slide out the bottle from my pocket and give it a shake. The small green-and-white Prozac capsules rattle like a maraca. Apparently they take three to four weeks to take effect. They should be kicking in any time now.
“But you’re not getting better.”
“Not everyone can forget as easily as you can.” The second the words are out of my mouth, the second I see her face crumble, I’m hit with a wave of regret.
“Who are you?” she cries out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Madison’s never been good with confrontation. “I want my Cole back. I can’t deal with this one anymore! You’re not the only one who lost Sasha!” I don’t have a chance to apologize before she’s running up the stairs.
I should get up, should chase after her, should apologize over and over again.
But I open my computer up and continue staring at sixteen-year-old Kacey Cleary’s bottomless blue eyes instead.
■ ■ ■
I hit “replay” for the tenth time, on an old video of a fifteen-year-old Kacey. Her grin is wide as her team’s rugby coach gets drenched with a bucket of water. I thought only guys did that sort of thing. That’s certainly not the case here, not with her as the team captain, anyway.
It seems like Kacey was a bit of a prankster—the water bucket incident just one of many practical jokes I’ve found evidence of—which means she must have a wicked sense of humor. I can tell that her teammates really like her. At any given time, she has at least four of them flocking around her. Every time her lips move, they’re laughing. An easy, pleasant confidence swirls about her that is so rare around girls, at least any that I’ve known. Madison sure never had it. She’s always been shy and rather oblivious to her appeal. While I adore her charm, there’s something decidedly sexy about a girl who’s comfortable with herself.