Jezebel Page 8

  “Yeah, alright,” she responded.

  “Annabelle,” Jezebel called as she stepped through the doorway into the hall, “there is a part of you that clings to your brother; to a different time. We all cling to that time when we’ve lost someone, but it doesn’t mean we’re going to get it back. Things change. As do we. And many things changed the day your brother died and that’s okay.”

  Annabelle thought about her words and nodded to her before turning to leave.

  The air was heavy with the earthy scent of impending rain as she waited at the bus stop. It made her think of her brother. Of how he would have had the window open in his bedroom so he could listen to the storm as it rolled in, bringing in the sodden, earthy smell of rain. She would have been scared when the thunder boomed. The best part of having him around was sneaking into his room when she was scared. Together, they would count the seconds between the strike and the clap of thunder exploding across the night sky. When the storm was far enough away she’d curl up in his bed with him and fall asleep.

  The sound of squeaking brakes broke her memory. The bus came to a stop and Annabelle boarded. There were few seats left this evening—people didn’t want to chance getting caught in the rain. She pushed through the narrow aisle, found a seat and stared out the window. As the bus moved on to its next stop she watched kids speeding down the sidewalks on bikes, their smiles wide and playful. It made her think about how she and her brother used to get in trouble for riding their bikes on the crowded sidewalk downtown. They’d lean their bikes against the wall of a building, never bothering to lock them, and go inside the stores to buy supplies for whatever Saturday adventure they’d planned for that week.

  The bus brakes squeaked before lurching to a stop, jarring her thoughts. Annabelle wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek. She gathered her emotions and blotted her eyes, reminding herself that the world doesn’t stop so you can grieve. The death of a loved one doesn’t make you special.

  The heavy oak door looked oppressive as she climbed her front porch. Once inside, she kicked off her shoes and hurried to the bathroom. Annabelle held on to the edge of the sink. In the mirror, her reflection stared back with flushed cheeks. She took a moment to regroup, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face. She took a calming breath and headed for the dining room.

  Her father drained his glass. The ice clinked. At dinner she had asked them each what the high and low were from their days—a game her mother used to play with them before. It was painful, but they’d both answered. After dinner she’d helped her mom with the dirty dishes. She’d switched on the stereo, tuning into the oldies station. Her mother had raised an eyebrow at her but Annabelle caught her humming along after a minute or two. Her dad’s office, with its rich, dark molding and wainscoting, made her nervous. It was serious, so formal. He gave her a gentle smile as he stepped behind her and shut the door. She heard the lock click shut. Outside his bay window, rain fell in the shafts of yellow light from the street lamp.

  He sat behind his desk and shuffled papers around. “What did you need to ask me?”

  “How come we never talk about him?”

  Her father huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Belle.”

  “What?” she replied in a snit.

  “Why are you dredging this up?”

  “Why are you burying it?” she pushed. It was a tired argument, and she was tired of having it.

  “Because,” he boomed. She startled. His tone softened. “Because, Belle, it does no one any good to think about it. To feel it.” He left the statement hanging in the thick air between them.

  “It makes me happy to remember him.” She lifted her chin defiantly.

  “Then remember him,” he said dismissively, “It doesn’t mean you need to do it out loud.” He shut her down, quickly and efficiently.

  “This entire family is screwed up. We all stopped talking about him. We all stay silent. The silence in this fucking house is deafening! We used to be a family,” she yelled.

  Her father stood. “Yes, we did.” He looked pained as he let out a long breath. Good, she thought. At least it meant he was feeling something.

  “Dad?” she hedged. He looked to her, “I miss things . . .”

  “We all do.”

  “But, we’re still here. I’m still here. Why don’t I get to have a family?”

  To this there was no response. She was met with familiar silence. The kind that broke hearts, shattered dreams and slowly ate away at your soul like an insidious parasite. For tonight, she could not, would not try any more. She stormed from his office to her room barely giving her mother a passing look as she inquired what was wrong.

  Outside the window, the rain sheeted across the sky and struck hard on the flat roof, pinging as it funneled through the gutters and downspouts. She felt the fatigue in her limbs as she sunk into her bed. Her door creaked open with a soft knock.

  “Belle?” Her mother’s voice was faint.

  “Come in.”

  Her mother glided across the carpet gracefully and came to a seat on the edge of Annabelle’s bed. Her face wasn’t pinched like normal. She appeared soft and thoughtful. Annabelle didn’t bother moving from her spot. She closed her eyes when she felt her mother’s hand run through her long hair. She inched her own hand toward her mother. When Annabelle’s hand found her mother’s free hand, she laced their fingers together and squeezed gently. Her mother squeezed back.

  Annabelle fell asleep thinking how small holding hands seems but how large it feels. And about her brother’s easy smile.

  ~***~

  A towel turban entwined her hair. She thought about Jezebel. Parents and denial be damned. Annabelle turned on her MP3 player and connected it to the docking speaker. She flicked through playlists until she found one to suit her mood. She sang along to words and danced as she got ready for school. She applied mascara and eye shadow, added a touch of perfume to her wrists and neck, and headed downstairs to the smell of bacon.

  “Wow!” Annabelle said entering the kitchen. Her dad stood at the stove flipping eggs. He turned and grinned at her. For a moment she was lost in déjà vu. Her father, when home, always made fabulous breakfasts for her and her brother.

  “Coffee?” he asked and nodded at the pot on the counter.

  “Yeah, I have a big test today.” She shuffled to the counter.

  Annabelle poured herself a mug and then asked her father how he took his before fixing one for him as well. He piled her plate with bacon, a side of eggs and a slice of toast. Just the way she liked it. She sat at the breakfast bar and dug in as he did the New York Times crossword puzzle, which meant the coffee had kicked in.

  “What’s it in?” he asked after sipping his coffee.

  “Calculus,” she groaned.

  ~***~

  Her father’s surprise breakfast had set the mood for the rest of Annabelle’s week. She felt lighter, happier and more secure. He’d left for a business trip the next morning and wouldn’t be back for two weeks but the breakfast had made everything, for the moment, better. It was as if he was trying or apologizing—she couldn’t be sure which, but either option made her heart feel lighter. Maybe he had heard her after all. She had floated into school in a slightly upbeat mood.

  “Damon. No.”

  It had taken Madison until Thursday to tell her about last weekend. Annabelle felt like a fool. For three days she’d been none the wiser. How dumb Damon must think she was.

  “Belle, come on.” He sounded like a five-year-old. It irritated her. The more he pushed her to disobey her parents’ grounding, the more annoyed she became. She propped a hip out and rested her hand on it.

  “I can’t. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” he snapped.

  She snapped her eyes to his and glared. “A bitch? Really Damon? Madison let me know you were at Matt’s party Saturday night.”

  “And? I’m not grounded Belle,” he sh
ot back.

  “And you had Sierra sitting on your lap,” she spit the words at him in quick succession.

  Damon reddened slightly and then, “Anything else you’d like to inform me about my life?”

  That was the last straw. Annabelle dropped her bag to the hall floor and slapped him across his cheek. Hard. “Yes. You’re now single.”

  She lifted her bag and stomped away from her ex-boyfriend. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she pushed them back and willed herself to ignore the sorrow she was feeling. It wasn’t real. It was the simple fact that rejection had occurred. It overwhelmed her but it would pass. This pain was nothing to her everyday norm.

  Damon was a distraction, and a crappy one at that. She knew it wasn’t love but still, hearing about him and Sierra had put a dent in her self-esteem. Madison had tried to make her feel better when she told her about the party Saturday, saying Sierra was sloshed, but it did nothing to ease the hurt she felt. Fake it ’til you make it. If you don’t feel good, pretend you do because eventually you will. She repeated that mantra the entire bus ride home from school.

  As she trudged through the entryway twenty minutes later the sound of Born in the U.S.A blared through the house. Annabelle hoofed it to the kitchen and the source of the music. Her parents had often played Bruce Springsteen’s CDs growing up. Her mother had claimed it was the secret to baking the perfect cookie. Ha. As if Bruce made a cookie good—but it was her mother’s tradition and right now, it brought a smile to her face. Traditions proved soothing when you felt less than stellar.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Belle! You’re just in time,” her mother greeted. Her cheer was refreshing, but it also caused confusion to stir in her gut.

  “For what?” she asked and offered up a smirk.

  “Cookie batter,” she stated as she held up a spoon.

  Annabelle crossed the kitchen and snatched the spoon from her mother’s hand. Depositing it into her mouth she groaned. There really was nothing better than eating cookie dough. The sound of unfamiliar laughter rang out. Opening her eyes she realized it was her mother’s.

  “Mom?”

  “What?” her mother answered cleaning up some of the mess she had made.

  “Did you and Dad ever cheat on each other or maybe think the other one was?” Her mother’s face clouded over. Her features became pinched and tight. Annabelle instantly wished she could take her words back. She wanted the carefree look back.

  “Why would you ask that?” her mother asked carefully.

  “Damon,” she answered.

  “That boy isn’t worth a moment of your time. If you suspect or know he cheated, then it’s time to cut your losses. He’s nothing but trouble, always was.” Her mother carried dishes to the sink.

  Annabelle fidgeted in her spot. “Mom?” she called.

  “Yes?” Her mother looked over her shoulder to her.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, hon.” Her mother smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes though and that made Annabelle’s heart ache.

  They worked silently together placing spoonful’s of cookie dough onto greased baking sheets and listening to the E Street Band. It was more than Annabelle could have hoped for on a bad day. She was greedy and would take what she could get.

  ~***~

  One month. This particular Tuesday marked the fourth visit to Glenview. Only five months or twenty more visits until freedom belonged to her again. Strangely, this made Annabelle slightly anxious. She couldn’t quite understand why though. A month ago, she’d arrived at the assisted living facility wishing the weeks away. Now, however, she was disturbed at the thought that they would end. Not today, but, they would end. Perhaps it was simply because she had grown to enjoy Jezebel’s company or maybe it was just that she liked the woman’s story. Either way, she realized that her last visit with the woman would be bittersweet.

  “Hi, Jezzie,” she greeted as she entered Jezebel’s room.

  “Well hello to you.”

  “How was your week?”

  “Did you just ask me how my week was?” Jezebel balked.

  Annabelle shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “My God, I think you may actually be a human being after all.”

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t squawk at me kitten, you’re the self-absorbed teen.”

  “I resent that,” she huffed.

  Annabelle sat in her chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up under her, making herself comfortable. She fiddled with the cuffs of her shirt.

  “My week was . . . bland. Yes, bland. What a word. Sounds exactly as it means don’t you think?”

  Annabelle nodded her head. “Yup.”

  “How was your week?” Jezebel asked.

  “Honestly, shitty and awesome.”

  “Expand on that please.”

  “I found out my shitty boyfriend cheated on me, or was at the very least about to. I didn’t press for details. But, my dad made breakfast for me before his work trip; I can’t even remember the last time he did that. And my mom made cookies. Cookies!”

  Jezebel grinned. “Why do you think all that happened out of the blue?”

  “Yeah yeah—I get it. I asked them about their days at dinners and I played music in the kitchen, and I asked my dad why we’re not allowed to talk about him—my brother. I think it all happened because I made them feel guilty.”

  “Guilt is a strong motivator, but do you really think it was just guilt?”

  “Well, I’d like to think no—but yeah, it probably was just guilt.”

  “You don’t think that, perhaps, they miss the same memories that you do? That maybe you guilted them into action—but that they too enjoyed the result?”

  “Were you like a philosophy professor before or something?”

  “Hardly,” Jezebel scoffed.

  “What were you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. But we talk about Celeste—I feel like I know her kinda. But you—we never talk about. I don’t really know anything about you.”

  “And, you want to know me?” Jezebel asked.

  “Yes,” she replied simply and waited. It hadn’t really crossed her mind before, but now she wanted to know who exactly Jezebel was.

  Jezebel stared out the window for a long moment as if contemplating where to start. Annabelle let her gather her thoughts in silence, curious as to what Jezebel would eventually say.

  “Eighteen years ago I was blessed enough to marry my best friend. He’s handsome and charming, patient and gentle and smokes like a chimney.”

  “That’s who brought the plant for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it hard to be here . . . away from him?”

  “Very. It’s hard to be away from someone who saved you. Someone who supported you in ways you never thought another person could.”

  Annabelle frowned. “I’m sorry. Does he come to visit?”

  “Once a week like you. He still works full time, of course, but he spends one entire day with me each week.”

  “Well that’s nice.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “How’d he save you?” she asked.

  “Oh. I lost someone very close to me many, many years ago. Unexpected death is a terrible thing, as you know.” Jezebel sighed. “He held me together when I could not do it myself. He let me fall apart safely. He let me heal properly. I would not be me without him.”

  “Sorry you lost someone too,” she mumbled.

  “It was another lifetime. I’m well past it now, dear.”

  “Was it your idea to come here or his?”

  “He travels often for work and I am just so forgetful now. I kept misplacing items. I got lost a couple of times going to a grocery store that I’d been to a thousand times. When I started forgetting the names of simple objects he said it would be safer for me to be well cared for and here, I am well cared for.”

  Jezebel looked solemn and resigned to the fact that her life
was what it was now. Annabelle felt a pang of sadness deep in her chest for the woman. She didn’t seem forgetful in the least and she’d noticed no signs of a deteriorating mind during her visits. Perhaps she had good days and bad days.

  “So, do you have kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nosey aren’t you?” Jezebel replied.

  “Curious,” she retorted. Jezebel chuckled at her answer.

  “I worked too much to have kids.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was a veterinary assistant.”

  “Really? That sounds cool. I love animals.” she answered.

  “Do you have pets?”

  Annabelle frowned. “No. My parents would never allow us—I mean me—to have any.”

  “Annabelle,” Jezebel started, “here, in this room, be you. Remember your brother—your family the way you want—all you want.”

  Annabelle smiled and nodded at the woman. She understood—this was a safe place for her. She could vent all she wanted. She could feel all she wanted. She could just be. It was a powerful sensation. Hope burrowed a hole into her heart. She coddled it, let it snuggle in.

  “Are you ready for some more of our story?”

  “Yeah. But honestly, I’m waiting for the shoe to drop.”

  “The shoe to drop?”

  “Yeah you know, all this buildup, Celeste being in love with Gabriel—I’m waiting for it to fall apart.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know—just a gut feeling. Like one of them has a brain tumor and dies or something like that.”

  “My God kid, that’s morbid as hell.”

  “Is it? I mean is this entire story just going to end at them having a magnificent wedding and lived happily ever after?”

  Jezebel snorted, which made her laugh. “No sugar, not at all. The wedding, you could say, was just the beginning of their story really.”

  “Alright, I guess. You might as well get on with it.”

  “Well if that’s how you feel . . .” Jezebel turned her head and stared out the window.

  “Jezzie come on. I mean it. I want to know what happens. Just pick up from 1985. Please?”