Spree (YA Paranormal) (11 page)

“I really do appreciate the support,” Mom said.

She took a basket from the Burgundy Hill Mothers and placed it next to the dozens of others on the table.

“We know what you’re feeling,” one of the mothers, a woman named Beth, said. “I went through the same thing with my Eric. I can’t tell you how many times I still think of him.”

“I’ll bet,” Mom said.

Her aura was a pink fading to gray, the sign of her distress.

“We meet once a month,” another mother, Yvonne, said. “We organize awareness events, speak at schools, help organize local safe proms.”

But that won’t bring my daughter back
.

The thought was strong, written all over my mother’s aura in blues and grays.

“Our goal is to make Burgundy Hill a safe community,” Yvonne added, as if drinking could be stamped out anywhere.

A little late for Fay
, Mom thought.

The auras of the women mingled into a majestic silver. There was nothing sadder in spirit than a grieving mother. Keepers did their best to console them whenever possible.

“I’m not ready,” Mom said simply.

“We just want you to know you’re not alone,” Beth told my mother, giving her a hug.

Mom felt like breaking down, but the situation was too uncomfortable. She’d never cry in front of strangers; her pride was too great.

“I know,” Mom said instead.

She didn’t know.

“I see you’re redecorating the place,” Yvonne said to her.

Mom had tried to hide the fresh paint, but the smell was too great.

“Just something I’ve been meaning to get around to,” she said.

Yvonne nodded. Her eyes showed that she understood, that maybe she had done the same thing when her time had come.

“We’ll stay in touch,” she said.

Yvonne and Beth hugged Mom, and just as quickly as they were there, they were through the door and my mother was by herself.

The Keepers gave her energy, helping her avoid completely breaking down.

I went up and kissed her. I swear she almost sensed my presence.

But then she was back in the bathroom, adding an unnecessary coat of honey-colored paint.

* * *

I stayed with my mother the rest of the night, hoping, praying that she’d finally sleep. She cried until two-thirty when her exhaustion took over. She’d be up again at five, hide as much of her weariness as she could with eyeliner, and then be on her way to the law office. The lawyer wouldn’t even ask about how she was doing, just about some papers she had to file that would grant an extension on a trial date. It was official: Aliya’s parents were suing. Because of my drunk driving, my mother could lose everything she ever owned.

Even more awkwardly, my father was there.

I hadn’t seen him since he walked out on our family years ago, but Mom’s lawyer dug him up.

He looked older, with curled black and gray hair, a deep sagging chin and bags under his black eyes. He looked fatter too, especially for a guy who worked with his hands. His aura was a beaten gray. I could tell he’d rather be anywhere else, but he was still my legal guardian.

“Hello, Helen,” he said.

My mother nodded.

“I’d been meaning to talk to you.”

“Is that so?”

My mother tried not to put too much vinegar into her words, but the weight of my death, of my painful upbringing, was too great.

“I’d been thinking that we could revisit child support,” he said. “Now this.”

“You missed her whole life,” Mom said.

My father paused. “I’m paying for that,” he said. “I don’t need you to remind me.”

“The only time you ever paid for anything was when a court order took it out of your cheque,” Mom told him.

“I paid for the fun—”

My biological father stopped short. Both he and Mom looked towards the ground.

Seeing them standing there, surrounded by their auras, it was clear. Their auras clashed so much, giant swirls of red and gray, that I had no doubt that these people should have never produced a child.

“Mr. Terrance and Ms. DeSoto,” the lawyer said. “Let’s step inside.”

Step inside they did.

The lawyer, a man named Kirk Simmons, pored through the police and insurance records, piecing together the tale of my fateful night.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re going to have to get the story precise before I decide whether or not I can take you on.”

After the lawyer rather graphically described my passing, he asked: “Were either of you there?”

“No,” Mom answered. “I was awoken by the police and called in to verify that the body was…”

My father just shook his head.

“Did you know about your daughter’s alcohol problem?” Mr. Simmons continued.

“My daughter was not an alcoholic,” my father said, a little too loudly.

Mom just kept looking down.

“She was,” Mom said.

“You knew?” my father asked.

“It’s not like you were there to tell,” she said to him. “I knew. I’d see the bottles, hear her stumbling in drunk late at night.” Mom looked so old as she gathered her thoughts, pulled from the blue of her aura. “I couldn’t admit it, though,” she said. “She was my girl.”

“No one is saying this is your fault, Mrs. DeSoto,” Mr. Simmons said.

“Aliya’s mother is,” Mom replied. “And maybe she’s right.” There was a pause, and then Mom added: “But I can’t afford to give her anything.”

“How much does she want?” my father asked.

That was the one question that swirled in his aura, the one thing he really cared about.

“She wants nearly two million dollars,” Mr. Simmons answered, “the estimated cost of caring for her daughter throughout her life minus what your insurance from the accident will cover, provided your insurer actually covers the full amount, which is rare.”

“That’s robbery,” my father said. “She wants to get rich, plain and simple.”

“In all likelihood, her daughter will never walk again, Mr. Terrance,” Mr. Simmons said. “The amount may seem astronomical, but it’s not, compared to other costs I’ve seen in trials involving paralysis. If anything, it’s modest.”

“But it’s not our fault,” this man, my father, said.

“Fay was a minor and her primary caretaker knew that she had an alcohol problem, yet failed to get her treatment for her disease,” the lawyer said. “Her secondary caretaker wasn’t even visiting her regularly. That can make the parents culpable in the eyes of a judge.”

“Can you get us out of this?” my father asked.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Simmons said. “Given what you’ve said here, which wasn’t in the original email, I’m not so sure. Frankly, I don’t think it’s in your best interest that I handle this case. But I can refer you to a colleague. He’s handled such cases before.”

“How much will he cost?” my father asked.

“He’ll talk numbers with you,” Mr. Simmons said.

He handed Mom the name of another, much cheaper lawyer, and then shook her hand. Mr. Simmons quickly shook my father’s hand and then guided my parents to the door.

“What were you thinking?” my father asked in the parking lot. “Why didn’t you say you didn’t even know she was drinking?”

“Because I did. I just looked away,” Mom said.

“Now we’re screwed.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way out of paying,” Mom said.

My father shook his head, walked towards the car. “You calling the new lawyer?” he asked.

“We can’t afford a lawyer,” Mom said, “unless you can pay for one. I’ll ask the court to appoint one.”

With that, my father drove off and Mom was left putting the lawyer card in her purse, standing, as she always did, all alone.

* * *

I never thought of Mrs. Walters as beautiful until I saw her aura, this gentle mist of gold, white, and purple. She was a dignified woman who always found a teachable moment. Once, when I was depressed over Alex, she told me of how she first met her husband in college. It was a small gesture, but one filled with hope, and it meant a lot to me that October morning long before I knew I’d soon be dead. She stood only five feet without heels on, and she had honey colored hair in a bun that looked a tad retro. She had pale white cheeks with tiny brown freckles, which I thought looked funny in an adult, but underscored her natural beauty. The boys loved her, but she was a mom to the end, and the way she spoke to them reminded them too much of Mother for the gossip over her looks to spread too far.

I never thought she was young enough to be in high school with Crazy T. I never thought that his entire death began and ended around her. She was the girlfriend of one of the jocks Crazy T shot down, and it was over Crazy T looking at her, longingly, in class one day that they invited him to the party in the woods by the school where they humiliated him. She was the Helen of Burgundy Hill High, the face that launched a thousand fights.

Here she was, years later, passing out the next English assignment I’d never do, not that I did many when I was alive. It was a poem the kids had to write describing how they felt about what happened to me, Preggers, and Steph. I thought it was a rather edgy assignment, and some of the kids looked up at her with pleading eyes and asked: “Can we do something else?”

I wasn’t offended. I understood that when deaths happen in a small town, it’s death overkill. Everyone cries; everyone’s affected. There’s a beauty to that. But it can be too much for some students who think stressing over sex and the prom is more than enough at the moment.

“I’ll let you choose the topic,” Mrs. Walters said to the students, “on two conditions. It has to mean something to you. And you have to give the poem to someone.”

“What?” Sue asked.

“Write the poem for someone,” Mrs. Walters said. “A poem without an audience is like music without sound. Does it exist in the first place?”

The class murmured.

“Are you going to write a poem?” Alex asked her.

She looked at him blankly.

“Would you like me to?” she asked.

“Yeah,” the class said unanimously.

It was a good save, but I saw the look in Alex’s eyes, a look I once put there, a look of pain.

He wasn’t going to let go that easily.

“I mean, you lost some people in high school too, didn’t you?” he asked.

I don’t know how Alex knew about it. There were rumors, I suppose, but it was one question we just knew not to ask. No one ever talked about the shooting as the years rolled on. No one wanted to admit that the halls we’d grown so secure in could become a maze of bullet fire.

“I lost three classmates,” Mrs. Walters said. “One was my boyfriend.”

Mrs. Walters teared up. A few of the kids did too, including Alex, who did his best to hide it.

“Why are you still here?” Alex asked.

“She’s the teacher,” Sue said. “Where else should she be?”

“No, I mean why teach here—after what happened?” Alex asked.

Mrs. Walters looked past the students, into a darker past all her own.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “Maybe I’ll tell you my story in a poem if you tell me yours in one.”

The class looked at Alex. He usually stopped doing his classwork once soccer season wound down.

“I suck at poetry,” he said. “Poetry sucks. Why write it at all?”

“Poetry only sucks if you force yourself to write the poem,” she said. “You have to let the poem write itself through you. You have to start with what you feel.”

“I don’t know what I feel.”

“That’s why we need poetry.”

There were a few more murmurs. Apparently, Burgundy High kids didn’t agree that poetry was necessary at all.

“Okay. We have some time left. Why don’t you start drafting?” Mrs. Walters asked the class.

“Channel your feelings.”

“Do we have to?” Sue asked.

Mrs. Walters just shook her head. The class took out their pens and got started.

I watched as Alex began work on his poem.

It was a kidsy poem, the kind I might’ve written, but profound for Alex. To me, poems always had to have rhyme, like it gave order to life or something.

Summer Kiss

That day by the boathouse shore

when the sun was high

we heard the ocean tides roar

and kissed the first kiss goodbye.

We knew summer was through

and so were we

too old for first love true

too young for eternity.

Love can last forever;

it’s too bad relationships die so quickly.

If we were the way I felt when we were together.

You’d never have cheated on me.

We’d have been a couple for eternity.

Granted, Alex screwed up the rhyme scheme a bit, but who was I to judge? I was moved. I was amazed at the emotion that just came gushing out of him. I leaned over to kiss him and felt the warmth of the Keepers surrounding Mrs. Walters.

“Don’t read it,” Alex said as Mrs. Walters came closer.

“You can share it when you’re ready.”

“When will you share your poem then?”

“I’ll write it tonight,” she said, “and share it tomorrow.”

Mrs. Walters looked at the clock, announced that the period was a minute away from ending.

In the far corner of the class, surrounded by Takers, was Zipper. He was so quiet, so normal, I’d barely noticed him. I might not have noticed if it hadn’t been for a few Takers swirling by his aura.

He started a poem too. He tore it up.

As he did, I saw:

Life will be over by week’s end.

It died the day she did.

The world’s ending.

The torment will cease;

None will remain alive.

Just one thing to consider:

Would I have lived if the world was worth living for?

The bell rang, and a shred of the poem made it to the floor. The class bolted out the door. Mrs. Walters walked the aisles between desks to clean up for the next class. She found only a line of the poem: “Would I have lived if the world was worth living for?” She put it on her desk. From the swirling energies of her aura, I could tell that she was curious about the author. She’d be too late if she waited to find out. But the next class was coming in, already complaining about the assignment. Mrs. Walters forgot about the line of poetry and fell back into teacher mode.