Stolen (23 page)

  “Good morning to you, too, Mom. Geesh, I’m
going to remember to point out your flaws in the morning from now on.”

“I might be threatened by that if you were ever up
when I was.” Her face lights up in amusement. “Would you like some breakfast or
coffee?” she asks jokingly, knowing I hate coffee.

 “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

Her brows furrow in. She’s looking at me as if I’m a
walking, talking riddle. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”
Shaking her head in confusion, she pulls out a mug from a cabinet and pours me
half a cup of coffee, guess she thinks I won’t like it.

  Taking a tentative sip—it’s not that unlikely
that I
won’t
like it. I never have before—I find the taste and warmth
refreshing as it washes down my throat. “Mmmm, this is delish. Why have I
waited so long to drink this?”

“Because the times you tried it, you hated it. You
said it tasted like, well, it’s not important what you said it tasted like; you
just never had a taste for it.” Her head is hiding behind the newspaper she
just shielded herself with.

 A giggle pushes its way past my lips. Lowering
the paper, she looks at me quizzically for a moment, a smile spreading across
her face. “You don’t want to say what I said it tasted like? Are you all of a
sudden a demure sophisticate?”

Mom will break every now and then on her curse words.
Mostly she leaves that to me. That’s not to say I curse all the time, but I
can’t help the few that slip out.

  “I may not be prim and proper, but I do try,
you know? Besides, I can always leave that up to you. I should be stricter with
you,” she says with no conviction.

She could try, but it would never stick. What can I
say? I’m not trying to be demure or sophisticated.  

 “So, now that you have your coffee, would you
like some breakfast? Maybe some Fruity Pebbles?” Her words are barely audible.
She’s laughing uncontrollably. Fruity Pebbles are my favorite cereal. Am I not
supposed to like them now that I like coffee? If that’s true, here’s my mug,
pass me the Pebbles, and no one will get hurt.

  “You’re just mean, you know that? I’m sure
plenty of adults manage to fit coffee and Fruity Pebbles into their lives,” I
say matter-of-factly.

Her laughter starts anew. Resting her forehead in her
hands, she says, “If you say so.”

“I do say so. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to
pour myself some cereal, drink my coffee, and hope I can do it in peace.” I
glare my best glare at her. It doesn’t work. We both break into an epic giggle
fest. This is much too early for such antics, but it feels cathartic somehow,
so I relish it.

“Is Cass home yet? I miss her so much. I didn’t want
to wake her, but I’m about ready to. I can’t stand not seeing her.”

“You know, I think the cereal bowl you like is in the
dishwasher. I’ll get it out if you want to grab the milk and cereal.” She’s
busy rushing around the kitchen, rifling through the dishwasher, for what, a
bowl?

 “Mom?” When she doesn’t respond, I call for her
again. “Mom? What’s going on with you? Why do you change the subject and start
acting weird when I mention Cass? Has something happened you’re not telling me
about?”

I can’t help the panic that’s rising in my throat. I
feel like I’m going to be sick. What’s the big secret? “Mom! Please! Tell me! I
deserve to know!”

 Her back is to me, but I notice that her
shoulders are hunched over, as if she’s carrying the weight of the world on her
shoulders, about to cave from the pressure. Something is wrong!

 I don’t know how long I wait, maybe a few
seconds, maybe a few hours. What I do know is that whatever is going on, she
doesn’t want to tell me. Fine! I’ll find out for myself!

The bar stool nearly falls over, wobbling on its feet
instead, almost like me, not wanting to fall, but almost unable to stand as I
leap to my feet, running up the stairs as if a mass of people with torches are
following me. My breathing is erratic, my heart thumping as I stand in front of
Cass’s door. I was so ready to step inside, so ready to figure out the big
secret, but standing here now a part of me wants to hide behind my door
instead, go back to my blissful ignorance. I can’t do that, though. For Cass, I
have to follow through. I have to know!

 I thought mom would have followed me up the
stairs, try to stop me in some way, but she hasn’t. Maybe she wants me to know.

My hand is trembling as it loosely holds the door
knob, my nerves seeming to know something I can’t comprehend. Something is
going to be behind this door that I don’t want to see, I know that with
absolute certainty, but I need to know. I have to know!

With both hands, I turn the knob slowly, taking one
long deep breath as if I’m going under water because that’s what this feels
like, as if I’m preparing to dive into the deepest depths of the ocean, aka,
the deepest depths of my psyche. I can only hope I’ll return to the surface,
that this won’t be my final undoing.

The room is dark, like pitch-black dark. It’s early
morning. I don’t understand why it’s so dark. Cass hates her room being dark.
She’s always been a morning person, up with the sun and annoyingly peppy all
day long, unlike me, who’s a night owl through and through. All my energy comes
at night, something Cass could never understand, but then the same went for me
with her boundless energy throughout the day. Polar opposites in every way;
probably why we were so close. We were intrigued by the way the other lived.

 I run my hand along the wall searching for the
light switch. Found it! Flicking the switch, I’m momentarily blinded by the
brightness. I slowly regain my bearings, only to have them ripped back out from
under me. What is going on? I’m losing it. This is what it truly feels like to
be driven mad, finally being pushed over the proverbial cliff!

The windows are covered with black drapes, the walls
are bare, but for signs of there having been things hanging on them, the bed is
standing, leaning against the far wall near the closet.

 There are boxes haphazardly stacked in a corner,
some open and some taped shut. The white dresser that used to be by the door is
standing near the bed, as if all the furniture has been purposefully pushed out
of the way, ready to be moved or gotten rid of. Maybe that’s it! Mom and Cass
decided to redecorate; that’s why everything is off the walls and the furniture
is moved. You would have to do that in order to paint, right?  

Moving toward the boxes, with a heavy thud, I fall
before them as if begging for mercy to get answers and mercy to find my sister.
I reach for the box closest to me, tugging at the top flaps to open it. I see .
. . me; not me as in a reflection from a mirror, but me from my first
volleyball game where I scored the final point to win the game. I was so happy
that day that Cass made sure to “immortalize” it, as she so eloquently put it.
She loved this picture. There’s no way she would box it up just to redecorate.
She would have stuck it on the fridge or given it to me, something.

Digging farther down I see more pictures, pictures of
her and me at school or at the park, silly pictures from the photo booth at the
mall, pictures that had covered almost every bare spot available in this room,
so why take them down? Even more important, why put them into a box as if she
was sick of seeing them, wanting nothing more to do with the memories they
captured?

 Lowering the flaps of the box slowly as if it
might explode if I react too rashly, I use its weight to steady my upper body.
I try to stand, but my weak legs make it an unattainable feat. I decide to
crawl instead.

In front of the dresser, I open the bottom drawer, the
drawer where her pj’s always were. Nothing! There’s absolutely nothing in here
except a thick layer of dust, as if her room hasn’t been cleaned in months.
What’s happening? Where’s Cass? Why is her stuff packed away? Why? Why!

 Balancing on my knees, I lower my head in an
attempt to calm my short, erratic spasms of breath. I can’t breathe. My head is
swimming and I can’t breathe. I think my lungs are collapsing into nothing,
taking all my air with them. My body drops into the fetal position, gasping for
air, fighting tears that may drown me if I let them free. I’m dying. I know I
am. What else could hurt this much if not death?

 Cass? Where are you? Please come back to me,
please! The room remains silent, still, empty. She isn’t coming back to me.
Wherever she is, she isn’t coming back. Why would she leave without me? Why
would she leave me alone?

 “Jess?” Turning quickly, thinking, hoping, it’s
Cass, I’m dragged back to reality with disappointment as Bruce and mom’s face
come into focus. “Jess?” I see their lips moving, but their voices are barely
whispers in my ears. What are they saying? What do they want? Do they know
where Cass is? Have they known all along but never told me?

As much of a surprise as it is to me, it surprises the
two of them even more when I lunge myself in their direction, anger propelling
me, despair fueling the flame. I know I’m screaming; I can feel the reverberations
in my chest. What I’m saying, though, is as unknown to you as it is to me.

 Bruce is holding me tight against him,
restraining my arms behind my back. Is he planning to arrest me?

Mom’s lips are moving, her brows furrowed deeper than
I’ve ever seen, tears flooding her eyes; she looks miserable. I should care. I
should want to know why, but I don’t. I know I won’t like whatever is making
her so sad, and I don’t want to be that sad with her. I just want to go to
sleep, to wake up from the alternate reality I’ve somehow slipped into. Life
doesn’t work like that, though. You would think I would know that by now, but I
guess I’m just not smart enough to have figured it out.

Present
day . . .

“Jess, are you awake?” a familiar voice asks. How do I
know that voice? “Jess, can you hear me?” Out of curiosity I roll over, my
breath sticks to my throat, making me gasp in response. It can’t be!
This
isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real,
I chant to myself. I’m here
because I had a breakdown and this is just residual lunacy from that breakdown.

Despite my silent pleas, my eyes won’t close. They’re
fixed on the apparition in front of me.

“Jess, listen to me. I know this is a shock, and I
wish so badly that it didn’t have to happen this way, that none of this had to
happen this way, but unfortunately it did. How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling? What kind of question is that?” My
raspy voice shouts. “How am I supposed to answer that? What in the hell is
going on here? Why are you here?” I beg through broken sobs.

“I know this is a lot to process. You have no idea how
sad I am to see you go through this. I had hoped that when/if this day ever
came things would be different. I want to tell you everything, explain
everything, when you’re ready, though. We don’t have to rush into it.”

I have no words; no words in my head, no words begging
to form, no words willing to spill from my dry, chapped lips. I have nothing,
nothing but feelings layered on more feelings layered on even more feelings.

I’m exhausted; the feelings of the entire human race
must be dwelling inside me, needing release, banging my insides with iron fists
in a failed attempt at escaping. I may never be free of them, of this
overwhelming sensation to cry, laugh, scream, and yank my hair out until there
isn’t a single strand left on my head.

“Don’t leave,” I beg as my hand inches its way to the
stranger who’s preparing to leave, the stranger with the face I know so well,
the face I could draw in my sleep, the face I thought I’d never see again in
this life . . . Rogan’s face. I know it can’t be him. It’s not him, but more
than anything, I want it so badly to be him.

He sits back down on the bed. “You sure you want me to
stay? I’ll understand if you don’t, I really will,” he presses.

It’s the eyes. How can someone’s eyes be faked? I see
the same things in these eyes as I did every time I was with Rogan. Somehow he
always made me feel like the only thing in the room, the only thing his eyes
were capable of seeing, and these eyes are doing the same thing, making me feel
like the most important thing in his world, maybe even the whole world.

Nodding, I reach for his hand. It’s soft and warm,
familiar in every way. Closing my eyes, I remember the way these hands touched
me, the way they held me when I was sad, happy, or for no reason other than a
drive to touch me, the hands that made me feel loved, the hands that made love
to me, drove me to my limit and held me when I came back.

Sighing contentedly from my remembrances, I open my eyes
to a heated stare from the Rogan sitting in front of me, quickly diverting his
attention away from my lips, but not without me noticing.

How I manage to smile, I can’t explain, but then again
Rogan always could get me to smile when I least expected, sometimes even
wanted; but this isn’t Rogan. How can this man do the same things that the man
I loved could, the man who’s dead, murdered by a lunatic who could have killed
me as well?

 “Who are—?” Before I can finish my question,
warmth spreads across my bottom lip, sending a quiver through my body. Without
thought, I close my eyes. The pad of this Rogan’s thumb slides across my rough
lips eliciting a soft moan and stirring a warmth in my belly I haven’t felt in
ages.

How can this be happening? I know where this is headed
and I should stop it. I can’t let this imposter kiss me just because he looks
like my Rogan. Can I?

His lips brush softly against mine as if offering a
taste of what’s to come if I accept. I don’t open my eyes, too afraid this is
yet another delusion, one I most definitely don’t want to escape from. Shifting
onto my elbow to reach him, I grasp his neck, sucking in my first willingly
deep breath since Rogan died, or didn’t die? Too much to process right now; who
knows how long I’ll have in this reality to be able to touch him like this. I
have to enjoy it while it lasts. There’s no other option.

There are no words spoken between us, but our actions
speak for themselves. Words never were necessary between Rogan and me. We just
knew what the other needed or wanted without question. It made us, us; amazing
together. Can we have a together again? Can this be real?

When his lips meet mine with the same urgency I can no
longer contain, all ‘what ifs’ leave my mind in a magnificent puff of smoke.
This is my time to feel Rogan once again, and I intend to do just that.

 Taking my face between his two hands, this Rogan
kisses me just like my Rogan used to. Can it really be? No, stop thinking! Stop
comparing! A whimper falls from my lips, fueling him to continue. Our kiss
becomes frantic, primal need the driving force behind the demands we’re putting
silently on one another.

Lying us down gently on the bed, Rogan sidles up to
me, one leg draped over the pair of mine, effectively trapping me beneath him,
a position that makes me start to believe there really is a heaven and this is
it. The heat from his body is making my skin feel like it’s coming far too
close to the sun, burning every inch of me the longer I stay.

I feel a hand begin to stray from my face, moving down
my cheek, my neck, grazing over my collarbone, trailing up and down my arm,
over my ribs just missing my breast. He pulls my right leg out from under him,
wrapping it around his waist. His strong hands squeeze my hips, holding me to him
firmly.

There is a warmth in my belly, and a need seeping from
my pores from his touch, my skin flush and sweaty with desire. It’s as if we’ve
never been a part, nothing bad has happened to us in the past, and there’s
still a possibility of a future together.

Freeing my lips, he trails kisses down to the top of
my chest just above the swell of my breasts, lingering but not crossing that
line.
Oh please!
My brain shouts.
Please, cross that line!

“Oh, Rogan!” a raspy version of my voice cries. “I
never thought I’d get this again, never thought your hands would be on me
again. I need you, please, I need you!” If my begging is a turnoff, Rogan hides
it well.

Without any further pleas from me his hand is now
firmly grasping my breast, making me cry out, every part of me hyperaware of
his touch, of his presence, needing it more desperately than I knew. My body is
moving in harmony with its own desires, my hands tangling in his hair, my nails
dragging down his bare arms, moans and gasps filling the room, begging to be
kept secret from the world outside these four walls.

“Jess, tell me to stop. I know this isn’t what you
need right now. We shouldn’t be doing this,” his words are hot against my neck,
the strain of speaking them clear in the way his chest is heaving, his desire
evident. He’s trying to do the right thing, though, just as he always did. How
can I fault him for that? I just need to throw a bucket of ice on my libido,
and maybe then I can get onto the same page as my Rogan because honestly, right
now, I couldn’t care less about being noble or smart or clearheaded. I want
him; badly!   

 My chest still heaving, I take a cleansing
breath before forcing out the words I have no desire to say, “Stop, Rogan.”
Turning my head away from him, I try desperately not to cry. Why is he doing
this? I’ve missed him for so long, and when I finally have him, he makes me
push him away.

 “Jess. Baby, please look at me.” His words are
spoken in barely a whisper.

 Reluctantly, I turn to face him, wiping my eyes
on my pillowcase, having been unable to keep my tears from shedding. His eyes
are red and glossy, tears evident in the swells below his lashes. “Don’t cry.
I’m not mad. Thank you for always being able to be the mature one.” I laugh
softly, hoping to quiet his thoughts and worries.

 “I’m so sorry I lost it. I’ve just missed you
for so long, and now that you’re awake, I guess my restraint crumbled like a
ton of bricks around me. Forgive me?”

Throwing my arms around his neck, stroking my fingers
across the bare skin beneath his hairline, I tell him there’s nothing to
forgive, he did nothing wrong. Falling into the crook of his neck, I breathe
him in, cataloging this moment in my mind’s scrapbook . . . just in case this
isn’t real.

I used to be so good at living within minutes, my mind
and body knowing I deserved nothing more, but minutes have gone by with me
wrapped around Rogan’s neck, savoring the unique smell that could only belong
to this one man, and I don’t feel bad for it in the least. I know I need to
control this feeling of hope beginning to simmer within me; this can’t be real,
and even if it is, it won’t last. Nothing good ever does.

Rogan pulls away from me to open the door after a
knock forces me to release my hold on him. I’m left feeling utterly spent and
empty without him sitting beside me.

In an attempt to compose myself, I sit up against the
headboard, smoothing out my hair and the gown I’m wearing. Oh, no! I’m in a
hospital gown! How could I not have realized this before now? I must look
hideous! Why would Rogan want to come within ten feet of me, let alone lie in
bed beside me? Too late to care about that now, I guess. Finishing what little
prepping I can do from a hospital bed, I nod to Rogan, who’s been waiting
patiently for my okay to open the door.

 “Hey, Jess.” Looking at Bruce, I can at least
attest to the fact that it’s Bruce speaking, but that’s about it. His voice
sounds off, his demeanor stiff, nothing like the Bruce I know.

He reaches for my hand, then pulls back, then reaches
once more. I don’t wait to see if he’ll pull away again. Pressing his palm
between both of my hands, I stroke the top of his hand to reassure him, I don’t
know what I’m reassuring him of, but it’s clear he needs reassurance
nonetheless.

  I look toward Rogan when I hear his throat
clear. “I’ll—I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” he says while looking between
the back of Bruce’s head and me. I don’t want him to leave and he must sense
that. “I’ll be right outside in the hallway, okay?” His eyes implore me to
trust him, to trust that he isn’t leaving forever just long enough for Bruce
and me to get through whatever we have to get through, and with all the
questions bouncing off the walls of my skull I can guarantee we have a lot to
get through.

“Okay,” I relent, and with that it’s just Bruce and
me, so familiar it should feel comforting. Instead, I want to shy away from the
man I’ve done nothing but run to for three years now. I hate feeling this way
toward the one constant I’ve had in my life these past few years.

“How are you feeling? Any better now that you’ve seen
Rogan?”

So that really is supposed to be Rogan? I don’t buy
it, and I hate that this is something Bruce of all people is trying to convince
me of. “Rogan is dead! I don’t know how you got that guy to look so much like
him, but you did a bang-up job with it; impressive really, but I’m not buying
it, so you can quit trying to peddle it, okay?

“I went to his funeral. You were there, mom was there,
he’s dead. I’ve had to come to terms with it, so why are you doing this to me
now?”

To Bruce’s credit, remorse is heavy on his face. I
know he doesn’t like being the bearer of bad news, so this can’t be easy on
him, but hell, do you think it’s easy on me?

 “I think we need to take this from a new angle.
What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

 The last thing I remember clearly? I remember
hearing Rogan’s voice when I was getting ready for the party; I remember waking
up in the hospital because I had had a mental breakdown because of that, but
there’s something more pressing on my mind. Cass!

“I remember Cass; well, her room anyway. I went in
there to see if she was there and instead found it destroyed, boxes and
furniture strewn about. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how it was supposed to look.
And to top it off, I still couldn’t find her. I miss her so much. I remember
that clearly, too, that whenever I mention her name everyone changes the
subject as if I won’t notice, as if it’s okay to overlook her. She’s my sister
damn it. I deserve to know what’s going on. If she’s okay.”

 Pulling his hand out from between mine, I assume
he’s going to pull back. Instead, his large hand wraps around my much smaller
one, squeezing gently in a comforting manner, and for a moment I am comforted.
This is Bruce, my Bruce, the Bruce who talks to me at two in the morning, the
Bruce who’s held me when I’ve cried, has joked with me and made me laugh when
no one else could. This is the Bruce who would never hurt me.

Breathing in a heavy sigh, he speaks. “I was afraid of
that. Jess, there’s a lot we need to talk about. Do you want to try and talk
about some of this now, or would you rather wait until another time?”

 “Another time? Um, no! I know I can’t be sure,
but I think it’s a safe assumption that I’ve waited long enough. Am I
mistaken?”

Before he speaks, another sigh slips past his lips,
“No, you’re not mistaken. I’m so sorry to have to do this.” By the utter
despair in his voice, the way his shoulders are slouched forward, I know he’s
telling the absolute truth. I also know I’m not going to like this one bit.