Tragic Renewal (2 page)

She didn’t respond, shook her head, and slid the door of their news van open. The WKTV logo cut in half by the open door. Amanda slumped onto the floor uncaring of the dirt now grinding into her beige pencil skirt. She flicked her black hair back and scratched her forehead where stress hives were forming.

Jeffrey slid in next to her, placed the camera on the floor, and wrapped his arm around Amanda’s shoulder. “You okay, sis?”

Her head slumped farther forward, but she didn’t respond.

Harper watched the pearl colored shampoo swirl around in her palm as she squeezed the bottle with a tight grip of her fingers. Her mind wandered as her heart ached with the anguish of loss. Unfocused eyes wandered back to her hand when a plop of slimy wetness landed on her foot. The running water sluiced it away as she flipped the cap closed and placed the bottle on the tub rim. With practiced fingers she worked the shampoo left in her hand into her hair letting the familiar lavender scent attempt to relax her overwhelmed mind.

The tears that ran from her eyes were disguised by the water running over her head. She turned the water off as the last of the soap melted into the drain then snatched the pink terrycloth towel from its hook outside the shower door. She pressed the towel to her face then dried off her doughy middle and backside. Her body dried she flipped her head down letting her dark hair fall forward before she twisted the damp towel around it and flipped her head back to center. After tying the belt to her fluffy white bath robe, she left the bathroom and proceeded to her bed to flop down in a huff, not bothering to turn on lights or look at the clock. She didn’t care it was just after seven in the evening she deserved to rest whenever the mood struck.

Her mind screamed with exhaustion as she battled the memory demons that refused to allow her mind the rest it so desperately needed. The clock shined its red light in her face forcing her reluctant eyes to open every few minutes, 8:03, 8:07, 8:10, 8:17. With a screech she jumped from the bed unable to take the red numerals staring at her with taunting awareness.

She shuffled to the bathroom and dug through the medicine cabinet hoping her sleeping pills stood silent sentinel behind the diet pills, Tylenol, stray containers of cotton balls, Q-tips, brow wax, and mouthwash. She slammed the mirrored door shut rattling the contents inside and causing something to fall over. Uninterested in whatever had fallen, she walked away without checking.

After changing into clothes and tugging her hair into a sloppy bun, she left the cramped one bedroom apartment. She drove in bleary eyed contemplation toward a twenty-four-hour Walgreens. Her mind a broken puzzle of thoughts that refused to fit together into a picture that resembled anything recognizable.  The last year of her life had been a whirlwind of change and now shock at the most recent tragedy to befall her. Three weeks ago her best friend, Cara, and Cara’s girlfriend, Susan, had died in a gruesome drunk driving crash. The drunk driver died along with them leaving no one alive to pay for the morbid movie real that played in her mind.

After she received the fateful call telling her Cara had died, Harper made the mistake of Googling the crash that had made headlines across the nation. It made headlines because the entire crash and aftermath were caught on film by the drunk driver’s dash cam, and the local news station that recorded a cop screaming and threatening when a news team was caught filming in the raw aftermath after the crash. The car’s dash cam, confiscated during scene investigation, and leaked online by an unscrupulous secretary at the police department. Though the secretary was fired, the film would live on the internet for infinity.

Harper rubbed her eyes attempting to stop the horror movie playing out in full color whenever her lids tried to close and allow her to rest. The horrifying images burned into her soul. The best she could hope for would be early dementia to wipe her memory and give her sweet relief.

A honking horn brought her back to the present. She was stopped at a green light and must have been there for a while because the car behind her contained a shadowy person laying on his horn and throwing hand gestures she could barely make out in the reflected light from his windshield. Her first reaction was to continue sitting, to prove a point to the pushy driver. Harper shook her head, more aggravated with herself than with the other driver for arresting the disturbing images shooting through her mind. With an apologetic wave, she pulled through the intersection then into the Walgreens parking lot.

As the automatic door slid open, the bright light within blinded her until her eyes adjusted. She pulled a tiny blue cart from the line by the door and made her way down the first aisle. Lotions, soaps, creams, makeup, and diapers whizzed by in her hurry to find sleeping pills that would give her the sweet bliss of slumber. The cart slowed of its own accord when she reached a small selection of cheap wine. Her hand reached to caress the dark glass covering red wine. A bottle found its way into her hand before she realized she picked it up.

With a sharp shake of her head she placed the bottle back in its vacated spot, pushing it until it lined up with its wine comrades. Weak in the will power department, she pushed forward in a continued search for sleeping pills. Toward the back of the store, housed on shelves near the pharmacy, she found an extensive variety of pills. One for every ailment and hypochondriac moment a person might have. Pills for weight loss, heart health, fish oil, vitamins A-Z it seemed, and even some for memory loss. Her eyes pulled back to the memory loss pills as she wished they could cause memory loss rather than prevent it.

The blue and white box of Unisom caught her attention as her eyes skimmed over the other colorful boxes promising a restful night’s sleep with no side-effects. Experience with insomnia had taught her that claims of no side effects were a joke, and most over-the-counter sleeping pills were simply Benadryl in a different package. If she wanted to take Benadryl she would get a knock-off store version and pay half the price. Since when did sleeping pills become antihistamines dressed in different capsules? Her hand landed on the box, lifting it so she could read the microscopic print ingredients list. Once she determined she held the correct box she tossed it in the cart and backtracked to the front of the store. Her single minded cart stopped in front of the wine again.

With a shrug she grabbed one bottle and placed it beside the pills. Looking at the contents in the cart made her stop her journey to checkout. She couldn’t leave the store with pills and wine otherwise she’d look like a pathetic pill popping wino well on her way to destitution and street drugs. She pushed the cart down the candy and snack aisle and loaded up with junk food. Her hand smacked into her forehead as she looked at her cart again. Now she looked like she must have a stash of weed to go along with her sleepless alcoholic binge or maybe she was throwing a party for underage kids and supplying them with the goods.

The next aisle held junk she didn’t need or want, but at least it would balance out the other crap in her cart and make it look like she was shopping for an alcoholic insomniac who needed flip flops and a straw hat.

“Will that be all Ma’am?”

Harper’s eyebrow rose at the use of ma’am. She knew the teenage twerp at the counter wouldn’t be asking for an id to confirm she was old enough to buy the wine now waiting in a plastic bag.

“Yes, that’ll be all kiddo.”

“Your total is” the girl swiped her hand through her short black punk hair and looked at the readout “$55.98.”

Harper sucked in a breath, already regretting her impulse purchases on her limited funds. She held her breath as she slid the card through the reader and avoided looking at the checkout girl with too many piercings and the cockiness of youth. The slow computer took too long to approve the transaction. She came close to passing out from lack of oxygen before the readout displayed approved.

The checkout girl held the receipt out to Harper. “Have a nice night, ma’am.”

Harper caught the condescending tone, but chose not to teach this girl a lesson or two about being polite to her elders. Age and the realities of life would teach her all the lessons she needed to know since her parents must not have taught her the basics of interacting with women down on their luck with sadness seeping from their pores.

She collected her bags and left without another word. The drive home was uneventful with the streets being empty on a week night. Lights shown from windows as she drove through the apartment complex, most having the telltale flickering blue light of television. Unknown neighbors lived their separate lives secreted away in their pseudo homes dressed in colorful paint. She wondered if their lives held in the same turmoil as her own.

With a dejected tilt of her head, Harper unlocked her front door, greeted by the nothingness left of her life. Her empty apartment spoke to her in silent whispers of previous occupants. Their stuff was gone, but she could sense their continued presence in the worn treads of carpet and small smudges on the walls. It gave her a small measure of comfort that her apartment had perhaps held happy people at some point. Certainly every occupant wasn’t as sad and down as she was.

After placing her bags of useless treasures on the counter, she dug through a drawer until she located a corkscrew. When she peeled down the foil on the wine, she realized she didn’t need a corkscrew for the cheap metal cap. A quick twist of her wrist exposed the wine to air creating a slight vapor hanging over the open top. She poured a generous helping over ice in a red solo cup, unconcerned about drinking wine from a disposable cup. No one was around to witness her slow descent into divorced cheapskate drunk with a sleeping pill habit and dead best friend. Though the description fit at the moment she needed to find something positive in her life, but before she could turn her life around she required sleep.

Box of pills in hand, she settled onto the couch and flicked the TV to life. The mindless drivel of other people’s sad lives bound to distract her from feeling sorry for herself. Channels flashed by in a steady stream of uninteresting crap until she hit a current news channel.

“Next up, the tragic story of Cara Dunphy and Susan Stanley. Stay tuned to hear more about the ongoing investigation and efforts of the Boyton Police Department to wipe the internet of graphic footage of their deaths.”

Harper’s mind spun with the shock of hearing Cara’s name come from the perky reporter’s mouth. She wanted to climb through the flat screen and rip the reporter’s coiffed blond hair off her head for daring to say Cara’s name. With the might of Hercules, she whipped the remote at the TV. The plasma popped as cracks shot across the now blank screen.

Harper released a blood-curdling, hair-raising, life-draining scream sure to wake the neighbor’s sleeping baby. She took deep breaths coating her deprived lungs with fresh oxygen. The red wine worked to soothe her nerves while the sleeping pills attempted to trick her mind into letting go of wakefulness. She slumped her way to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed, fully clothed.

She slept the dreamless slumber of exhaustion exacting its toll. For almost twenty four hours her unconscious mind worked on plans unbeknownst to her conscious awareness. Later they would meet and come to a consensus.

When she woke to a ringing phone the next evening, she knew drastic changes were coming her way.

Harper stretched the kinks from her body as she reached for the cell phone. Grabbing it from the charging dock she jabbed the answer icon and pressed it to her sweaty ear.

“Hello?”

Her voice was heavy with sleep and her mind muddled from the previous evening’s dance with wine and pills.

“Ms. Harper Thompson?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Hi, my name is Brianna and I’m calling from Smoth and Associates. I need to speak to Ms. Thompson about Cara Dunphy’s will.”

“Come again? Cara’s will?”

“Um, yes. Can you confirm you’re Ms. Thompson so I can speak to you?”

Harper cleared her dust-dry throat. “Yes,” she huffed, irritated and allowing it to show in her tone.

Harper listened as the woman shuffled papers and cleared her throat.

“Our office prefers to do these transactions in person, so when you get here we’ll go over all the details.”

“I’m a little lost. I’m hundreds of miles away and have no traveling funds.” She took the phone from her ear so she could check the current date. With the promise of an alimony check the next day, and a dried-up job market that wanted nothing to do with hiring a chubby middle-aged woman with few job skills, she couldn’t come up with a reason not to go. She reconsidered her words.

“When do you need me there? I might be able to squeeze you in to my busy, divorced, unemployed, living-on-alimony, going-nowhere life.” Harper clamped her hand over her mouth too late to stop the dramatic spew of feeling sorry for herself words that sprang forth. Her hangover sleep clouded mind had turned off her mouth’s filter. The guard that normally kept stupid words from leaking out must be on break.

Silence stretched as Brianna tried to process the words Harper had flung her direction. Then she tittered like a schoolgirl. “Sorry, Ms. Thompson, you threw me there for a minute – I thought you were serious.”

Harper rolled her eyes and pushed her head deeper into her pillow. “I was, but I’m sorry for talking that way. I’m not having a great time right now as you can imagine.”

A slight noise of sympathy escaped Brianna’s throat. “Ms. Thompson, we’ve all had those days. I’m so sorry about your friend, if I lost my best friend I’d probably never be sober again. Back to your earlier question, it’d best if you can get here as soon as possible so you can decide how you want to handle things.”

A tear slipped from the corner of Harper’s eye and rolled down the side of her face leaving a tiny wet spot on the flowery pillowcase under her head. Brianna’s willingness to forgive rudeness and show compassion put her tear factory to work. “Thanks for not thinking I’m crazy. My life is a mess right now and I don’t even have a best friend to vent to. I will be there as soon as I can.”

“I look forward to meeting you Ms. Thompson and guess what? We all need a best friend to lean on.”

“Thanks, I’ll see you when I get there.”

Harper ended the call. She sighed and slumped her head until her chin touched her breastbone. After another deep sigh she stood from the bed and made her way to the bathroom. She groaned with defeat when she looked in the mirror. Her bloodshot eyes stung, and the whites coated in streaks of red and the brown irises smudged. She rubbed at her swollen lids then searched through the cabinet for eye drops.

With rumbling stomach she went to the kitchen in search of sustenance, which lately had consisted of fast food or frozen dinners. The best friends of single people everywhere. The fridge yielded little in the way of fresh food, but the freezer held one last frozen meal. She took it out and wiped the frost from the package.

“Looks like it’s hamburger steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes tonight.” She said aloud to the empty apartment, almost hoping for a response so she could immerse herself in being crazy. At least then she’d have someone to talk to.

After tossing the dinner in the microwave she hurried to the bathroom for a quick shower to rinse the grime and sweat that accumulated after sleeping for most of a full day.

Her broken TV stared at her with a silent accusing gaze, its screen dripped tears of glass from its fractured face. With nothing on the shattered TV, she ate her dinner in silence. Chewing and swallowing reverberated with each bite of preservative-laden chunks of meat with scant resemblance to the picture on the box from which it came. Her mind drifted to the reason she was in the hole of an apartment and living on the edge of welfare. Resentment drew her brows into a tight knot across her forehead when she thought of her ex-husband, Scott. At this moment he and his new bride were doubtless enjoying a nice meal in their new house, having an excited conversation about the baby that would soon arrive, and staring with adoration into each other’s eyes.

Their imagined married bliss was enough to make her want to puke. The tasteless food lost all appeal. She walked to the trashcan and tossed the plastic divided tray and the remains of her meal. It landed with a hollow thud and splattered potato paste on the white plastic bag. She tugged the bag from the can and carried it to the trash drop in the hallway. The metal door clanged shut after the chute swallowed its meal of plastic covered trash, then burped a faint whiff of rotting garbage.

Harper stared at the red metal door of the trash chute after it closed. Her fingers traced the words etched in the peeling paint by some bored soul with nothing better to do than deface someone else’s property.

Get a life

The scrawled message touched a chord in her that had been lying silent for many years. The chord rang as it strummed through the synapses of her brain. For the last twenty years she had devoted her life to an ungrateful husband. She followed him from base to base as he followed his dream of becoming a general in the Air Force. Though unsuccessful on making general he’d made it to Colonel before he retired the previous year. Even though she knew about his numerous trysts she held on until he retired before asking for a divorce. As a military spouse she was guaranteed half his retirement upon their divorce.

Sometimes there was a small twinge of guilt for taking money he earned, but she always reminded herself that she’d had a great job until they made the last move to Mississippi. She hoped he’d grow out of his wandering ways. That hope blew apart like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper the day he met Isabella. Pretty, perfect Isabella, with her healthy womb and penchant for military officers. Once Scott met Isabella there was no longer a doubt his marriage to Harper was over. Neither fought the inevitable passing of their doomed union. They let it play out to its inaudible bitter end. All of their fighting and trying had been wasted in the early years, leaving nothing for the finale.

She rubbed her hand over her barren womb. A traitorous womb unable to fulfill its duty and carry their babies past sixteen weeks, in less than four short months each born into the world too soon to survive. Scott’s refusal to look into adoption and her refusal to look into surrogacy had forced them into a stubborn standstill that spelled the end of their relationship. Scott turned to other women while Harper fell into a deep depression and turned to food and wine to assuage the guilt of childlessness. Neither considered getting professional help to assist them in coping with their losses. It became easier to ignore and pass each day as automatons engaged in a familiar routine.

Cara became her counselor and helped Harper through the worst of her depression. Hours long late night calls, skyping sessions, and infrequent visits pushed Harper to learn to live with the hand she was dealt. Harper learned to redirect her depression. She now knew how to knit, paint terrible watercolors, create scrapbooks, and make tacky jewelry. Over time, she let the wine go, but continued to turn to food when she was feeling down. As a result she packed fifty extra pounds onto her medium build frame and still carried them around as a testament to her lack of willpower. The weight, a spongy badge of courage, but Harper knew her health and psyche suffered with too many indulgences.

Treading the stairs to her second floor apartment took her breath and made her heart race. Years ago she would have bounded up the stairs without a noticeable change in breathing and still had the energy to cook a real meal. She no longer cared about eating healthy food or counting the calories that slipped past her lips. With so much wretchedness in her life she had plenty of excuses to continue making poor choices.

Harper brushed flyaway hairs back from her face. She knew she had to make changes in her life or she would never find a modicum of happy. Unhappiness is like a disease, left untreated it will never get better. She was too old to start over, but too young to give up on living. Her fortieth birthday had come and gone, she was over the hill but not ready to roll down the other side. Too many years wasted on a marriage that died a slow death along with each fetus gone before his time. She reached to rub the necklace locket, with the initials SBC engraved on its surface, a memento of her sons.

Her mind flashed pictures of what those boys may have looked like had they waited a few more months to enter this world. Dark hair and brown eyes like hers. Cocky attitude and green-eyed gorgeous gaze like Scott. Tall and lanky like Scott or average tending toward round like her.

Harper shook her head closing the album that never was, locking it away for safe keeping but infrequent use. Too many things had gone wrong in her life to expect everything to turn over after reading a single statement someone had scrawled into a trash chute. Her jaw set in a determined line, she grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil and hurried out into the hallway.

With blank paper held over the red metal she turned the pencil sideways and ran the long lead over the indented message. Satisfied it was as good as it would get, she pulled the paper away and held it in front of her face.

Get a life

The message stood out in white relief from the surrounding pencil strokes. When she returned to her apartment, she trimmed around the words and laminated the now business card sized piece of paper. She slipped the card into her wallet where it would sit ready to give her inspiration whenever she needed it.