Chapter 9- Family Traditions
1160 Words
"Look what you did," Hillary clucks, picking up Daniel's favorite mug. "It's chipped. This came all the way from Ireland."
Hillary sighs.
"You're so careless sometimes," she says quietly, as if to herself.
Daniel's ghost fades from view, but the icy weight of his glare lingers long after he is gone.
"Sit down, Lucille," Hillary says firmly. "We have things to discuss."
I take a slow deep breath, and do my best to be polite.
"Hillary, I don't want to be rude," I begin. "But I really don't feel well and I'm not sure now is the time to—"
"Lucille." Hillary cuts me off with a hard glare.
"I know exactly what's going on, and I am here to make sure you fix it."
My blood turns to ice, and I am too stunned to speak.
How can she possibly know?
What does she mean by "fix it"?
These questions rattle in my brain as I try to gear up a dumb expression.
"What do... I dont... What do you mean?" I stammer.
"Cut the bullshit, Lucille," She snaps. "I know what you did.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Fuck!
My hands and face break into a cold sweat and my heart is pounding a million miles a second.
I'm caught.
It's over.
Everything is finally over.
"It's entirely your fault." I hear Hillary droning on, but the ringing in my ears is blocking out most of what she says.
"...your fault..."
"...gone..."
"...broken it..."
I feel like I am going to throw up all over the table when Hillary stands up and slams her palms on the table, raising her voice at me.
"Lucille!" She exclaims. "Are you paying attention? I said you need to call Danny and apologize to him this instant!"
That snaps me back to reality in a daze.
"What did you say?" I murmur.
Hillary scoffs, as if I am deaf and dumb.
"For goodness sake, girl! Get a hold of yourself!" She sits back in her chair regally and pours another cup of tea. "I said you need to call Danny and apologize for what you broke. I spoke to an officer this morning who told me that you—selfishly— called the police on my son after you broke something valuable of his. You owe him, and our family an apology!"
I am dumbfounded. For a moment, I forget everything I told Peter that night. Then it all comes back to me in a daze.
Daniel's ghost appears behind his mother, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed and he is glaring at me, but there is a faint smirk on his lips.
"Go on, Lucy-Goosey," he says as his lips spread into a grin. "Tell my mother how sorry you are."
There is such a coldness in his voice that it's almost as if he never died.
My chest tightens how it always does when he wants me to beg for forgiveness.
I choke on my words. "I'm... I'm sorry, Hillary..."
Tears start to well up in my eyes as the gravity of this scenario starts to hit me.
My boyfriend is dead.
I killed my boyfriend.
His mother is sitting at my kitchen table.
She has no idea...
...
that he is buried right outside that door.
The tears spill over. I put my hand over Hillary's, shocking all three of us.
"I am so sorry..." I say through my tears, looking straight at Daniel.
Hillary looks at me in confusion, slowly turning around to see what I am looking at.
She sees nothing.
Just the light streaming through the window.
Hillary turns back around, is silent for just a moment, and then awkwardly pats my hand just a little too sharply.
"Enough," she says curtly. "Tears never solve problems. Here." She pulls a silk handkerchief out of her purse and pushes it into my hand.
"Pull yourself together and call my son." She stands and her heels click against the hardwood as she begins to stride away.
"Tell him to call me once he comes home." she calls out over her shoulder.
I hear the door open.
"And clean this place up," she exclaims from the door. "You know that Ashford men hate a dirty house!"
The door slams shut.
I sit alone at the table. Tears are still streaming down my face as I speak to the open air.
"Yes," I say to no one. "Yes they do..."
A few hours later I am scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush. My nose burns with the smell of bleach. The house is spotless from top to bottom, but no matter what I do I can't feel settled. I can't keep still.
My fingers are raw and blistered from cleaning, but I push on.
Every time I stop moving, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I flinch at every truck that rumbles past the house.
I hold my breath every time a car door slams.
Every few minutes I check the clock, the seconds dragging by like lead weights.
4:50.
4:53.
Daniel will be home any minute for dinner.
The thought arrives so naturally that I don't question it until several seconds later.
No.
He won't.
I whisper the words to myself anyway.
4:56.
My heart doesn't believe me.
A quarter past five, I finally feel the tension ease by tiny degrees.
I grab a bottle of wine and sink into the couch.
After midnight, the bottle lies empty on the floor, and I'm scrolling through the photos on my phone.
Photos of Daniel and me.
Before he showed me who he really was.
His sparkling blue eyes gleam back at me, V-shaped smile lines crinkling at the corners. His smile looks genuine as he wraps his arms around me.
We were happy that first year.
We cooked dinner together.
We slow-danced in the kitchen.
We watched terrible movies and argued over which takeout place was better.
Then...
Something changed.
The light disappeared from his eyes.
He stopped kissing me goodbye.
He started commenting on what I wore... then what I cooked.
Before long, he had an opinion about everything I did—and everything I didn't.
Somehow, I was always wrong.
A cold sensation creeps across the back of my neck.
"Miss me already?" Daniel asks from behind the couch.
His voice is flat.
Detached.
Unamused.
I don't answer.
I lock my phone, roll toward the back of the couch, and wedge my face into the cushions. I pull the blanket over my head like it might somehow keep him out.
I hear him sigh.
"You can't just lie here and mope," he says, irritation creeping into his voice. "We can't both rot in this house."
I shrink farther into the couch and cover my ears.
As I drift down a river of red wine and nightmares, he keeps talking.
His voice follows me all the way into the dark.
Somehow, I still fall asleep.
- Writer
