After Her (28 page)

30

I slam the laptop shut, shoving it aside to get it away from me.

I fear I’ll toss it out the window in a fit of inconsolable anger. Adrian moves cautiously toward me, tucking his phone back into the confines of his pant pocket. I remain atop the bed, trying to make sense of everything.

“Cassandra, who has your email address?”

I shrug. “It’s a university address,” I say. “Something the school gave out as a courtesy
so the professors can conveniently communicate with the students. No one other than Sasha and my professors know about it.”

“Your professors,” he ponders.

“You can’t seriously assume that any of them had to do with this,” I reply. “None of them have a motive.”

He shakes his head and leaves the room. I follow in his path, grabbing his arm midstride.

“Adrian, what are you going to do?” I ask.

“First, I’m going to go home to subdue Vivian. Then I'm going to reach out to some old associates. We’ll get someone to track that IP address back to the computer that delivered that email.”

“Subdue Vivian? Does that mean you’re gonna drug her again?” I ask.

“You really want me to answer that question?” he replies. “Because I'm sure you already know the answer.”

“That woman is certifiable,” I say. “I admit that, but I feel kind of shitty for attacking her now that I know she may have had nothing to do with what happened to Sasha. Just go easy on her, okay?”

He grips my shoulder, squeezing affectionately before planting a kiss on my forehead.

“I can handle Vivian. You should rest. Call me if you need anything. You still have my private number.”

Adrian turns toward the door, leaving me behind. As the door shuts behind him, I'm reminded of the emptiness consuming this apartment the moment I'm alone. I nearly rush out after him to beg him to come back, to stay the night so that I don’t have to feel so idle.

The rest of the night is like this. I clean the place from head-to-toe, sweeping, mopping then doing the dishes. It’s enough to distract my mind from the ghosts that haunt this place, but I know I have to enter Sasha’s bedroom eventually.

I stand in her doorway for ten minutes, staring in at the unoccupied room, clutching the doorknob, afraid to let go. My knees buckle; eyes swollen with suppressed tears that clog my ducts. This process repeats itself many times as I retrieve her worn clothes from the floor and snap the top back onto her lip-gloss.

I eye her violin in the corner, propped up as if she had used it recently. It’s still warm to the touch where her hands once held it. I still hear her music strumming from the strings in a waft of beautiful noise.

I peel back her bedspread, undressing the mattress, dumping all of her toiletries into a basket. I even spend the wee hours of morning packing her clothes into boxes. Her parents will probably want them shipped back to Montana along with her body. It’ll be all that remains of her as memorabilia.

One thing I'm keeping of hers that I won’t tell them about is her perfume. I’ll need the smell to remind me of her, to fill the apartment with the stench of her so I can pretend she’s still here, showering or lying in bed, watching television. I smile at these memories, wishing I could forget, but somehow glad I still remember.

Around four in the morning, I gather the nerve to call her parents. I planned on waiting until later, but this kind of news won’t be easy to hear regardless of what time of day it is. They’ll need to hear it from someone. I don’t want it to be the police. So I dial. With quivering fingers, I dial Helen Hawthorne’s number, listening to the dial tone for several minutes before pressing the
call
button.

“Hello?” she answers on the fifth ring, possibly after stumbling from bed in the middle of the night. I don’t speak at first. Initially, I’d planned to blurt it all aloud in one rushed breath of air, but Helen doesn’t deserve that kind of disrespect. Neither does Sasha.

   “Hello? Hello! Who is this?” she answers again. “If this is some stupid prank call, I swear I'm calling—“

“It’s me Helen,” I say and I immediately hear the panic in her silence. It’s the same kind of silence I heard from my mom after Sasha told her that I was missing. It must be some sort of extrasensory ability all mothers share. Mothers must have some radar that detects when their kid is in trouble.

“Cassandra, thank god it’s you,” she sighs. “You scared me.”

I chuckle, mainly to ease the tension, to prep her for the inevitable.

“Yeah, it is.”

“It’s been so long since we spoke,” she says. “I can’t believe Sasha hasn’t given me any updates on how you’ve been.”

“Well, I'm fine,” I say, which is more than I can say for Sasha. “Listen I know it’s late or early or whatever, but there’s something you should know.”

I hear her fidgeting and imagine her sitting up in bed, flicking on a lamp light to adjust her eyes to the sight. I imagine her wondering whether to wake Carlson, Sasha’s father, so they can both listen together.

“Cassandra, has something happened?” Helen asks.

I grip my phone tighter, fearing it’ll crumble in my palm.

“Yeah, something happened.”

“Oh god, what is it? Is it Sasha? Is she sick? In the hospital?”

“Helen, I'm sorry. I-I…don’t know—”

Helen releases a cry so loud that it burns in my ear. I pull away from the phone, allowing myself relief. I can’t bare the sound. It drowns my conscience, puncturing it with holes. I want to curl up and roll away from this.

“Cassandra?” Carlson helms the phone, picking up where Helen left off. “What is it?”

I bite my tongue, wishing I could take it all back.

“It’s Sasha. She’s…dead.”

“What?”

“She’s gone, Carlson. I'm sorry.”

In a moment of calm, he relaxes himself though I still hear Helen in the background sobbing.

“How did this happen? What happened to my girl?”

“The police haven’t released an official report. It happened yesterday. She was at a party with me and they found her body in the garden. Blunt force trauma to the head. She bled to death.”

“Was it an accident? Did she fall? Was she pushed?”

“They don’t know,” I say. “They’ll probably want you both to fly down to identify the body and pick up her belongings. I’ve already packed her clothes in case you want to come by the apartment to get them. I'm so sorry.”

“Where the fuck were you?” he asks. “How could you have let this happen?”

“I tried to text her. When she didn’t answer, I didn’t want to push her.”

“You’re supposed to be her goddamn friend,” he retorts. “Why weren’t you looking out for her? She’s spent most of her life looking out for you and you couldn’t do the same for her? Dammit Cassandra!”

I don’t attempt to defend myself. I'm not sure how to since every word he’s saying is the same thing I’ve already said to myself. I sit with the phone to my ear, listening to Carlson berate me until I hear a dial tone.

31

I don’t sleep.

There is no point in trying. Carlson Hawthorne’s words leave me wide-awake, staring at moonlit shadows dancing on my bedroom walls. My body remains limp atop the mattress in a bundle of quivering limbs. I crane my head to the left to peer out through the crack of my open bedroom door. Across the hall, Sasha’s bedroom sits empty, collecting dust like a plastic houseplant. My eyes never close.

* * *

Groaning, I sit up, frantically rubbing my eyes. I emit a resentful moan upon noting my alarm clock. 9:30
am
. I've only been asleep for about two hours. I fall back into the mattress, squeezing my eyes shut.

My phone buzzes. After reading Vivian’s name, I slam the phone facedown, killing the connection. I don’t move from bed. For an hour, I lay tucked beneath lumpy quilts, watching something trashy on TV.

Soon, I drag myself from bed and migrate to the bathroom. I shut the door and face the mirror. I peel off my pajamas and toss each item into a pile on the floor then climb into the shower where I remain for an hour.

* * *

I pick up
Starbucks
on the way to class. I’ll need the caffeine to get me through the day. After parking in the campus student lot, I sit for several minutes nursing the Styrofoam cup in my quaking hands, guzzling Vanilla Roast like it’s water to a parched man.

My phone buzzes again. Vivian has left four messages, ordering me to call back. It takes no deliberation for me to decide on blocking the calls. The fifth call is from Mom. Upon reading her name on the screen, I found myself clambering to take the call, if only to hear the voice of someone familiar, someone more human than I am right now.

For half-an-hour, we talk in a way we never have before. In tears, I recount the sordid details of Sasha’s death while sprawled in some awkward fetal position atop the front seat of my car. I let myself pour it all out in some incoherent juxtaposition of blubbered words. Mom does something she’s never done before. She listens.

“Come back home baby,” she pleads. “You can attend college in Montana. I promise not to hover or get in the way. I'm positive you can find another great college just like Northham in Montana somewhere. Please…just come back home.”

I’d considered the thought, considered running away with my tail between my legs, but how would I face myself knowing that I'm running from the Lynchs? I shake my head though she can’t see. When I try to respond, all I can produce is a mouthful of frenzied tears.

* * *

When I finally trudge to British Lit, Professor Andres is mid-sentence, amidst an intense lecture accompanied with a projection reel and slideshow. I lumber into the classroom with Andres’ back to me then I carry on down the narrow aisle betwixt the desks.

Students mark up their notepads with notes from the blackboard. Some even have tape recorders transcribing the lecture. After clambering to my desk in the back, I can’t even get my hands to function. I reach for my backpack to retrieve my book, but my fingers dangle over the backpack zipper, quivering.

Everyone else appears so…functional. I look around and see the faces of eager students preparing for the midterms: some writing, others reading, listening and asking questions. I can’t even focus long enough to take out my book.

When Andres speaks, I can’t make sense of the lecture. It’s as if she’s speaking Chinese through a blender. My ears hear it; my brain refuses to translate the words into English. I look around and see distorted faces staring back at me, accompanied by muffled voices speaking unintelligible gibberish.

I cover my ears to silence this imaginary chaos, but the world loudens. So many voices speak in unison, reminding me of the night of Vivian’s gala. Too many people ask so many questions simultaneously like a demented choir chorus. My ears burn. Prickle.

Anytime I glimpse the blackboard, all I see are vague images of Sasha’s crumpled body face down in a puddle of her own blood. I jerk out of my seat with a thunderous scream that silences the room. Every head turns to stare at me.

Andres ends her slideshow abruptly and flips a light on to brighten the room. I notice her lips curve, forming words that appear mouthed. I’m deafened to reality, unable to hear anything in the present.

In a stupor, I sway backwards, pressing my hands against the wall to prop myself up. Every eye remains on me, fixed with curiosity while staring at the discombobulated mess of me. I shut my eyes, wishing I could shut out the world. Before anyone can respond, I clumsily gather my backpack and jacket before sprinting out of the room.

Something propels my body to move forward, pumping adrenaline into my veins. I don’t know why; I just know I have to get off campus, away from the apartment, the coffee shop—away from everything that reminds me of Sasha.

* * *

I call into work, begging Frank for the day off. He doesn’t need to see me like this. After the embarrassing scene I’d made in class, I'm debating whether to drop out for the rest of the semester. Take some time off. Get away from people. Maybe I’ll take Mom up on her offer to go back to Montana. At least for a while.

The familiar air could do me some good. California doesn’t have the same quality of air. What little that resembles that Montanan mountain air is the breeze that blows in from the beach. I amble down the coast barefoot, stopping near the edge where the ocean crawls onto the shore. Cool translucent waves curl around my toes, contrasting against the warmth of the sunbaked sand.

This place can be beautiful when it wants to be. Sasha was right about this place. I regret now not visiting this place with her despite the many times she pleaded. I soak in the morning sun, spotting the blotch of yellow pasted in the sky. The smell of sunscreen and dried seaweed swirl in the air. Pelicans ride the currents overhead and search the busy beach with keen eyes. Broken seashells, cigarette butts, drift wood and beer cans litter the sand.

An elderly couple walks their Border Collie down the shore behind me. Joggers run in sporadic packs. A breeze whispers across the beach, warm and delicate. I listen for the hiss of sand across the dunes and the crash of waves against the pier. Seagulls screech at tourists eating gritty sandwiches. Toddlers play in the shallows, wearing nothing but soggy diapers, flinging wet sand and building castles.

Everyone and everything is too…
normal
. No one else, but me is grieving Sasha. To the outside world, it’s as if she never existed. Again, my phone buzzes. I seem to be quite popular on the one day I’d like to be left alone. I suspect Vivian again. Or maybe Adrian—the other person I’d like to ignore.

“You can’t shut out the world forever, Cassie,” I say to myself before acknowledging the phone and finding a number I
don’t
recognize. I let the call go to voicemail. Just because I can’t shut out the world, doesn’t mean that I have to comply with it.

“You have one new message,” the automatic voice tell me. I move my fingers against the keypad to hear it out. The message replies, “Hello Cassandra, this is Detective Karen Weet from the OCPD. I know this may still be a bad time, but I seriously think we should finish that interrogation. The forensics team completed a routine toxicology report on Sasha. I’d like your input on something. If you could please call me back or just come down to the station so we can talk, I’d appreciate it.”

Her voice fades like a whisper in the wind. I remain with the phone pressed to my ear, wondering what to do with her words. After slipping on my jacket, I toss my cell phone into my purse and sprint across the beach toward my car. Key in the ignition. Engine revved. I’m on the road before I can stop to think about the destination.

* * *

I arrive at the police station, grappling for air to inflate my puckered lungs. I wander inside, clutching my purse to my chest like a mother cradling a child. The stale interior contains nothing, but a series of plastic folding chairs, dingy beige walls and hardwood floors scuffed from years of wear and tear.

If Detective Weet hadn’t given me the address, I’d be certain that this is the wrong place. A middle-aged woman with greying blonde hair and square-rimmed glasses sits behind the mahogany receptionist desk. Her first acknowledgement of me is a brief glance in my general direction with some semblance of a smile to greet me.

“Yes miss, can I help you?”

I glance over her shoulder to see into the station behind her, but a wall conceals the insides from the lobby, forcing me to squint to see my way in. The team is a small one, with nothing more than a handful of desk cops, a few in uniform and a couple of more official looking people dressed in formal wear.

“Miss?” the receptionist inquires. “Are you okay?”

I nod and force myself to smile. “Yeah, I um…I'm here to see Detective Weet.”

“Ah, Karen set you up with an appointment?”

“She called my phone and left a message. My name is Cassandra Tate.”

“Hang on a second,” she says with an even bigger smile on her face. “Let me see if your name has been placed into the system. It’ll only take a moment. This old computer isn’t what it used to be.”

She types something on her computer, some ancient little desktop coated in film of dust with years of use exposed by just its keyboard alone. Letters appear scraped and smudged from their buttons. The beige shell has cracks and nicks, revealing small glimpses of the motherboard inside. It looks to me like one of the very first desktops ever created.

“Oh, here you are,” she says then with a frown she looks up at me from the screen.

“I heard about this case. I’m so sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Anyway,” she clears her throat to fill the awkward silence afterwards. “You can have a seat in the lobby. Detective Weet is on her way out to escort you.”

I obey her orders and move toward one of the plastic chairs in the lobby. Nothing can settle me. I sit fidgeting, as if ants swarm me. Occasionally, I glance at the door, expecting Detective Weet to wander in. My focus shifts to magazines sitting atop the wooden coffee table. Most are outdated; others are out of the realm of my interest.

Still, I could use the distraction. I grab the first I can reach at random and flip through the coffee stained pages, skimming the words. After several minutes, someone speaks, “Cassandra?”

I glance up reflexively, lured by the familiar voice. A face stares back at me, wet with tears, eyes swallow and bloodshot. She and I lock eyes and my stomach clenches as if wrung like a towel.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” I gasp as Helen approaches me. “I didn’t know you were here.”

She moves warily, taking one-step at a time as if she’s certain she’ll shatter any moment now. I rise from my chair at once, to meet her, to close the space with the same measure of caution in my movements.

“After your call last night, we took the earliest flight out of the Montana the first chance we got,” she says.

I’d rehearsed a reply for this moment and imagined what I’d say when given the chance to face Sasha’s parents. Those words have left me, now lost somewhere in my throat. Over the phone, it was much easier to articulate. I didn’t have to face her, didn’t have to look her in the eye and see a spitting image of Sasha staring back at me through disheveled eyes.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, I'm sorry,” I say. “I don’t even know what else I can say. I’m so sorry.”

She stares me down in silence as if mustering the words would take more energy to say than she has to give. I inhale and hold the breath in my chest, bracing for her reaction then expecting the worst of whatever she has to offer.

In the lull of our elongated silence, she extends her hand to me, stroking my cheek. I flinch when she slaps me. My head snaps back, responding to the impact. My skin tightens like leather against my left cheekbone. Helen says nothing more.

She breaks down in a fit of sobs, but doesn’t say a word. I touch my cheek, rubbing the raw area that’s sure to bruise. As Helen stands before me, breathing erratically through tapered breaths, I see Sasha.

“Helen?” someone calls as I notice the older man rounding the corner from the other room. His molded grey hair and visibly snug three-piece suit exposes his personality. A real stuffed shirt is what I like to call Carlson Hawthorne. I look at him and can’t imagine how Sasha was related to him. She, the carefree wildcard, couldn’t possibly have been the offspring of such straight-laced parents.

“Cassandra,” he acknowledges me in a stern, dispassionate voice. “They said you were coming by.”

“Yes,” I say while caressing my tingling cheek. “They want to finish interrogating me.”

“They didn’t tell you why?” Helen asks. I suspect by the sound of her voice that she’s intentionally neglecting to tell me something.

I shake my head. “Is there something I should know?”

The two of them exchange conspiratory glances then set their focus back on me in unison.

“We were here to identify Sasha’s body. They took us through the autopsy report and told what they knew about her death. It’s being ruled a homicide,” says Carlson as his voice begins to break from the pressure and strain of the words. “Someone…murdered our girl.”

I stagger backwards, toppling atop the plastic chair I’d been sitting in before. Sweat swatches my skin, coating it with a grimy film that makes me feel so dirty. No shower could clean this filth from my conscience.