Keep Your Fingers Crossed Chapter 2

 

~002.00~        

 

“Your father and I didn't want you to know...” Jennifer says quietly, taking a small bite of her muffin, sucking off the raspberry muffin crumbs, and vanilla coffee from her fingers.  “We thought...” she continues on, “...Mmm.  Here.  Try some.”

She extends a muffin towards me.

I shake my head no.  “I already ate.” I lie.

“You did?”  She looks spectacle.

I nod.  “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Earlier.  Around nine.”

“Oh...”  She shrugs.  “More for me, I guess.”

She takes a bite, sips her coffee, then levels her hazel orbs with mine.  “Your father didn't want you to know because of how disoriented you are.  He said, and I'm quoting, that 'if  he is to find out he might “break” even more, and her death might send him into a relapse.'  Now, I'm not agreeing, 'cause, personally, I think you're stronger than what your father thinks you are.”

I roll my eyes.  “I'm not going to relapse.”

“Still.  That's your father's opinion.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“I convinced him to let me tell you.”

I look at my feet for a moment, then begin picking at the chipping paint on the island counter top.

“Honey, stop that.  It ruins the paint.”

“As if it isn't ruined enough,” I mutter, slipping my hand to my side.

She ignores my comment.  “We want what's best for you and you know that.”  Her voice shakes slightly.  “I only told you because I thought it would be better for you to know sooner...”

I raise my eyes, looking at her from beneath my eyes lashes.

She holds her breath for a moment, watching me.  A small timer goes off on the dishwasher, breaking the small amount of silence.

“Oh...um...Could you unload the dishwasher for me?” she asks, looking at her watch.  “I have to take Emily to her soccer practice.”

I nod.  Pivoting, I open the dishwasher, letting the hot steam engulf my face, moistening it to a damp heat.

“Don't do that,” Jennifer says, “You can scald yourself.”

I don't listen. The heat feels too nice to bring my head back into oxygen.

“David.”

I let the dishwasher's top fall open, and pull the top rack out, burning my fingers.

“Ow.” I place them in my mouth slightly, then shake them out.

“See.  Told you so.”

“At least it's not my face,” I note.

She rolls her eyes.  “Emily Marciano!  Come on!  We're going to be late!” she yells up the stairs.

“I'm coming!” an eleven year old's voice retorts.

“Well, get down here.”

I shake my head slightly, and pull hot glass cups', one by one up and out of the dishwasher, placing them into the cabinets.

“I won't be home until at least five,” Jennifer says as a pair of feet come plummeting down the steps.  “Your father won't be home until ten, and make sure you wipe down the counters.  Also, clean your room, and I mean thorough cleaning; vacuuming, dusting, wiping down your dressers'--”

“Alright.  I get it.”

“...Come on mom,” Emily whines, “We're going to be late.”

“Oh look who's talking.”  She smiles, and tells her daughter to go get her butt in the car or else no ice cream after practice.

“Have fun,” I call, watching the front door click shut slowly.

“We will.” Emily says enthusiastically.

“Eat your lunch,” Jennifer adds.I push in the top drawer of the dishwasher, and pull out the bottom.

 

...dead body found in a motel room...

...alone...

 

I walk over to the radio, cutting it on to hear Coldplay's “Viva La Vida” playing.  I turn it up loud enough to have the cops called on me.