Chapter 36
Cora
I'm a worrier.
I always have been, and thinking about that aspect of my personality makes me think about Eddie's question when he asked me what part of me is just me, and I realize that my concern for others is probably one more thing I got from mirroring my mother. I think it has a lot to do with also being the oldest, and the one who had to step into a motherly role for my two youngest siblings.
I spent my entire trip out of the house worrying about Faye. I considered as I waited in line to pick up my dress for Sadie's memorial from the department store if in-home help would be best or if she'd enjoy being at a facility where she could be around people her own age. I don't know if it's selfish of me to want her near, or if it's horrible of me to send her elsewhere.
I'm truly torn, and I don't know if this is even a conversation she'd want or be capable of fully participating in.
How in the world did I miss that her memory was slipping? How do I get a woman who would rather use herbs and flowers from the garden to make a healing tincture than to go to the doctor so we can get a full diagnosis and suggestions on how to proceed from a medical professional?
Instead of going straight home from my errands, and despite having cold groceries in the car, I swing by my favorite ice cream shop, grateful that they stay open year-round because ice cream is something I prefer when it's cold rather than when it's hot outside.
I pull into an empty spot and watch traffic while I all but inhale a scoop of buttered pecan.
I've already made arrangements to take an extended leave of absence from work, and I know there's a very real chance I may never walk back into that office and work the number of hours I'm accustomed to working there. I'll still always feel the need to stay connected to it because it's my mother's legacy, but I don't think I can go back in the same capacity as I have been since she passed away.
I park in front of the house instead of the garage around the back because it's easier to unload groceries as I mentally work through the list I shopped, wondering what I forgot because there's always something I miss.
I load up my arms and manage to get the package of bathroom tissue stacked on top, and I have to smile as I slowly navigate my way toward the front door. I feel like a champion being capable of bringing in all the groceries in one trip rather than having to make several. I guess there are some senses of accomplishments that don't wane with age.
I feel for the handle on the front door because my vision is blocked by the bathroom tissue, and everything wobbles when I push the door open. I manage to keep it all in my hands somehow and walk toward the kitchen.
"I got those sea salt truffles you like," I yell out in case Faye is close.
I realize as I speak that I forgot to stop by the liquor store, and that means another trip out today because I don't want her mad at me no matter how much I think the woman needs to stop drinking.
Stepping into the kitchen my foot slips out from under me and I topple to the floor, numerous bags of groceries flying before being caught in my arms and falling right back on top of me. Something heavy, probably the damn jar of pickles, smacks me in the forehead hard enough that my vision swims, and as vain as it is, my first thought is that I'm going to have a goose egg on my head for Sadie's memorial. Tears burn my eyes, part from the pain of hitting the floor with my entire body, and part because life shouldn't be this damn hard all at one time.
I free my hands from the grocery bags and lift one to my forehead, panicking when I pull it away and there's wetness coating my fingers.
With my fingers stained red, confusion washes over me. I know I got hit in the head hard, but it didn't feel hard enough to break skin, but the evidence is all over my hand. I swipe at my forehead again just as the scent of copper makes my stomach turn.
A sense of dampness coats my back, butt, and legs, and when I try to sit up fully my hands slip on the tile floor.
Everything in my body stills for half a breath because this doesn't make sense. I dart my eyes around the room until they land on the source of the blood. Crying out and scurrying to Faye, tears make it nearly impossible to see. I attempt to dash them away, forgetting about the blood on my hands until I feel the stickiness transferring to my face. I pull my hands back only a few inches from touching her.
"No," I gasp, feeling completely helpless.
The sane part of me knows there's nothing I can do. The knife protruding from her chest, her paltry skin color, and her sightless stare at the ceiling tell me that she's gone, but the reality of it just won't sink in all the way.
Things like this don't happen to us.
But that's not true either, is it?
My sister was recently murdered, and now Faye.
I scramble away from her, trying as I stand to get the blood off my hands. I know I have to call the police, but I also know I can’t stay here while I do it. Frantically I rush to the front door. I pull it open and scream, but it's Christopher standing there.
"Chris!" I scream.
"What the hell happened? Where are you hurt?"
"N-Not me,"I manage, my body beginning to shake uncontrollably. "Faye."
"Faye hurt you?"
I shake my head. "You're here. You said you couldn't make it."
"William texted and said to meet him here. It was an emergency."
Dread and the greatest fear I've ever felt before in my life begin to consume me.
"We have to go," I say reaching out to him to stop him from going further into the house. "We have to leave."
I watch in horror as I grab his shirt, Faye's blood transferring to his clothes. "It's not safe."
He fights against my hold, trying to walk further into the house.
"Christopher!" I scream so loudly that it startles both of us. "William had Sadie killed, and now he's killed Faye. We have to go. He'll hurt us too."
That's the only explanation for getting us all in the same location.
"Come on," he says, wrapping his arm around me and escorting me out the door.
He helps me into the passenger side of my car before making his way around to the driver's side.
"Where do we go?" he asks as he pulls down the driveway.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "Just get us away from here."
Pulling open the glove box, I grab the stack of napkins from in there and try to get as much of the blood off of me as I can, but it seems like I'm just making even more of a mess. I guess I never really realized that blood smears more than it wipes away, and I feel frantic trying to get it off my skin.
"We have to call the police," I tell him. "Or we can go straight to the police station."
"You look like a murderer covered in blood, Cora," he mutters as he pulls out of the front gate. "We're fleeing the scene of a crime."
"I didn't hurt anyone," I say, my eyes locked on the side of his face as my hands continue to tremble. "I just got home from grocery shopping."
"I know you didn't hurt anyone, but this is a delicate matter."
Confusion clouds my reasoning and I'm a complete mess, but I swear he just sounded like William when he spoke.
"I don't know what to do," he says lifting his hand and running it over his hair. Blood that transferred from me streaks the side of his face, and I somehow realize he's right. What happened and how it looks are two different things. I know that with media coverage and Sadie's death, this is going to look very bad no matter how the police handle the situation which I'm afraid will be make arrests now and work the case later.
"I'll call Eddie," I say, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans and pulling my phone out.
"That's a good idea. He'll know what to do," he says.
"Oh no," I mutter, looking down at my phone.
I tap the screen, but the spider web of broken glass prevents me from doing anything with it.
"It's broken?" he asks, his tone scared and a little manic.
"We can use yours," I say.
"I left mine in my car back at the house," he says, the car decelerating as he pulls to the side.
"What are you doing?"
"We need a phone."
"We can't go back to the house."
"What do we do?" Chris says, his eyes darting all over the place .
"We have to think," I tell him as if just saying it makes it possible with the millions of things running through my head.
I can't seem to fight the chaos in my mind long enough to form a plan.
"I don't know his number," I whisper.
"What?"
"Eddie's number. It's programmed into my phone but I don't have it memorized. We can go to the office. I have an email with his boss's contact information."
"It's business hours, Cora. We can't show up coated in blood."
That makes sense. "We need to go somewhere we can think. We can't just sit on the side of the road."
I know that much at least. I'm not guilty, and it's crazy that we have to act guilty because of how this situation can be perceived.
I feel like a failure to my generation for not having numbers memorized because I've grown too accustomed to having technology right at my fingertips. I'd die the first day in a damn apocalypse situation without a doubt.
"I know a place we can go," he says as he pulls back out onto the road.
I watch him, terrified of what our family has become. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror as if he's scared William is following us.
"I think he killed Petal," I whisper. "I haven't seen her in days."
"I don't understand what's happening," he says, his voice laced with unshed tears, and if he wasn't driving, I'd wrap him in my arms and vow to protect him.
"I don't either," I whisper instead.
The drive gets longer, the miles from our tainted family home growing and growing. I feel Faye's blood drying, tightening my skin, so I sit as still as my traumatized body can manage because the feel of the caked blood cracking when I move threatens to make me sick.
"He was supposed to be in DC," I mutter. "Apparently he lied about that, too."
"He was?" Chris says.
"What did he say over text to get you to come home so quickly?"
I watch as my youngest brother shrugs. "He said there was another family emergency."
I watch the side of his face, sadness swimming inside of me because we'll never be the same after this. Our family is ruined, not only in name but in value.
"Why kill Faye?" I ask out loud because I just can't wrap my head around it.
"I don't know. Maybe she did something to piss him off?"
"He's so meticulous about everything. He's controlled."
"Clearly not," Chris mutters.