12. Kennedy
Kennedy
CHAPTER TWELVE
Past
I don't need Mr. Ernest to tell me anything to be sure that something serious has happened.
From afar, I see him with the paramedics, gesturing at the door of my house, and shortly after, the men enter.
"What happened?" I ask, already moving to follow them.
"Don't go in there," he says, holding my arm.
"Why were these men called?"
"Your aunt. It seems she had an overdose."
"What? How do you know that?"
"I heard you arguing earlier, and again when you left the house about an hour ago," he says, not surprising me. The houses share a wall, and it’s thin. I know that every shout from my aunt is heard by Mr. Ernest. It's no wonder he doesn't like her. In fact, I could almost swear he hates her.
"And what else?"
"About twenty minutes ago, there was a noise. It sounded like someone falling."
"God! I need to go in!"
"No, you don't," he says, not letting go of me. "Kennedy, I don't think there's anything else to be done."
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen dead people before," he says, without explaining the context.
I don't know much about Mr. Ernest's life. Despite him asking me many questions, he hardly ever talks about himself.
"Are you saying . . .?” I don't have the courage to complete the sentence. Despite not having affection for her, I didn't want her dead.
"Yes, I'm saying that this time your aunt won't be able to recover."
About two weeks ago, she almost died from an overdose, and the police even came to our house because in the hospital, to save her own skin, she had the nerve to tell the detectives that the pain medications belonged to me.
However, when the men came to interrogate me, I told them the truth: that since she hurt her back, Aunt Riny had been abusing medication and I even believed she was buying without a prescription, from drug dealers.
I'm not foolish, and I wasn't born yesterday. I know how serious an accusation of drug trafficking or using controlled substances without a prescription is, and I wasn't going to just stand there and share her lies, thereby harming myself.
I feel bad that upon receiving the news, I'm not sad for my aunt. All I think about is a life lost; besides that, we had no bond.
"I need to go in anyway."
"I'll go with you."
The door is already open, and I see three men in the living room.
She's motionless.
The paramedics are around her, desperately trying to resuscitate her, but their efforts seem in vain, confirming what Mr. Ernest said.
My heart feels as cold as if someone took it out of my chest and placed it in a blizzard.
Despite everything she did to me, a solitary tear rolls down my face as I watch the scene, incredulous.
I never saw my parents dead. Besides my being very young, the coffin was closed. Thinking that Aunt Riny—who just an hour ago seemed well enough to shout and curse at me—has suddenly passed away, doesn't make sense.
For a moment, I hope she'll get up and continue talking to me as she always did.
"Juliet, drop those damn crayons, or I'll break them again!"
"Juliet, you're a piece of trash! Damn the hour I agreed to keep you."
"Juliet, I hate you! I should throw you in the gutter!"
Of course, that last sentence was only said until I started working and bringing money home. From that moment on, she never threatened to "throw me in the gutter" again.
"There's nothing more to be done. We'll take her to the hospital just to have the time of death confirmed by a doctor."
The three men stand up in unison, and while two of them place her on a nearby stretcher, the third turns to me. "Are you a relative?"
"Not by blood, actually."
"But I assume you'll be responsible for everything?"
I look at Mr. Ernest, who seems to understand that I'm still in shock.
"She has a mother, who lives in Manhattan,” he says. “I'll notify her."
I didn't even know he had Mrs. Vina's phone number, but at this moment, I'm grateful he's taking the lead.
I'm not a hypocrite, and I won't say I loved her, but it's sad to see a life end like this. I firmly believe that the greatest enemy of a wicked person is the person themself. Aunt Riny, I have no doubt, had been battling her inner demons for years, but I never imagined it would lead to such a tragic end.
Everything that happened from then on was like watching a movie.
We went to the hospital in Mr. Ernest's car, and there, an attending doctor confirmed the death.
About half an hour ago, we returned home, but despite both of us having to work tomorrow and it already being early morning, he shows no signs of leaving, and I'm grateful for that.
We continue talking in the kitchen.
"Why was there soup on the floor of the living room, Kennedy?"
"I made it, and she didn't like it. I think the intention was to throw it at me, but she missed and ended up throwing it on the stereo, which made her even more irritated."
"Your aunt was a demon," he says, and I can't deny it. "What do you plan to do?"
"I was already leaving. I went out to clear my head, but I was determined to leave. Maybe I'll wait for Mrs. Vina to arrive. She'll certainly want to gather her daughter's things, and?—”
"Don't bother. I talked to her. She'll come for the funeral, but she doesn't want anything to do with what's here. I think she doesn't need this junk," he says, gesturing to the house that is falling apart. "It seems she and the granddaughter she’s raised live very well, with rich people."
"Yes, I think they do. Mrs. Vina's granddaughter, Pam, called me today."
"What for?"
"I don't know, but from what I could understand, her grandma called Aunt Riny—or maybe it was the other way around—who certainly told her what happened today. Her version of the facts, of course."
"You’ve never defended yourself against the things she said about you."
"How do you know she spoke ill of me?"
"Your reputation in the neighborhood isn't good."
I tell him the story of the crayons I received from my teacher and how that started my reputation as a thief. "I was just a girl, and I hadn't stolen anything, but the world prefers to believe the worst of people because good things don't make headlines. I tried to deny it at first, but she beat me, and I stopped caring."
"That's not true, dear. Things like that leave deep scars."
"I don't want to talk about it. The bottom line is I'll stay until the funeral and then leave."
"To go where? Have you decided?"
"I think I'll go to Manhattan. Pam is at least an acquaintance in the city. I hope Mrs. Vina doesn't mind if Pam and I talk or even go out. I just don't know how she'll handle the issue of this house. My aunt was still paying the mortgage."
"Not anymore."
"What?"
"She was about to lose the house. She was going to be on the street."
"How? There were only about five years left to pay it off!"
"Where do you think she was getting money for her illegal medications? She hadn't paid the mortgage in over a year, Kennedy."
"My God in heaven, that explains why she was getting increasingly moody. I knew she had hit a dead end." I pause and look at him as a horrible thought crosses my mind. "Do you think she . . .”
"Committed suicide? No, I don't believe that. Drug addicts lose track of the dose they're using. They want to enjoy the sensation the drug gave them at first and keep increasing the doses until they're completely out of control. Now, let's talk about your future. You can't go to New York immediately; you have to save more money. I can get you a job as a waitress at night. It'll be two shifts, but?—”
"I accept. I'm not in a position to refuse anything. If you can really get me in, I'll be eternally grateful," I say, holding his hand. "Why are you so good to me, Mr. Ernest?"
He gets up. "You've been through a lot today, Kennedy. One day, maybe, we can talk calmly about it."