Chapter 37
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
CINDEL
Maybe I should respond to the messages…? No. That would be unwise. Fuck, I don’t know! I need… I need time to think! For now, I’ll compartmentalize and do what I do best… style my figure to conceal the ruinous feelings within me! It’s my ultimate superpower.
Today, I feel cheeky. I select a cabled knit sweater, pull atop a white-collared button-up shirt, tweed breeches, high socks, and a pair of brown saddle oxfords.
It is a smart outfit and thrifted too! I resemble a woman who went against the norms in the forties.
Answering to no one while never taking no for an answer.
A gray beret crowns my head, forcing my fringed bangs to lay flat.
Fashion is sometimes intentional, and I was tickled pink; due to the fact I had multiple defensive layers.
In spite of Dax’s instructions to “plug up” before leaving, I was more determined to rebel. If he did decide to check, he'll have a hell of a time getting through all of this. I hope he doesn’t have a brat kink.
Three hours till my shift starts and I am going to make good use of the time I have.
After avoiding the inevitable, I carry a collection of disorganized boxes from our childhood, out and into the living room.
Making piles to remain organized, I section our lives into personal, family, school, and miscellaneous.
My childhood mementos were significantly lacking compared to Theo’s, but somewhat less chaotic.
I reminisce over old report cards, doodles of the 90’s universal “s” on notebooks, and become teary eyed from tiny inked, baby feet on Theo’s birth certificate.
That one gets put to the side because I realized my mother should have it.
Time flies by and I feel an unsettling sense of dread as I work through the last box. Despite the giant piles of papers and photos around me, nothing thus far has stood out. How was any of this stuff significant in my search for answers?
“What did you leave for me?!” I say, into the empty room.
Leaning against the couch, I rub at the back of my neck before shifting forward, peering back into the almost empty box.
Pulling out a drawing of a wolf, I put it in Theo’s pile before noticing a tinge-yellow photo just beneath.
The edges of the photograph are worn. It’s a group of people.
At first glance I don’t recognize anyone.
Four small children shoved between what looks to be family or friends, before a table of food.
One of the toddlers looks familiar. I reach for the “family” pile, searching for a much younger picture of myself.
Got it! Comparing the two photos together, that’s definitely me.
I haven’t really seen any photos of my parents when they were younger, so I can only assume the woman holding me is my mother and the man next to her, my father.
That means that one of these boys has to be Theo.
He’s five years older than me. Who are these other people?
Beside our parents, is another man. Gradually, I recognize the younger version of my uncle.
Thinner, same sharp features, and steely gaze.
It’s hard to believe this is the same man that I sit across from each month at Benny’s.
It’s only a picture, but he looks irritated?
I suspect this because I witnessed the same look on his face when I last saw him.
When I wouldn’t simply accept the past for what it was.
The other woman in the photograph has red wavy hair.
She’s holding a baby and there’s another little boy by her side…
but I don’t recognize them. Actually, I don’t recall my parents even having friends.
Especially ones that came over to the house.
The man beside the mystery woman looks so familiar.
Holding out the photo, as far as my arm can reach, I gradually bring the image closer to me.
Between Andrea’s sparse insight and what I’ve learned about the Lombardis…
“they worked with others in the past,” I remember.
Holding the photograph mere inches from my nose, I rapidly realize who the family is… “Oh my god, that’s the Murray family!” Mr. Patrick Murray, a younger and significantly fitter man. With his wife… Mary.
From what I understand, Mrs. Murray was murdered.
That must mean that the baby is Mairead.
I can see the resemblance between her and her mother.
Soft features, button nose, and wily hair that’s just starting to grow.
So, that must mean the other boy, beside my brother, is Eamon.
They’ve known each other since they were kids!
Well, technically we’ve all known each other for a lifetime, but why do I have no memory of them at all?
What happened to cause such a fall out between our two families?
Everyone looks so happy. Well, most of them do.
My uncle has a sort of scowl, while Mary appears almost distant.
Like the smile is hard to keep on. Perhaps I’m overthinking it, however I've always been particularly good at reading people.
This photo is important. I fold the curious picture and slide it into the front pocket of my breeches.
I don’t believe this is what Theo left for me to find, but I planned to show Eamon when I saw him.
Reaching back into the box, I find a story Theo wrote in high school with a B+ across the top and then…
that’s it. The bottom of the container. It’s empty.
I turn to find no new bins left to sort through. I’m out of boxes, there’s nothing left. I’ve gone through everything I had and I didn’t find a single thing.
“Argh!” I slam my fists into the couch. Glancing at the piles around me, a sense of shame crawls through me.
How easily a life could be divided by categories…
that my brother can be equated to nothing more than a few bins and insufficient mementos.
Anger is easy. Of course, I’m teed off that my parents didn’t save more of Theo’s stuff, but moreover I’m disheartened.
It’s as if I’m losing him all over again.
Worse than that, I haven’t found anything he may have left for me. What if I’m letting him down?
Flopping back onto the couch, I notice how the shadows have grown longer. The sun is lower in the sky, and I need to leave soon for The Black Sheep. My weary eyes survey the room, skating past the board, then over to the bookshelf where my gaze catches.
Something’s different… the glow of red light is absent.
“Shit.” I pop up and race over to the other side of the room.
“Dammit. Did we lose power?” I’ve been so busy searching for answers, in addition to handling multiple personalities that I’ve forgotten all about Thelma!
My sense of time is all out of whack, I don’t think I’ve checked on her in a few days… or has it been a week?
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” The surge protector appears to be working.
Perhaps the terrarium light burnt out? How have I not noticed?
! Opening the lid to the darkened tank, I begin searching each corner, even within the plants for any sign of the little arachnid.
I’m a terrible pet owner, why did I ever agree to take her?
I can’t even keep a cactus alive! Thank fuck I can’t have kids.
At last, I lift the skull-shaped hide, which I know has been her favorite spot as of late and there she is. On the substrate, just beneath her choice spot, her pint-sized, furry body. Unmoving. The tarantula’s little legs curled inward.
“No… fuck! Noooooo… why?!” Slamming down the faux skull onto the coffee table, it shatters to pieces on impact.
My chest aches as the last connecting thread to my brother has severed.
I killed Thelma. This is all my fault. I consider the splintered pieces of resin around the living room, convinced that my heart is no better off.
All at once, my mind jumps to Eamon. He might be more devastated than me.
No longer is there a Thelma to his Louise.
My brother bought his Chilean rose tarantula, as soon as he moved out of our parent’s home.
Any pets that could hide within a shoe, were not allowed to reside within my mother’s home.
I remember him being so excited to finally have his dream pet, that he sent me photos and videos of Thelma for a week straight!
Eamon seemed to be much better at caring for his tarantula.
Why didn’t I just offer for him to take Thelma too.
Then maybe she would still be alive. I dreaded the thought of having to tell Eamon that his partner spider has passed.
Might as well grab the salt to rub in my already opened wound. I’m a horrible sister.
Descending to the floor, I can’t help but lower my head into my hands. The space seems even darker without the ambient glow…
Journals from my teen years would read, I deserve this.
My world is a dark room and I’m bound to reside within.
The younger me felt shameful for how I thought and what I liked.
Retreating within myself, journaling helped little.
It shoved me into a tiny digestible box.
Lately, I’ve shifted my way of thinking, realizing that I seek out approval, apologize too often, and hold onto guilt like it owes me money.
I have no control over these things. Being confident in my choices is hard…
but I like me. Yes, it absolutely blows chode that the little tarantula is gone, but I didn’t do it intentionally or with malice.