Chapter 1
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Kelly Clarkson said that. I mean, I’m sure she wasn’t the first one to say it but who cares who said it first? I love Kelly, she’s an icon.
Though I can’t listen to Kelly right now, a lot of her songs are pretty sad. Those types of songs you blast and sing to yourself in the mirror after you’ve had one too many appletinis. It’s just a generic comparison, I swear I haven’t done that before.
How I can even think about appletinis at a time like this is beyond me. Though, I could really use one right now. I guess I just feel numb. The thing is, I haven’t even cried yet. Isn’t that bizarre?
I mean, when a girl’s parent pass away, you’d expect her to cry, wouldn’t you? But I haven’t, not once. It’s been two days, not a single tear.
It’s not like I hated my parents or didn’t love them, I loved them more than anything. They were kind of all I had. I don’t have any friends, I don’t have any siblings, I never talk to any of my cousins. I’m pretty much alone now, with no one to help me get through this.
So why haven’t I cried? I didn’t even cry when I heard the news. I’ve been numb ever since, like I had no emotions towards the situation at all. I’ve read online that it’s called being in shock, it’s too traumatic for you to take in.
I live in this small town with my parents, where everyone kind of knows everyone. I’ve had a ton of people give me their condolences and commiserations, but it never made me cry either.
I guess it doesn’t seem very real to me, it all seems like some sort of prank. Maybe that article I read on loss of loved ones is right, I’m just not ready to take it in yet, and I’m suppressing it.
Honestly, what I’m more upset about is the fact that now I have to go and spend the rest of my life with some woman I’ve never even met. My godparents, or, godparent since my uncle and her split. In case of my parents passing, my legal guardian is then my Aunt Milly, my mom’s younger sister.
I think she is like thirty something and my mom always talked about her, but she never had much to do with our family. My dad said he never liked Aunt Milly, so that makes me kind of worried. He would never tell me why, and he would always roll his eyes when my mom would talk her up.
Good thing I turn eighteen in nine months, then I can get the hell out of there. I love living here in the suburbs, everything is perfect. My parents were always so sweet and loving, out neighbours were nice, and everyone is so polite here. It’s also quiet, everything closes around six pm. It sounds boring, but I love it.
I go over to my mirror and run a comb through my blond waves. I wish my hair was longer, it’s only to about my shoulders and it seems it’s been this length my whole life. I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty attractive for a girl my age. Isn’t this supposed to be the awkward stage where everything is still growing, and you look like a mess? You know, braces and pimples, hormones everywhere and all that mumbo jumbo. Not me, not a pimple in sight, perfect teeth, hormones in check baby.
I’m not narcissistic or something, I just know my self worth. My mom always told me there’s nothing conceited about loving yourself, and I resemble that statement.
I sit down on my suitcase and try to zip it up. Do you know what else sucks? I have to leave most of my stuff here, and my uncle is going to sell it. Now that almost made me cry. He claims my Aunt Milly is going to have everything and more for me at her house. I call bullshit. Does she have the same pancake cooker we have here in the kitchen? What about my bedsheets that smell like fresh picked roses? She certainly doesn’t have my one of a kind hair dryer that straightens and dries at the same time. I’m bringing that still, even though my uncle told me not to. A girl has got to look her best at all times, but men don’t understand that.
I finally get my suitcase zipped and push it beside the other one that is fully packed. This is so ludicrous, why do I have to leave my home? Couldn’t my Aunt Milly come and stay with me here? It’s so unfair, I’m losing everything. My parents, my town, and now my home. I’m going to end up losing my hair too after all the stress.
My Uncle pops his abnormally large head into the room then. He isn’t very fortunate in the looks department. His head is just so large, like a satellite dish. They should send him to Mars, they’d always be able to keep track of him because his head is almost the size of the plant itself.
He also dresses very unflattering. He must have every type of plaid shirt in the world, and he pairs them with faded jeans or jogging pants. I wouldn’t be caught dead in jogging pants outside the house, not even if I was doing something so obscene as to jog.
I mean, he is really nice, so he has that going for him. I think he is a lot older than my aunt, something like a ten-year difference. It’s strange to see my Uncle though, I rarely spend time with him. He did visit sometimes, but not often. It’s weird how he isn’t related to us, and even after the divorce he still visits.
My dad really liked him a lot, they would talk on the phone almost every week. My mom always blamed him though, saying it was his fault that Aunt Milly left him. I guess that may be why he didn’t visit very often come to think of it.
“You almost packed Cheri?” He gives me an empathetic smile. “We should get going, it’s a long drive.”
I hate long drives, and I hate sitting helplessly in a car. This is going to be so boring and miserable, I hate all of this so much.
I hate that I have to leave everything behind, it makes this so much worse. Everything is going to change, and I have no control over any of it.
I wonder what’s going to happen to my house anyway. Some hideous loser with no life is probably going to move in, redecorating the whole place into some trailer trash home. He’s probably going to hang his rugs on the wall and pour his milk before he pours the cereal.
He comes in and sits down on my bed.
“Things won’t be so bad there Cheri,” He explains. “I’m sure you’ll like Aunt Milly.”
I look at him, sitting there, on my bed that I have to leave behind. The bed that I love. The bed my mom bought for me, the bedsheets we picked out together.
“Why do you think that?” I ask him. “You hate her, so why would I like her?”
He looks taken aback, unsure of what to say to that. Sometimes I do that to people, I say things I shouldn’t, and it shocks them. But why would I go my whole life wearing a filter? I’m not water from the tap, I don’t need to be filtered.
“I don’t hate her,” He lies. “I once really did love your Aunt, a long time ago now. She’s the type of woman you want to love, but she isn’t easy to love.”
I roll my eyes.
“Love is never easy Uncle Ken,” I tell him.
I’m not speaking from experience, obviously. I’ve never been in love before, but I plan to be someday. I read online somewhere that love isn’t easy, it involves a bunch of things like not only thinking of yourself and compromising. This is probably why I’ve never been in love, who wants to do crap like that?
“Well of course not,” He says. “It’s hard to explain, maybe when you’re older I’ll tell you the whole story.”
When I’m older? I’m seventeen years old and way more mature than most grown adults, why can’t he tell me now?
I don’t understand the whole maybe when your older concept. I see older people doing way more immature things than I ever do. Twenty-year-old girls getting sloshed at the bar, losing their minds over boys who will never treat them right, crying because they are afraid to be alone and think they are going to be alone forever.
I think I’m the perfect candidate to be told what happened between him and Aunt Milly, thus, gaining justice for all us teenagers who are dubbed as not old enough to know something.
“Fine,” I say.
I normally would protest, but I’m exhausted from all this packing. I also have to do a six-hour long car ride with him, so starting a fight isn’t the best idea.
He loads up my stuff into the back of his truck while I sit in the front seat with my arms angrily folded across my chest.
I’m more angry than anything, really.
It still feels like my parents are alive, but then, I have this angry feeling about the whole situation. Someone hit them while they were coming back from their anniversary dinner, the police suspect a drunk driver. The thing that makes me angry, is that the driver fled the scene, leaving no evidence behind of who it was.
Who does that? Kills two people and flees the scene. How can you even live the rest of your life at ease, knowing you hurt two innocent people? I really hope they find out who hit them, I want to know who did this.
Oh no, I read anger is another stage of grieving. There is something like seven stages that I looked up, and anger is one of them. I want to go back to feeling numb, I’m totally okay with supressing my feelings, if that’s what keeps me sane.
The ride is long and painful, I don’t really know what to say to my uncle. He tries to make small conversation, but I’m not in the mood. I binge eat most of his chips though, I love salt and vinegar chips. I really shouldn’t eat so many, they go straight to my thighs. But hell, I’m grieving here.
We’re driving, and he pulls up to a gate, he has to enter a password to get in. Once he does, the gates open, allowing us to enter.
There’s a whole new neighbourhood behind this gate, with houses four times the size of mine back home. This can’t be where Aunt Milly lives.
He pulls into the driveway of one that looks to be a gorgeous beach house. This looks like something out of a movie, this is a prank, this isn’t her house. Someone would have told me if Aunt Milly was rolling in this much cash.
Living in a suburban area, I never see houses like this. Each house back home looks pretty much the same. But this house, now this is what I call a house.
“We’re here,” Uncle Ken announces.
I scan his face for any traces of a smile or desire to burst out laughing.
“She doesn’t live here,” I say. “I know this isn’t her house. Someone would have mentioned how rich she is to me. No one has ever said anything about her being wealthy and owning a beach house.”
Uncle Ken shrugs.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” He says. “But this is her place.”
He gets out of the car and starts unloading my suitcases. How long is he going to prank me for? I mean, I know she doesn’t live here.
He gives me the suitcases and goes back into his truck.
“Uncle Ken,” I say. “This isn’t funny. I know she doesn’t live here.”
He starts the car.
“Cheri, she does,” He says. “I would come in with you, but she’d probably throw me out. She really doesn’t want to see me.”
I’m so confused. Could this really be where she lives?
“Good luck kiddo,” He says, and pulls out of the driveway.
I watch him drive off, disappearing into the distance. I stand outside her house with my suitcases for a few minutes, feeling like this is all just some dream. Or rather, a nightmare.
I take a deep breathe and walk up to the front doors. I ring the doorbell and wait patiently. No one answers, so I ring it again.
Eventually, the door swings open.
A lady in a loose silk robe answers the door, a half empty glass of wine in her hand. She looks half in the bag already.
“Who are you?” She asks and takes another slug from the glass.
She’s drunk for sure, please don’t tell me this is who I think it is.
“Um,” I say. “I’m your niece, Cheri.”
She slaps a hand to her forehead, causing the wine to slosh over the sides of the glass. But she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“Shit,” She says. “Of course, you are, come inside.”
I follow her inside, but she doesn’t give me a tour or tell me where to put my suitcases. She doesn’t say anything, except how she totally forgot that I’m even coming. Her house looks insane from what I get to see though.
I follow her to the living room, where I see two random shirtless men sitting on the couch, also drinking like she is.
She falls in between the two of them laughing, wine falling on all three of them. They all burst out laughing.
“I’m not selfish Cheri darling,” She says to me. “You can take your pick between the two of them.”
The one guy on the left winks at me, and that’s when I realize that this is going to be the longest nine months of my life.
