Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes Read online

  I picked option three and walked to the nearby city park to stall longer. I passed between the concrete monoliths flanking the entrance, feeling prickly and a little trapped by the wrought iron fence that skirted the edge. I had to admit my vision made me a bit skittish, but I shook it off. In the vision, I was dead on Momma’s sofa and presently, I was nowhere near Momma’s sofa. Technically, it meant I was safe so I wandered to the small pond in of the middle the park. Azalea bushes surrounded the path, the blooms now faded and scattered amongst the gravel. A half dozen benches lined the trail, but walking helped my restlessness. I followed the path around the periphery, surprised there weren’t more people milling around.

  The crunch under my feet soothed my growing paranoia, but the image of my vision popped into my mind again. I shook my head and tried to chase it away. I hoped it wasn’t true, but what if it was? But I couldn’t just sit around and wait for Daniel Crocker to kill me. The only course of action I could come up with at the moment was to never sit on Momma’s sofa again.

  All the thoughts of my impending murder made me face the undeniable proof of my mortality. There were so many things I’d dreamed of doing. If I died, I’d never get a chance to try any of them. Violet was right. I was frittering my life away.

  An epiphany burst into my mind, nearly knocking me over with the enormity of it. I would create a list, a list of things I wanted to do before I died.

  I found a bench and dug through my purse, grabbing a pen and a Wal-Mart receipt. I stared at the paper. There were lots of things I wanted to do.

  Number one was a decision I’d already made. Get a cell phone. I dug out a library book, placed the receipt on top and wrote my first item. Then I smiled, a smug smile full of pride. Another of the Seven Deadly Sins. How many could I commit in one day? I briefly considered adding them, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with lust. Besides, the desire to act out all the sins in a twenty-four hour period just seemed wrong. I needed to space them out more. Maybe a week. Number two: Commit all Seven Deadly Sins in one week.

  I felt very wicked. This was how the road to ruin started. One minute you’re exasperating your Momma by not turning off your alarm, the next you’re plotting the damnation of your soul. But then again, according to Momma, my soul was already damned. Number two stayed.

  New rule: once the item got on the list, the only way it could be marked off was if I’d done it.

  After number two, the list poured out. Get cable TV. Get my own place. Buy some makeup. Visit a beauty salon. Get a pedicure. Ride in a convertible. Drink a glass of wine. Drink a beer. Go to a bar. Dance. Get a boyfriend. Kiss a man. Do more with a man. (That was all I could bring myself to say.) Get a dog. Dress like a princess.

  I continued to write, my words getting smaller as I got closer to the bottom of the receipt. Wear high heels. Wear a lacy bra and panties. Eat Chinese food. Go to Italy. Learn to knit. Ride a motorcycle. Fly in an airplane. Jump on a trampoline. Fly a kite. Have a picnic in the park. Play in the rain.

  I had twenty-eight items when I realized there was room for only one more at the bottom. I stared at it, unsure what to put, yet afraid to fill in the spot. What if there was something I hadn’t thought of yet? In the end, I wrote the number twenty-nine and left it empty. There were too many possibilities to limit myself to only one more.

  I read the list with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. Proud of myself for finally deciding to embrace life. Embarrassed I wrote it. How many other people needed a list to make them do the things they set out to do?

  The sun lowered in the trees and even though I didn't want to go home, I also didn’t want to walk in the dark. Henryetta was a fairly safe town, and while I was trying to shed my conservative past, I wasn’t quite ready to risk my life just yet, especially with my new list. I carefully folded the receipt, tucked it into my wallet, and walked to the entrance of the park.

  Streetlights blinked on in the dusk, pools of light dotting the street. My gait alternated between a brisk pace and a reluctant stroll as I made my way home. Soon Momma’s house wouldn’t be home. Like a can of ice cold Coke just poured in a glass, giddiness bubbled up and filled my heart with fizzy joy. I had to stop myself from skipping. Maybe I should search for my own place tomorrow, too.

  Our house came into view and I found the porch light off, the windows dark. Momma was frugal, but she would have turned on the living room lamp by nine o’clock and she wouldn’t have gone to bed already.

  I walked up to the side of the house, preparing for a verbal barrage, but stopped short when I found the door slightly ajar. It creaked as I pushed it open in slow motion.

  “Momma?” I called into the dark kitchen. The ticking of the Dollar General rooster clock bounced around the blackness and filled me with a heavy dread. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I made out the outlines of the furniture. The kitchen table and chairs, all in their places. The old children’s song with the line all in their places with bright shiny faces started to play in my head, an odd thought to have when you knew deep in your gut something bad was about to reveal itself.

  I stepped through the door, unsure how to proceed. I decided to just move forward. “Momma?”

  I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. My heart thumped wildly as though it were a rabbit trying to escape from my chest. “Momma?” my voice grew more insistent and frantic. I shuffled to the doorway of the living room. The streetlight poured in through the open window and I saw her upright on the sofa.

  “Momma?” I gasped, somehow knowing she wouldn’t answer.

  I inched closer and wrapped my arms around myself as I tried to keep my wits about me. The outside light illuminated the side of Momma’s face, casting long shadows from her sharp profile. Her eyes were open, as well as her mouth, which sagged as though she was getting ready to utter another complaint. Perhaps she was, before she acquired the three-inch hole in the side of her head.

  I stood in horror, unable to move, mesmerized and terrorized by the sight. Time stood still, the tick of the clock in the kitchen couldn’t keep up with the metronome of my racing heart. Finally, I turned my head from her gaze, realizing fully for the first time that it was the stare of a dead woman.

  I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone in a daze. It shouldn’t have surprised me to hear no dial tone, but I stared at the receiver, puzzled. Huh? Maybe I should have got that cell phone before I came home.

  Later I would think these strange thoughts to run through my mind, but in the moment they didn't seem so odd. I replaced the phone in its cradle, unsure what to do next. I needed to call someone. Who? Oh, the police.

  I stumbled out the door and walked to the new neighbor’s front door, as if I were a zombie, wide-eyed and emotionless. I rapped on the door and he opened it moments later, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans, eyes widened at the sight of me on his doorstep. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and man. We had never even exchanged a word until that moment, although I found myself thinking how rude I’d been not to make him a pie welcoming him to the neighborhood. My mind tripped on the pie thought. I wondered if Momma had gotten the pies out of the oven, or if they were still in there smoldering to a crisp. But then again if they were burnt, I would have smelled them.

  His eyes narrowed as he stared at me, unsure what I wanted, confused by my appearance at a time that wasn’t appropriate to be calling. He placed a hand on one side of the doorway and leaned his weight into it, waiting.

  “Uh…” I began, unsure what to say, forgetting why I was there. Why was I there? Oh, Momma. “Uh… I just got home and…” How did one delicately put that her Momma’s head had been bashed in? “My lights and phone are out…and…”

  “Do you need to call the electric company?” He eyed me warily.

  “No…” I shook my head, confused. “Uh, yeah, maybe. But I think I need to call the police first.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I think my Momma’s dead.” I scrunched the corner
of my mouth as I tried to decide if she was really dead or not. Yeah, she was probably dead.

  He left the doorway, but reappeared in a flash a cordless phone in his hand, already punching numbers.

  “What happened?” he asked over the top of the handset.

  “I’m not really sure.” My voice trailed off as the air became murky and the ground beneath me started falling away. “I think I need to sit down.”

  Two wicker chairs sat on his porch. He grasped my arm and led me a few steps toward one. I sat and rested my elbows on my legs, leaning forward. I felt his hand on the back of my head as he pushed it between my knees and began talking to the 911 dispatcher.

  I barely heard it, because it didn’t matter. Momma was dead and it was supposed to be me.

  Chapter Three

  Henryetta is a pretty safe town, so, any time there’s a murder, word spreads fast. Especially if it's the murder of an upstanding citizen in the community, meaning anyone who wasn’t a derelict, habitual drunk, or criminal. While some would argue Momma’s qualifications as an “upstanding citizen,” there was no denying she didn’t fall into the other three categories.

  The police showed up about five minutes after my neighbor called. They blazed down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The people soon followed. Kids might run out of their houses giddy with excitement at the first strains of music from an ice cream truck, but for the adults of Henryetta it was sirens. Fire truck sirens would do, but nothing piqued their excitement like the wail of a police car.

  In all the ruckus, my neighbor acquired a shirt and someone brought me an afghan and threw it over my legs. Why someone thought my legs should be covered on a sticky, hot evening was a good question. It must have been a way to feel useful, like boiling water in a medical emergency. Nevertheless, I sat in the old wicker chair with a crocheted afghan across my legs, in too much shock to think about removing it, even as the perspiration pooled under the woolen threads.

  When the police got out of their patrol cars, my neighbor met them at the curb. Flashlight beams bobbing wildly, they ran for the open side door of Momma’s house. An ambulance pulled up, followed by two more police cruisers. I didn’t know how many police cars the city of Henryetta owned, but I was willing to bet money all of them were currently parked in front of my house.

  The crowd in the street continued to grow and my neighbor made his way back to his porch, clearly uncomfortable. I suspected he hadn’t been in this type of situation before, which I supposed was a positive character trait. He stood about three feet away and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. He snuck glances at me like he wanted to say something until he cleared his throat.

  “So…can I get you anything?”

  His question stumped me. I had no idea if I needed anything. My mind felt detached from my body, like I was watching a movie playing in front of me instead of real life. Maybe I should ask for popcorn. I looked up at him with an expression of bewilderment.

  He took pity on me. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  He disappeared and left his front door open. A shaft of light made an abstract geometric shape on the front porch. The light attracted moths and June bugs, which flittered around and ricocheted off the columns that held up the porch roof. He emerged from the doorway and swatted the bugs away with one hand, a glass of ice water in the other.

  “Thank you,” I said as he handed the glass to me. “I’m sorry, I don't know your name.”

  “Joe McAllister.”

  I nodded my response, wondering why he didn’t ask mine. “I’m Rose.” I was sitting on his porch while the coroner put my Momma in a body bag. This seemed like a first-name-basis situation.

  He nodded curtly. “Yeah, I know.”

  Unsure what to make of that, I realized I was in no shape to reason anything out.

  Another car pulled up and Violet burst out like a ball from a cannon. “Rose!” She scanned the crowd searching for me in the madness.

  I was about to call out to her when Joe shouted instead. “She’s over here.”

  Violet jerked her head toward Joe and ran, leaping onto the porch. She collapsed on her knees at my feet. “Is it true? Is Momma dead?”

  Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn't fall. I nodded my head.

  Violet buried her face into my knees, the afghan now a hot, sweaty mess. “Oh, thank God it wasn’t you! I was so scared.”

  I looked down at her head as she began to weep. I thought it odd I had the opposite reaction. It was supposed to be me, not Momma. The guilt that went along with that fact sat in the periphery of my mind, waiting patiently for the shock to wear off so it could rush in to take its place.

  She looked up at me, her tears like streams of silver in the glow of the streetlights. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I hesitated. “I don't know, Vi. Joe called the police. I didn’t call anyone. Who called you?”

  “Mildred.”

  Of course, Mildred would be the one to call. “What did she tell you?”

  “That a motorcycle gang broke in and viciously attacked you both. Momma tried to fight them off and you were lucky to escape alive.”

  My mouth dropped open, aghast. How did these crazy rumors start? And then I started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny, Rose. I was scared to death!”

  My laughter continued, turning into belly-busting giggles. Joe, who stood a few feet away, turned and watched me with a look of horror, as did the crowd lining the sidewalk and street.

  “Rose!” Violet said, her words harsh. “This is not funny.”

  “No, no it’s not.” I choked out in my laughter. “But you have to admit, the image of a gang burstin’ in our house and Momma takin’ them on is hilarious. Can't you see Momma whippin’ out some Kung Fu moves?” Tears of laughter streamed down my face.

  Violet’s mouth lifted into a lopsided grin. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  I felt the laughter shifting and before I knew it, I sobbed. My fear, the horror of what I’d witnessed, and the fact that Momma was dead all escaped through my tears. “Oh Violet, it was so awful. I found her on the sofa, and she had a huge hole in the side of her head. It was supposed to be me.”

  Joe’s head whipped around to stare at me.

  “Don’t say that, Rose, of course it wasn't supposed to be you,” Violet admonished. “It was just one of those random acts of violence. Thank God you weren’t hurt.”

  I shook my head. “No, Violet, you know yesterday afternoon? When I asked you if you remembered me seeing anything bad before? This was it, this was what I saw, but it was me.”

  Violet looked around to see if anyone was listening. Joe’s gaze had returned to the crowd. He pretended to not be eavesdropping, but I knew better. Violet lowered her voice. “Don't be tellin’ anyone about your vision.”

  “I’m not stupid, Violet.”

  “I didn't say you were, sweetheart. But in case you start to feel guilty, don’t tell anyone it should have been you. Just keep it to yourself. When all this settles down, we’ll sort it out.”

  I nodded, grateful I had Violet there to help me.

  The crowd murmured and we turned our attention to the side door. A body bag on a gurney came through the door, rolled by several men. Someone had strung yellow crime scene tape around the yard. A policeman lifted the tape so the coroner’s parade could push through, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as they made their way through to the ambulance.

  “I’m really tired, Violet. Could I stay with you tonight?”

  “Of course, you can stay as long as you want. Why don’t we get out of here?”

  “You probably can’t leave yet,” Joe said, still facing the crowd. “I’m sure the police will want to get a statement from you about what happened. I’ll go ask them when they can get to it.”

  His long legs easily stepped off the porch and he walked over to one of the officers, his hands tucked in his front jeans pockets. They exchanged
words and Joe gestured in my direction with his shoulder. After another minute of discussion, he came back.

  “Someone will be over in a minute.”

  Violet got up off the porch floor and moved to the other wicker chair, dragging it closer to mine. She reached out her hand and we laced our fingers, holding tight. Memories of our youth rushed back, our fingers wound together, linking us. We were each other’s lifeboats in the storm of our mother’s disturbances. It struck me that this was just one more in a long line of others before it, albeit this was her last. I laid my head on Violet’s shoulder, like I’d done a million times before, closing my eyes. I took a deep breath, Violet’s familiar comfort radiating through me, and I told myself I could rest for just a moment. Violet was there to watch over me, just like always.

  “Ms. Gardner?”

  I opened my eyes, realizing I had dozed off. “Yes?” I rubbed a hand across my forehead.

  A stocky middle-aged man in dress pants and a button down shirt stood in front of me. “I’m Detective Taylor. We’d like to get a statement from you now.”

  Joe turned on the porch light so that Detective Taylor could see the contents of the notebook he flipped open. I told him everything from the moment I came home.

  He looked up at me. “Ms. Gardner, your neighbors say you had an argument with your mother this afternoon.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  Violet head snapped to me. “You did? You stood up to Momma?”