Page 8 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

I listen carefully to the sounds around me. Beeping and humming from machines. I hear a voice echoing off in the distance, paging someone. The smell of bleach burns my nose. I’m in a hospital room. The pain in my head intensifies as I remember the bridal shower, Keaton, Dad, and then sudden intense pain, but just as suddenly—numbness. Footsteps approaching has me trying to open my heavy eyes. This time I’m prepared for the brightness, even though it still hurts. I feel the familiar touch of Mom’s smooth, delicate hand grasping mine.

“Denise? Can you hear us?” A low, masculine voice asks.

I cut my eyes to find a very attractive older gentleman in a white lab coat. His short wavy black hair has a few specks of white, along with his neatly trimmed beard. A silver fox. His smile is full and bright when his brown eyes meet mine. “There she is.” His voice is gentle and soothing. “I’m Doctor Hall. How are you feeling?”

“I’m a little confused.”

“That’s normal. What about your pain?”

“It’s there.”

“I’ll have the nurse give you some more medicine. What do you remember?”

“I was heading toward the clubhouse after talking to my dad. What happened?”

My dad takes my hand from Mom, on my other side. “You were hit by a car. Thank God you’re okay.”

“A car?”

My mom mumbles, and I ask her to speak up. Her eyes are glassy, but hard, as she says, “Isabella Jamerson was driving. And I don’t think it was an accident.”

“Melissa,” Daddy mumbles.

“I don’t care what she or her parents say. We’re ending this. She bullied Denise in high school and now this.”

“Melissa—”

“Richard, she could’ve died.” Mom is hysterical now as Dad takes her into his arms. He nods to Doctor Hall and eases Mom out of the room. I swallow the lump in my throat and feel my heart rate increase.

Isabelle was driving the car that hit me? Was she trying to kill me? I still don’t even know the extent of my injuries. I turn my eyes up to find Doctor Hall watching me. I look around the room, and we’re alone.

“I sent the nurse to check on your parents. So you have a history with this Isabella—”

“Isabelle. Mom is the only person who calls her Isabella. I don’t know why, she just always has.”

“The nurse will be back shortly. I want to assure you that you’re going to be okay.”

“Will I?”

“I’m sure you’re frightened after everything you’ve been through. You’re going to be feeling better in no time. I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

“You’re the least of my worries. I shouldn’t be surprised that as soon as I came back to town I’d be hit by a car. Why not? Every time I’m here, there’s trouble.”

“Are you okay, Denise? I mean, really okay. Emotionally wise?”

Not since I was fourteen have I been emotionally fine. Sure, I grew up with the effects of a missing sibling. Mom was very clingy with me, but I loved it. I relished all the attention as the baby and her only daughter. To them, I was the princess who had to be protected and valued. Then Sarah returned. Poor Sarah. The long-lost daughter with her identity crisis, who we now call Alice. For whatever reason. Still, my life was fine. I can share the attention.

Until Landon died. I’d never experienced real loss and heartache. Along with that pain came bullying at school and emotional tension at home. Mom wasn’t the same, and to make matters worse, Alice left her, again as she saw it, for college. Dad was trying to deal with Mom. Trent was gone and found out he was a father, so he was focused on Rachel. And Landon was gone, but his ghost haunted me. His photos everywhere in the house. His room with the door slightly ajar, still kept exactly as he left it. His jeep in the garage, years later because Mom can’t part with it. He’s everywhere but he’s not. Sometimes I could just scream because we can’t acknowledge or accept that he’s gone.

At school, it was in the halls with memorials set up for him, teachers looked at me with pity, and the students whispered horrible things about him. Teachers whispered about whether or not my mom would finally snap this time or turn to drinking again. Some even went as far as to wonder if Daddy would have had enough of her depression and needed “comfort.” Gross. Others whispered about our family money being cursed and how the rich always have the most drama. Others always spoke in that tone that was nerve grating, the one that reeked of fake pity and care. “Good morning Denise…how…” cue head tilt “how are you, honey?” They didn’t care, but that’s the ‘right’ thing to ask. Maybe they did care but I was too angry to hear the sincerity. All I know is what a shame it was for me to have to go through all this when I was pretty. What the hell did my looks have to do with it?

“Denise quit the cheer squad.” “But she’s so pretty.”

“Denise didn’t even make homecoming court.” “But she’s so pretty.”

“Denise dropped the school play.” “But she’s so pretty.”

“Denise quit the math club.” “But she’s so pretty.”

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