Page 5 of Stone Rules

“I’m fine. Just bad memories.” I wipe my face while looking around the bathroom.

On her vanity sits every anti-aging product known to womankind. Creams, gels, masks. There are even needles and small vials of what looks to be Botox. I didn’t even know one could do those injections on oneself. But what makes me want to throw up again is a picture taped to the mirror. I know it’s not a picture of me, but it might as well be. She looks a little older than I am now. Only the clothes she wears dates the photo. She looks young and happy and carefree. More like the mother I remember when I was very little.

I rip the photo off the mirror, leaving the edges torn under the weathered tape that has probably been holding it there for several years. I crumple it up and throw it into the trash. Then I pick up the trash can, hold it to the edge of the counter and sweep everything from the vanity into it. Jars crash together and break, spilling liquid and goo.

I yank open the drawers and pull out bucket-loads of makeup to add to the growing pile of garbage. I open up the cabinet under the sink only to find more clutter that was all part of her quest to regain her youthful appearance. I don’t know what she looked like before her death. But I can imagine. She was forty-eight when I left home. Forty-eight going on sixty. Drugs had taken their toll and taken it quickly.

What a stupid, stupid woman. All she had to do was give up the smack. She wouldn’t have needed any of this crap.

I look down at the overflowing trash can. Then I look back into the bedroom. “I want to get rid of everything. All of it. Even the furniture. Nothing stays. It all goes to the dump. Right now. I have to do it now.”

In the mirror, my eyes find Piper’s. If anyone can understand wanting to purge the past, it’s her. She gives me a knowing look. “I’ll call my sisters and the guys and get them over here. And I think I saw a UPS Store around the corner, so they can pick up boxes on the way. I’ll go look for some trash bags in the kitchen. Will you be okay for a few?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks, Pipes.”

“No thanks necessary. It’s what we do for family.” She turns to walk through the door and I hear her summoning the troops faster than she can reach the kitchen.

I wander back into the bedroom and I stare at the diary I dropped on the carpet. Nothing but pain can come from it. There is nothing that woman could write that holds any interest for me whatsoever. The bound leather journal should be the very next thing I throw in the trash.

I sink down to the floor, my back against the hard metal frame of a dead woman’s bed.She can’t hurt you anymore.

I pick up the book and reopen it to page one.

August 30, 2000

He’s an idiot. I’m only 36. And I don’t look a goddamn day over 29. How dare he try to put me in a mommy role. And for a commercial that my 6-year-old was auditioning for. Asshole. Stole my looks, he said. Well, maybe if she weren’t so pretty it would be easier for me. I never should have taken time off after she was born. I never should have given my fans a chance to forget me. I shouldn’t have even had a kid. Why did I ever let George talk me into it?

I snap the diary closed when Piper walks in the bedroom carrying a box of trash bags.

“I’ll start in here,” she says, pulling one out. “Why don’t you take the kitchen? Less personal.”

My friend knows me well. I nod my head and pull on the bed frame to help me up. Then I walk out to the kitchen and with my best basketball longshot, I deposit the diary into the tall garbage can next to the pantry.

I start emptying cabinets, stacking dishes and glasses on the countertop. Too heavy for bags. I’ll have to wait for boxes. Some of the things are pretty nice. Maybe I shouldn’t throw them out. Maybe I should donate them. To a shelter for abused teenagers perhaps? The thought of it causing her to roll over in her grave gives me a wave of unexpected pleasure.

Piper peeks her head out of the bedroom and sees my growing piles on the counter. “What’ll you do if you throw all that stuff away?”

“Eat off paper plates, I guess. I don’t want anything left. It all goes. I’ll sleep in a sleeping bag if I have to.”

“You’ll do no such thing. We’ll figure something out.” She retreats back into the bedroom and I rifle through the kitchen drawers. I pull one of them out and attempt to dump it into the trash can, right on top of the diary, but I miss my mark and end up sending the ketchup packets and take-out menus toppling over onto the floor.

“Crap,” I mumble to no one. I fall to my knees and gather up the junk. When I go to throw it in the trash, I glance at a name on the page the diary fell open to.

Dewey.

My stomach rolls. And despite my better judgment, I pick the damn thing up and page through it. I don’t read any of her hateful words, but I skim several pages wondering if they hold what I seek. Adrenaline courses through me when I find what I’m looking for—when I think back to the funeral and how good it felt to deck that asshole.

And now I know.

I know why I’m here and what I have to do.

Chapter Three

I look around the reception area. In each corner of the room, there are tall vases with ornate fake flower arrangements. The clean lines of the art on the wall complement the opulent area rug in the center of the room that sits under the white leather couch and chairs.

The woman, who greeted me moments ago from behind a glass partition that reminds me of a bank, fits in well with the high-end décor. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek and severe ponytail. Her makeup tasteful and flawless. Her clothes tailored.

Off to one side of the room, almost as if deliberate and not to attract attention, is a display of personal photos. One picture is of a very attractive couple. A man and a woman in formal attire. A wedding photo. Young, in their early twenties, perhaps not any older than I am, they look deliriously happy, and for a brief second, I envy them.

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