Page 16 of Pieces of Ash
“Please,” I whisper, my eyes burning again as they did this morning when I smelled her perfume. I think of her diary hidden in my bag, and hope that if Anders won’t talk to me, her journal can at least shed some light on her last days.
We stop at a traffic light, and Anders mumbles something.
“What?” I ask, turning to face him.
“She loved you,” he murmurs, his eyes glistening as he blinks at me again.
No. No, she didn’t.
“Did she tell you that?”
“She didn’t have to,” he answers.
She didn’t love me. She couldn’t have. She sold us to Mosier. She sold me to a monster in exchange for a powder-pink Fendi clutch.
“I don’t think?—”
“Shedid,” he growls. “Now shut up.”
Turning back to the window for the remainder of the ride, a single tear slips down my cheek, and I realize it’s the first I’ve cried for her since the moment I learned my mother was dead.
I am relievedto watch Anders and Cezar drive away, leaving me at the front door of the convent-like building that serves as both dormitory and dining room. Across a small, well-kept quad, there is a two-story, stone academic building with a dozen classrooms for the fifty-two girls who attend middle and high school here. Between the boarding and academic buildings is the Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, the focal point of the small campus. And in the middle of the quad, there is a statue of Jesus on the cross at the head of a square pool with a fountain in the middle that bubbles soothingly.
I am home.
There are seven girls in my grade, all of whom are like sisters to me. We board, with the juniors and sophomores, on the top floor, each of us in a very small, simple room that has a bed, dresser, desk and chair, sink, and small mirror. There is a common lounge area, with comfortable couches, reading lights, puzzles and board games, where we are encouraged to spend time in study, play, or prayer.
There are no televisions. No phones except the one in Mother Superior’s office on the ground floor by the kitchen. No full-length mirrors. Nothing that would encourage worldliness or vanity. Blessed Virgin offers a simple, quiet upbringing for young ladies whose families desire a careful, ultratraditional, Catholic school experience.
My peers are at class, but at 11:45 the bells will ring for midday prayer in the chapel, and they’ll return to the dining room at noon for dinner, followed by afternoon classes, music, and fitness. Evening prayer runs from 4:45 to 5:15, and supper is served at 5:30 every evening.
I climb the stairs to the third floor, noting that I have about an hour before midday prayer to unpack my bag and freshen up. I place my freshly laundered clothes back in my dresser and change into my school uniform—a crisp white cotton blouse, belted navy-blue skirt, navy ballet flats, and navy cardigan sweater monogrammed with the school crest in crimson. I brush my hair and French braid it into a long, blonde tail that almost touches the waistband of my skirt, then secure it with a simple navy-blue rubber band.
With more than forty minutes to spare, I pull my mother’s journal from the almost-empty bag. While part of me is desperate to know what’s inside, there is another part of me that is scared of what I will find. I sit down at my desk, staring at the cover.
It’s a picture of Marilyn Monroe kneeling on a pink bed with a pink pen between her teeth. A round puff of feathers on the back of the pen rubs against her cheek, and her smile is wide, as though kneeling on a bed with a fluffy pen in her mouth is the most fun she’s ever had. Under the picture are the words,THE NEW YOU, in glittery pink. I place my hand over the cover of the journal and close my eyes, offering up a quick prayer.
Dear Lord, whatever is in this diary, I pray it gives me answers, even at the cost of peace. I need to know what happened to Tig, Lord. I feel like I can’t move forward until I know more about how my mother lived and how she died. Please help. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and begin.
Day #1 of THE NEW YOU!
Dear Diary,
Jesus, that’s cheesy. Can I be that cheesy? I guess I can. Who’s going to read this sad shit except for me? No one. That’s who.
Besides, look at that fucking header. THE NEW YOU!
(I just threw up in my mouth.)
Dr. Covey gave me this journal on my last day of rehab. She said it might help me stay strong if I wrote down my thoughts. Yeah, right. That was over two years ago, and this thing has been sitting in my drawer, collecting dust since then.
All that crap they taught me at rehab about One Day At A Time and You Can Do This is bullshit. That’s the first thing I want to say. None of it helps. None of it makes me stop. I know I should stop. I even know it’s going to kill me. Know what? I don’tcare. How pathetic is that? I don’t give a shit if I die except… Fuck. Except for the kid.
My fucking parents would put her in a home so they wouldn’t have to look at her, and then what? Just turned thirteen with little tits and a sweet ass. She’s cute, just like I was. She’d be raped ten ways from Sunday before she was fourteen. Gus would try to take her, but he’s barely better off than me, moving from one sadistic son of a bitch to another before his ass barely has a chance to stop bleeding. I’ll OD and Gus will die from fucking AIDS, and they can bury us side by side for all eternity. Ha. Fuck. It’d be funny if it weren’t so fucking sad.
Besides, the kid. The thousand-weight anchor tied to my neck. I haven’t been free since the day I had her.
