Better Off Dead: A Lucy Hart, Deathdealer Novel Page 4

  But she didn’t.

  As her grandmother stroked her back and slowly maneuvered Lucy over to and then into the passenger seat of the ancient white Oldsmobile, the weight on her chest lessened, as did the pain that radiated through her entire body.

  For an instant she glanced back to where she’d stood by the guardrail. The dark figure was there again, its shadowy form flickered as it drifted toward the car. But just then Gram gunned the Oldsmobile’s engine, leaving the dark apparition in the dust.

  By the time her grandmother drove them home she’d forgotten about the phantom, forgotten about her injured body and her crushed pride. She literally felt nothing at all. Her tears had dried up, her head and arm no longer hurt, and her breathing was slow and steady.

  Too slow.

  And it wasn’t just the pain that was gone, Lucy was numb, even in her head, she thought of absolutely nothing.

  The only thing she felt was relief when she saw Gram’s white clapboard house appear through the car window. Though rundown and shabby outside—the white paint was peeling and the roof sagged some in the middle—Lucy only felt truly safe once she was inside. As if the house itself repelled the horrors and pain that followed Lucy everywhere she went.

  Her grandmother’s kitchen made her feel warm. It smelled sweet and inviting. On the scarred kitchen table sat a round, simply decorated double layer white cake with pink roses and fancy filigree adorning the edges.

  Lucy felt her mouth fall open. It was beautiful, and smelled so good.

  “Did you make this?” Lucy said, her voice wavering. She couldn’t believe that anyone had made a cake… not one this beautiful. All her birthday cakes had been store bought, with heavy cream icing, themed with whatever her current obsession was that year, or had her picture airbrushed over the top.

  But this cake was handmade, just for her. Her name swirled across the top in fancy letters, and happy birthday in smaller script below. A party candle shaped like the number eighteen stood alone from the top of the cake.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” Her grandmother said, striking a match and touching it to the candle’s wick. “I used to decorate cakes for a living… oh, about a hundred years ago.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling. Her grandmother never tried to hide her age—she wore it proudly, like a badge for all to see.

  “It’s gorgeous.” Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. The aroma was intoxicating. “No cake has ever smelled this good.”

  “Well then, make a wish and blow out the candle,” Gram said. “Then we can have us a piece.”

  Lucy was suddenly torn from the wondrous scent of the cake, her attention splintered off in a million directions. There were too many things to wish for. Too many things she wished had never happened. One—the night of her father’s arrest—burned somewhere deep in the back of her mind. She would not look back there, or call it forward to her anymore. That memory hurt too much. Like how remembering who she used to be hurt too much.

  No, wishing for the impossible is stupid. She took a breath, and it crackled in her lungs. She closed her eyes. If I just had one thing that was mine… something to remind me of who I used to be…

  She blew, one short puff of air, and the candle went out, a small wisp of smoke rising from the tiny ember before it burned out.

  “Happy birthday, Lucybean!” her grandmother said, swooping down and kissing her cheek, hugging her around the back of her shoulders. Lucy leaned into her grandmother’s warmth. After a soothing moment, her grandmother stood and strode across the kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out two small plates. “Time for cake.”

  Lucy watched as her grandmother cut the cake, not a tremor or tremble in her skilled hands, slicing off two perfect looking pieces. The two women sat there, smiling at each other for a moment before digging into the cake. The taste was better than the smell, if that was even possible. The icing had buttery lemon zest to it, delicate yet refreshing as ice cream on Lucy’s tongue. The cake burst with oranges and white chocolate… and something else… the something else had some kick to it.

  “What’s in the cake?” Lucy smiled as she licked her fork clean.

  Her grandmother got this look on her face—false innocence and shock. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean this cake is spiked.” Lucy raised her eyebrow at her grandmother, and then took another big bite of the cake.

  Her grandmother primly blotted her lips with her napkin and grinned wickedly.

  “You are eighteen, after all…” She pursed her lips and then smiled wide, her face practically glowing. “And I’ve had a bottle of Grand Marnier in the cabinet since… ” Her brow furrowed in contemplation. “Well, let’s just say, a while.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe her grandmother was suddenly modest about her age. There must be something else to it, something a little lurid, or scandalous, or both.

  Lucy chewed the delicious, if potent, cake and smiled to herself. Finally, something nice was happening on her birthday.

  “I almost forgot,” her grandmother chimed. “Your gifts!”

  A fleeting moment of dread passed through her body. Remembering the dream she’d had… well, the nightmare she’d had, when she was knocked out at McDonald’s. The not so dead, dead puppy dream.

  Your gift…

  Lucy shuddered.

  Her grandmother was already up and back with a pretty red and pink gift bag, a small badly wrapped present, and two other boxes with silvery wrapping.

  As long as there was nothing with a wagging tail in the bag, she would be happy.

  Her grandmother handed her the bag first. Under the pink tissue paper Lucy found a card with a big heart on it, and Tweety Bird swinging on its perch in the middle of it.

  It was from her mother, and there was a twenty dollar bill tucked into the card.

  Sorry I’m not there. Had to pick up a double.

  Love you sweet girl.

  Mom.

  Lucy set down the card and the money, and then reached back into the bag. At the bottom was a pair of four inch, pink leather Jimmy Choo knockoffs. But they made Lucy smile. They were heels, and girly and something like what she wore when she used to go out on dates.

  “There’s something else in there.” Her grandmother gave the bag a playful shake.

  Lucy reached into the pink tissue paper again and found a small cell phone.

  “It’s one of those pre-paid phones. There’s over three hundred minutes on there. Your brother turned it on for us…” She halted. Part of this gift was from her too.

  Lucy should’ve known that her mother wouldn’t think to get her something practical.

  “Turned it on for Lila, I mean.” Having her grandmother call her mother Lila never failed to shock her. Her father had always called her Elle.

  Daddy…

  She was certain neither of the two remaining presents were from him. He hadn’t called, written, or asked about her the entire six months since his arrest. And the last time she’d seen him in court, he’d completely ignored her.

  Lucy shook the memory of him as he walked out of the courtroom, in the custody of bailiffs and an FBI agent, from her mind. How her heart had stopped beating, and she’d dug her fingernails into her palms until they’d bled.

  Anything not to cry.

  Next was the badly wrapped present—from her brother, Seth. Under the wrinkled paper was a CD she used to have—Kelly Clarkson. It had “Behind These Hazel Eyes” on it.

  So he knows me enough to know my favorite song… She was surprised. Too bad I don’t own a CD player anymore.

  Finally came the two silvery boxes—one long and slim, the other a bigger, almost weightless box. Both were undoubtedly from her grandmother.

  Lucy tore into the thin package first, and under the box lid she found a perfectly faded pair of vintage Calvin Klein jeans.

  “Maggie down at Fashion Again helped me find these. I asked what was the… most chic thing she had for a girl your age.�
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  Lucy leaned over and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Thank you. They’re perfect.” She noticed that they were her size… her size now, with the five pounds of Big Macs and French fries on her hips and ass—an unwanted bonus from her job.

  She willed what that meant out of her thoughts. Who cared what size she was? No one anymore.

  She reached for the second package and tore into it, wanting something to do with her hands as she tried to push all the thoughts out of her head before they made her head too heavy and she couldn’t hold it up anymore.

  She opened the box and looked down at the small, fuzzy, key lime green teddy bear that looked up at her with his arms outstretched. She gasped as her memory caught up with her eyes. The familiar amber glass eyes, the cute little upturned snout, the small green heart in the middle of its chest.

  As Lucy scooped it out of the box, its soft, soft fur caressed her fingers. “Mr. Gordo…” she whispered.

  “I forgot you even left him here, back… well, whenever it was.”

  Third grade. I was eight.

  “Found it in my cedar chest a couple weeks back… I thought you’d like to have it back.”

  Lucy didn’t realize she was crying until she felt her tears splash as they fell on her hands, and onto the green bear’s soft fur.

  “Lucybean—” her grandmother tried to say more, but Lucy jumped up, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then ran up the stairs, her vision a blur. She bolted into her little room and pushed the door closed with all her weight. She stood there as she swiped at her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

  But the mere sight of her bed—her grandmother had made it up fresh with faded yellow sheets and a good heavy blanket—made the tears flow harder, and her breath come in gulps and gasps. The world pressed down on her again, threatening to grind her into dust. She staggered toward the bed and then tentatively lay down, letting her beaten and bruised body slowly sink into the soft old mattress.

  As she wept into Mr. Gordo’s soft green fur, she prayed that weight would crush her. Please… take all this pain away.

  *

  It was almost a nice way to wake up… almost. Gentle morning light spilled through the curtains on her window, amber and yellow that warmed the room. Lucy’s eyes were sore as she opened them, her vision fuzzy as she blinked. She had big time cotton mouth, and as she licked her parched lips she tasted her grandmother’s icing, just a hint. But then she turned her head to look at her alarm clock. Her head, her neck, her shoulder ,and arm, all ignited in a fiery chorus of pain. Her good hand shot up to hold her head and she felt something soft and fluffy against her forehead. She pulled her hand away and looked at Mr. Gordo.

  At least you’re here…

  Lucy set him down on her bed, and then pulled herself up until she was sitting with her legs dangling off the side. She still had on her Dr. Scholl’s. When the throbbing in her arm and shoulder cooled, and the room stopped spinning, she took a deep breath.

  Something stinks!

  And suddenly she realized it was her.

  The special sauce…

  Lucy groaned as she pushed off the bed with her good arm and stood, wobbly on her feet. Her head started to spin again, and the rest of her body ached. She trudged to her bedroom door, pulled it open and walked slowly down the hall, her hand braced against the hall wall every so many steps—her head was really threatening to fall right off her poor tortured neck.

  Then, just a few feet from the bathroom door, she felt the bottom of her stomach give out, and then heave. Lucy ran through the open doorway and hit her knees in front of the toilet. A gush of vomit leapt up out of her and made a sickening splash as Lucy’s hands gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet.

  Lucy hated throwing up. Her mind always screamed for someone to help her, to call an ambulance, for she was always certain she was going to die. But for the first time ever those thoughts didn’t even occur to her.

  I’m eighteen. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and reached with her sore arm, and through the pain pressed down on the toilet’s handle and flushed. I can handle throwing up all by myself.

  Lucy was tempted to just lie down on the cool linoleum and curl up in a little ball, maybe curl up around the bottom of the toilet, just in case she had to puke again. But it was Sunday, and she wasn’t off on Sundays. That meant she would have to go back to McDonald’s, back to her disgrace. The thought was almost more than she could bear.

  Maybe I’ll just call off? She pulled herself to her feet holding on to the nearby sink. I don’t think they’ll really be expecting me… hell, I don’t even think I’m in shape even to get on the bus…

  Her mind lost the thread of what she was thinking. She was peering into the ancient oval mirror bolted to the wall over the sink. Even with fuzzy patches, and more than a few streaks where the silver backing had peeled over time, she had a perfectly clear view of herself in that mirror. And the view wasn’t good.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath as she tried to comprehend that the girl in the mirror was her.

  The girl looking back at her didn’t resemble her in the least. Never mind the tacky blue polo shirt plastered to her, sticky and cold with special sauce. This girl had some major problems. Her hair was a greasy, tangled mess. The ends were fried at least an inch, her lustrous mane of mahogany hair now a mousy, faded-out brown, caused by sun damage and no central air, unfiltered tap water, and supermarket hair product.

  Her skin was pale and sallow, and not only were her eyes bloodshot, but they had ugly dark circles under them. And there on her chin, puffy and red, with a volcanic looking white head, pulsed her very first zit. She’d been going to a dermatologist since she was twelve; she’d thought she would always be immune.

  As she pried her gaze from that horrid pimple, she gapped as she realized she wasn’t just five pounds overweight. No. She was at least ten pounds—which was absurd, especially after she’d just barfed up half her bodyweight. Yet, as she turned and gazed at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t deny it. Her flat belly was gone. Her perfect, perky—real—breasts had lost their perk, and were actually starting to sag. She turned and looked to her rear end. The ass she used to put a finger to and make a sizzle sound through her teeth about, just drooped—large enough that her cheap black slacks seemed on the verge of splitting.

  Whatever little strength she had left drained out the bottom of her feet. She leaned against the sink, her arms holding her up, but just barely, and tried to breathe. But every time she looked into the mirror she just couldn’t take in any breath. Her eyes started to burn again, and tears welled up in them.

  This isn’t me… She gripped the edge of the sink. This can’t be me…

  Despair flowed cold and dark through her veins. It was almost welcome, that cold. At least it was making her feel numb, whereas the sight of herself in the mirror was making her nauseous, and the burning in her head down through her arm was enough to make her scream. She wanted that cold despair to wash over her, make her pass out, make her vanish from sight, from the world.

  This can’t be me…

  Then who is it? whispered a mean little voice in her head. Who’s this disgusting, pathetic creature staring back at you from the mirror?

  The voice cackled with cruel delight. I thought you’ve never met a mirror that didn’t like you? This one, it’s safe to say, hates your guts!

  She something flared in her head. Not the wicked ache and pain, nor the dizziness from before. No, this was different. This was hot and sharp, and wonderfully familiar. This was her getting pissed.

  That heat bloomed with utter annoyance, and a red slash of anger, as it traveled down through her body to her chest, and then radiated through her cold, aching limbs, replacing the chill of despair in its wake.

  She looked down at her hands, the chipped, uneven nails, the gnarled cuticles, the grit and gunk embedded underneath. Lucy clenched her teeth as she balled up her hands into fists, and then beat them down hard
on the sink counter, staring with utter hatred at the personal-grooming-impaired girl in the mirror.

  That’s. Not. Me.

  The mean little voice in her head started to say something, but Lucy clamped her mind down on it.

  Get out of my head, you stupid, fat, ugly cow!

  Lucy pulled off the band that held her hair back in a ponytail. Then gently she pulled the special sauce gooped polo shirt off over her head, and holding it out in front of her for a moment of contemplation, she pressed her foot down on the pedal of the small, lidded trashcan and tossed the thing in, letting the metal lid drop with an emancipating clang.

  She kicked off the Dr. Scholl’s and then stripped off the black slacks, and her under-things. She crawled into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her sore, tired body. It felt better than good. Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d just stood under the rejuvenating hot spray of a shower, with no time constraint. Usually someone was knocking on the door, telling her to hurry up. Or she was dashing around, trying to make her bus, so she could get to work on time.

  But as she stood under that water now, a thought started materializing in her mind, like mist turning to a blazing neon sign—a huge, blinking Times Square sized sign. Lucy could practically hear the low, deep buzz that sign emitted every time it crackled to life.

  And it read: I QUIT!

  I quit…

  The thought just echoed in her mind, the thought turning from a mere whisper to the chant of a Super Bowl stadium crowd.

  “I quit,” the words passed her lips, and then her eyes snapped open with surprise. “I quit!” Those words seemed to shimmer like silver, and then sparkle and shine like a really good, really expensive diamond. The kind she’d hinted about to her father for a graduation present. In her mind, Lucy could see that diamond hanging on a sleek platinum chain, twinkling like a star against her skin. Not her skin now, but the radiant, creamy flesh she used to have.

  And the diamond’s fiery gleam pulsed with the two words that throbbed in her head.

  I quit… I quit… I quit…