Since September Read online

  Since

  September

  Noelle MacLeod

  Copyright © 2013 Noelle MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1482796414

  ISBN-13: 978-1482796414

  For my mom, who taught me to love a good horror story.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Sarah McLachlan for the following lyrics, which appear within the pages of this story:

  Hold on, hold on to yourself,

  For this is gonna hurt like hell.

  -from the song “Hold On”

  © Tyde Music/Sony/ATV Tunes

  CHAPTER One

  I was eight years old the night my mother tried to kill me. I remember thinking at the time that she’d never go through with it, but way deep inside I knew there was absolutely nothing my mother couldn’t - or wouldn’t - do.

  The previous night my father’s band played at the local dive. He played fiddle in a country band called Rare Gold. It was just a few guys his age and a younger girl who sang and played piano. Mother called her “the twenty-year-old tartlet with hair like Crystal Gayle”. She was convinced my father was having an affair with her, despite his constant denial. About an hour after he left that night she told me she was going to the club to see them play. She let me sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she did her make-up and put steamrollers in her golden hair. This was a special treat. Mother never went to see my father play, and she never let me sit on her bed. Wrinkles on a bedspread were a big no-no for my mother. One time I caught my father getting up from a nap and saw him smooth out the bedspread until not a sign of his secret siesta remained.

  “What’s the occasion, mom?” I asked.

  “What makes you think there’s an occasion?” She put on a mini dress that matched the shade of her petal pink lipstick perfectly, as though they had come in a set.

  “I don’t know.” I watched as she teased her hair, primping in the mirror until it was exactly right. “You just never go to see them play.”

  “No occasion,” she said, grinning ever-so-slightly. “Sometimes a woman just has to remind a man what he’s got waiting at home for him.” She dug her metallic silver heels out of the closet and sat next to me on the bed to put them on. She truly was beautiful and I couldn’t imagine my father wanting anyone else, not even a twenty-year-old tartlet with hair like Crystal Gayle. But when I told her this, she laughed.

  “Oh, Sheridan,” she said. “You don’t understand men at all.” She stood and checked herself in the mirror one last time, adjusting her hair just a little so that it didn’t cover the silver hoops in her ears. “Now, I want you in bed by ten and you are not to open the door for anyone.” She grabbed her sequined handbag out of the closet and tossed in her keys, wallet, compact and lipstick. “And you are not to use the stove. If you want a snack there’s cookies.” She was moving quickly, without pausing to fix any of the wrinkles we’d left on the bed, out the bedroom door and down the stairs with me close at her silver heels.

  “Okay,” I said as we rounded the corner through the den and into the kitchen. I wished I could go with her. I loved seeing my father play.

  “Oh! I know!” Mother turned to me, excitement shimmering in her emerald eyes. “You can have that leftover rice for a snack before bed!” I was about to explain to her that rice was not in any way a bedtime snack when I noticed that she was wrapping a big knife in a dishtowel.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, Sheridan!” she snapped, as though I’d just asked the most ridiculous question she’d ever heard. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” She carefully placed the wrapped butcher knife into her handbag, kissed me on the forehead, and flew out the door. I stood at the window and watched her back out of the driveway and disappear down the road.

  I watched TV for a while, ate about six Oreos with a glass of milk, and then went to bed.

  It was 2:20 AM when I awoke to the sound of my parents’ voices at the foot of the staircase. Mother was yelling.

  “I swear to God, if you so much as look at that little whore again I’ll cut your balls off!”

  “Just stop with your nonsense, Lori,” My father told her. “And keep your voice down. Do you want Sheridan to hear this?”

  “I don’t give a shit who hears it!” she bellowed.

  “You listen to me.” My father’s voice was steady and firm. “If you ever show your face at another gig of mine I’ll divorce you so fast your head will spin. You got that? I will not have my wife acting like a lunatic while I’m trying to do my job. I am not going to be embarrassed like that again.” I heard footsteps as they climbed the stairs.

  “Well!” she spat. “Let me tell you something. You divorce me and I’ll make sure you never see your precious daughter again!” He laughed at that.

  “Jesus, Lori. You’re crazier than I thought if you think any judge in the world would give custody to a woman who waves a butcher knife around at a God damned dance!” I could hear my mother sobbing now, her typical response whenever my father was winning a fight. “Here come the waterfalls,” he snorted.

  The next day it was like nothing had happened. My father went about his usual Sunday chores of cutting the grass and whatever else it was he busied himself with in the shed. My mother cooked the usual Sunday roast while I did my homework. After supper my father got ready for the weekly dance at the old folks’ home. Rare Gold had played there every Sunday night for as long as I could remember. He left the house at six-thirty sharp, giving my mother a stern look on his way out the door. I helped her clean up the kitchen and then we watched television, neither of us saying much, until it was my bedtime. I must have been asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow because the next thing I knew I was waking to the sound of someone in my room. I opened my eyes and saw Mother standing next to my bed, her solemn face illuminated by the moon. She was clutching one of the big paisley sofa pillows to her chest. My father had always hated those pillows but Mother absolutely refused to get rid of them. She’d seen some in one of her decorating magazines that were almost identical.

  “God forgive me,” she whispered, lifting the pillow high above her head.

  “Mom?” I glanced at the clock radio on my nightstand. It was 11:11 PM.

  “Please forgive me,” she whispered again, and then suddenly brought the pillow down. My mother held that big, ugly, maroon and gray paisley pillow over my face with such strength, such… determination…until, suddenly, she lifted it off my head and walked quickly out of my bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  I heard a car door slam and Mother’s footsteps running down the stairs. Dad was home. Gasping for air, my mind whirling, I thanked God my father got home when he did that night.

  But we’d all have been better off if he hadn’t.

  * * *

  CHAPTER Two

  I met Cyndi in the seventh grade. She caught me crying in the bathroom one day during lunch hour. I’d seen her around before, but we weren’t in any classes together.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. She had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. They were the color of the ocean as the sun starts to set.

  I told her I was fine and turned away, embarrassed.

  “If you were fine you wouldn’t be crying, now would you?” She came around to face me again and handed me some toilet paper from one of the stalls. “Blow.” I blew. “My name’s Cyndi Masters,” she said, sticking out her hand. She had a silver ring on her right thumb and her nails were painted bright pink to match her sweater. “Call me Cyn.”

  I shook her hand, though it seemed a little formal to me. “I’m Sheridan,” I told her. “Sheridan St. John.”

  “Well, Sheridan St. John, what seems to be the trouble?” She squinted at me, her e
yes turning into shimmering slits, like little pieces of broken blue glass in the sand. “You look scared to death.”

  I caught our reflections in the mirror. My shoulder blades stuck out like wings, my face was pale and freckled, my hair a mess of orange frizz. Next to me, Cyndi’s long blonde hair was smooth and shiny, her skin tanned, her body, even at twelve, curving in the way a woman’s body should. She was Barbie come to life. And I was Raggedy Anne.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with that nasty ketchup stain on your shirt there, does it?” Cyndi pointed. I looked down at the big red stain on my white blouse and my eyes started to refill with tears.

  Mother had made the blouse. She’d gone on and on about the mother-of-pearl buttons and how she’d gotten the white cotton material on sale at the mall. “They had the white on sale and the most beautiful crimson, but I knew the red would clash with that awful hair of yours so I had to get the white,” she’d told me when she took the material out of the bag. She knew I didn’t like to wear white because you could see through it. “But,” she continued, “I managed to find these gorgeous mother-of-pearl buttons so it won’t be so drab! Aren’t they gorgeous?” Mother made most of my clothes back then. Never anything that was in style, just whatever she happened to have a pattern for, in whatever cheap material she could find. One time she made me a shirt out of an old yellow tablecloth she‘d found at a yard sale.

  “My mom made this blouse,” I told Cyndi. “She’s gonna kill me for ruining it.”

  “Take it off,” she said. “Take it off and we’ll swap. I’ll take it home to my mom. I can skip class; it’s no big deal, and my mom’s off on Tuesdays, so it’s perfect. I live right down on Mountain Road.” Cyndi pulled her fuzzy fuchsia sweater over her head and handed it to me. Her breasts threatened to burst from her lacy pink bra.

  “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. Or your mom,” I said, averting my eyes.

  “You didn’t ask. I offered. Now take off your shirt and give it to me,” she demanded. “My mom’s real good at this stuff. She takes care of this rich old lady for a living. Feeds her, does all the laundry and everything. She’ll come home at least once a week ranting about how the rich old bag shit her pants again. Old Bag,” Cyndi giggled. “That’s what mom calls her. Anyway, that’s her job, getting shit stains out of some rich old bag’s expensive panties. Can you imagine?” She giggled again and her breasts bounced. There was no way I could take my shirt off in front of her, let her see me in my training bra, all gangly and bony and white - so ghostly white next to her!

  “Look, Sher, it’ll be a welcome treat for her, the ketchup. Trust me. It’s no problem. I’ll have it back here to you in an hour. Whose class will you be in?” Nobody had ever called me Sher before. I liked it.

  “Mr. Bailey’s, for math,” I told her. “But…”

  “Great. Now, take it off. I’ll even cover my eyes.” Cyndi closed her eyes and put her hands over them. I stood, just for a minute, and stared at her breasts, knowing she couldn’t see me. I was entranced by the volume of them, the beautiful tanned skin, her nipples, darker than mine, hard and poking through the pink lace. I reached my hand out, trembling, wanting to touch them, just to see what they felt like. I was positive I’d never have breasts like that. Mother’s were average size, but they weren’t nearly as round and firm as Cyndi’s. These didn’t even seem real. No wonder boys were obsessed with the things!

  “Did you take it off yet?” Cyndi’s voice snapped me back to the task at hand, and I unbuttoned my shirt as quickly as I could, thrusting my head through the neck of her sweater before handing my shirt to her. The sweater hung off me, and the color clashed violently with my hair, but I had no choice. If Mother saw that stain I’d never hear the end of it. Cyndi opened her eyes when she felt my shirt brush against her arm. She looked at me and laughed.

  “I promise, it’s just for an hour,” she said, buttoning my blouse over those breasts, the mother-of-pearl buttons gaping in the front, her pink bra showing through. The last button wasn’t even fastened before she ran out the door.

  An hour and twenty minutes later I sat impatiently in Mr. Bailey’s class, still waiting for Cyndi to return my shirt. If I went home without it Mother would have a fit. I started thinking she might never come back, imagining all sorts of horrid scenarios (her mom had ruined my blouse, the stain refused to lift, she’d been attacked on the way home and the scumbag had ripped my blouse to shreds). On and on my mind whirled with endless possibilities until finally I saw her peeking through the little window in the classroom door, smiling. As if on cue the bell rang to signal the change of classes and I ran to the hallway to meet her. She was holding up my unbelievably white blouse, every God awful mother-of-pearl button in tact. We’d been best friends ever since.

  Now, ten years later, we were roommates and she was trying to set me up with her boyfriend’s best friend.

  “It’s been so long since you dated anyone, Sher,” she pleaded with me. “You need somebody.”

  “Not just anybody,” I said. “I mean, what if I don’t like him?”

  “He’s Matt’s best friend, Sher. And you like Matt, don’t you?”

  Matt was the guy Cyndi had been seeing for the past few weeks. He was about as close to perfect as you could get – a tall, dark, handsome law student who stood to inherit a gold mine when his parents kicked the bucket. His dad owned his own law firm – the biggest and best in the city. One day Matt would be worth millions, and he knew that meant he could have any girl he wanted. And he wanted Cyndi. What he didn’t know was that with Cyndi he was nothing more than the flavor of the month. She didn’t care about money. All that mattered to her was whether or not he could rock her world. And as soon as she got bored she’d move on to the next guy, the next flavor that sparked her interest and promised a good time.

  “Yes, I like Matt,” I said.

  “Okay. Well, then you’ll like Ralph, too.”

  “Ralph? His name’s Ralph?”

  “Sheridan St. John, are you judging a man by his name?”

  “No, but… Ralph?” I laughed.

  “Shut up and close your eyes so I can get some make-up on you before they get here.” Cyndi was a hair and make-up artist and she was good at what she did. I had gotten a job at the second hand bookstore under our apartment, much to my mother’s disapproval. She wanted me to stay in the country, marry a farmer and have kids. When I moved to the city with Cyn, Mother said I’d never survive. And when I started working as a cashier for my landlord’s bookstore, she wanted to know why I couldn’t just learn a trade like Cyndi did.

  “Close your eyes,” Cyndi said. I closed them and felt her feathery touches as she put make-up on me and did my hair. I was wearing tight jeans and an animal print blouse she’d insisted I buy. Over the years, she had become even more beautiful while I had stayed pretty much the same. But, like I said, Cyndi was good at what she did. When I looked in the mirror I saw porcelain skin framed by coppery waves, not a freckle in sight. I saw cat eyes and the brightest, shiniest red lips.

  “My God, Cyn,” I whispered. “It’s beautiful.” I reached out to touch my reflection, as if it were the portrait of a goddess.

  “You’re beautiful,” she corrected.

  I couldn’t believe the transformation. She’d done my hair and make-up plenty of times over the years, but this time she’d out done herself. This time she’d created a masterpiece. “Thank you,” I said, hugging her. “Thanks for making me look so good.”

  “Somebody had to,” she laughed. “You need to get laid.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  The doorbell rang at exactly nine o’clock. The guys were right on time. Cyndi ran to let them in while I took one last look at the new me in the mirror before going to join them in the kitchen. They’d brought pizza and beer and had already gotten started on both when I walked in.

  “Sher, this is Ralph.” Cyndi extended her arms towards him. “And, Ralph,” she said, extending her arms
in my direction now, “This is Sheridan.”

  Ralph was even taller than Matt, and he obviously worked out on a regular basis, but he had clear signs of premature balding, and tiny black rodent eyes that made me want to look away.

  “Hi,” he said. When he smiled his round cheeks puffed up like they were full of acorns. “It’s great to finally meet you. Cyndi talks about you all the time.” He opened a beer with grease-stained hands and offered it to me, looking down at his beat up old sneakers.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the beer. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I tipped my head back and let the cold beer run down my throat. “So…” I started, not sure what to say and wishing someone else would take over the conversation. “Are you in law school, too?”

  “No, no,” laughed Ralph. He had pizza in his mouth and I could see it on his tongue, half chewed but still recognizable. “I leave the studying to Matt.” He swallowed and took another bite.

  “Wise choice, my man. Wise choice.” Matt slapped his friend on the back.

  “Ralph works for his dad’s company,” Cyndi explained.

  “Oh! What kind of company is it?”

  “We fix old furnaces and TVs and stuff,” Ralph said, looking down at his shoes again. “That’s why my nails are a mess all the time.” He swallowed the last bite of his pizza and took a long drink of beer before continuing. “Been working there since I was sixteen.”

  “He’s gonna own that place one day,” Matt said, as if owning a fix-it shop was just as good as owning a law firm. Ralph looked up from the floor and smiled, his chipmunk cheeks puffed out and shiny.

  “Hey,” Cyndi said. “Let’s all go in the living room and sit. I’ll put the tunes on!” By tunes, she meant the mixed CD Matt had made her after their first date. It was mostly a bunch of sappy old love songs, starting with “I Want To Know What Love Is” and ending with “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You”. Not exactly beer-drinking party music, but she’d played it every night since he gave it to her. Ralph motioned for me to go ahead of him. The perfect, balding, beady-eyed, greasy-handed little gentleman.