Chosen for Death (2 page)

No matter what we did or said to convince her she was loved, it was never enough. It must have been hard for her, growing up. Our family was anything but peaceful. Every meal was filled with cheerful, noisy bickering, impassioned political arguments, loud jokes, and everyone's simultaneous reports about their day. No matter what we did to include her, Carrie was never quite a part of it. She drifted on the fringes like a waif, watching and waiting for her chance to speak. We learned to build in pauses, making spaces in our conversations so she could talk. Still, it must have been overwhelming being a small golden presence among the dark, noisy giants.

Reverend Miller paused in his eulogy and looked down at us with sad eyes. The pulpit was very high. I would have felt too vulnerable and exposed up there, but I suppose he was used to it. He looked down at Carrie, lying there in her small white cradle, banked by a million flowers. "I baptized Carolyn McKusick," he said, "the week after Tom and Linda brought her home. She was beautiful. Even as a baby, she had that direct, questioning stare that let no one off the hook, a look that seemed to ask, 'Who are you? Who am I, and what are we doing here?'"

He was right. Carrie's questioning, demanding gaze had followed all of us, seeking answers. Attention. Love. No matter what we gave her, it was never enough. She could never be satisfied.

He looked like he might cry. "Now she is with God," he said. "For all her questions, Carrie believed in God and in His goodness. So, while for all of us who loved Carrie, our sorrow is great that she is no longer with us, we can take comfort from the knowledge that she has now found peace and perfect happiness. Let us pray." Under the trained ministerial cadence, I could hear his sadness.

Dutifully I bowed my head, but I didn't follow Reverend Miller's prayer, and I didn't pray the sort of prayer he and God would have approved of. I prayed, as I sat there bent over my clenched hands, that today or tomorrow, or someday very soon, the police would call and tell us they had found Carrie's killer. I prayed that he would be tried and convicted of first-degree murder. I hoped he fried. I didn't know if Maine had a death penalty, but I hoped so. By the time the prayer was over, my stomach was in knots and sweat was trickling down inside my black dress.

Reverend Miller announced that there would be a brief graveside service at the cemetery and everyone was invited back to our house for refreshments. He did his best to make it seem solemn. It still sounded like an invitation to a party. We waited while the pallbearers stepped forward to take Carrie's coffin out of the church. Dad, looking ten years older; my brother Michael, almost unrecognizable without his ever-present smirk; our neighbor, Mr. Foster, who had loved Carrie like a daughter; Uncle Henry, who never wore a suit, looking lost and uncomfortable in navy blue pinstripes; Todd, Carrie's high school boyfriend, so pale I was afraid he might faint; and Charlie Hodgson, her high school guidance counselor. Six strong, good men whose love hadn't saved her.

I'd had trouble all morning focusing on the funeral. My mind kept slipping away to other things, other times in Carrie's life. Not because I wasn't sad, because I was. It's just that I'm not the type for public grief. I would do my grieving alone, over a long time. I've heard that funerals are good for people, that they give people a chance to acknowledge their sadness, and I suppose that's right. It just doesn't work for me. Maybe it was working for Mom and Dad, or some of the other people there who'd loved her. I hoped so. The process leading up to today had been so dreadful for all of us, like when Dad and I had gone to choose Carrie's coffin.

The funeral director had tried to persuade us that a white coffin was inappropriate. "We usually use them for children," he'd said.

"Yes, well, she was my child," my father had said. "We'll have the white one. She would have liked it." Buying a coffin is sort of like buying a car. There are lots of options, and getting the right interior package is important. The white one had a soft pink velvet lining, elaborately pleated and tucked, with a deeper pink satin pillow for Carrie's head. It was the only one in the room that didn't look like an executive office suite—and the funeral director obviously didn't want to sell it for the body of a twenty-one-year-old girl who had been murdered during a sexual assault.

Poor Dad had just wanted to buy it and get out, but the funeral director kept trying to steer him to different models. He had an odd, pale face, flat in profile, with a nose the sculptor hadn't finished raising out of the center. His voice was so carefully modulated it had lost all character. He sounded as dead as his clients. When his suggestion that the one we wanted was only suitable for a child didn't work, he tried another tack. "Unless your daughter was very small, sir, it probably won't be large enough." He'd most likely taken a calculated risk with that argument, since my dad is a big man, and I'm tall for a woman at five eleven. He had no way of knowing that Carrie was adopted.

"I'm sure it will do fine," Dad had said. "Carrie was just under five feet tall, and tiny." His voice had broken at that point, and I'd taken over, my grief displaced by fury at this man's attitude. He wasn't selling used cars here. He must have temporarily forgotten the lessons of Bereavement 101, unless there was another course on appropriate choices which stressed that young women who were careless enough to get themselves assaulted and murdered weren't entitled to white coffins.

I could see that Dad was about to lose control. If he did, the undertaker was in serious danger of becoming his own client. Dad was a loud, affable man, a lawyer who rarely showed the arrogance or false indignation so common to his profession. He loved to argue, but rarely lost his temper. When he did, he did it with style. I put a hand under his elbow and urged him toward the door. "I'll take care of this asshole. You can wait for me in the car." Normally, no one takes over from my dad, but Carrie's death had left him bewildered and helpless. He'd gone out willingly, relieved to let me deal with things.

The funeral director was hovering hopefully by a nice black and pewter model. As soon as I was within hearing range, he started extolling its virtues. I shook my head. "Read my lips," I said. "We want the white one. Nothing else. No other model. No discussion. No argument."

He sniffed loudly. "I don't believe you understand, madam," he said. "It wouldn't be appropriate, under the circumstances..."

"Stop right there," I said, holding up a warning hand. "Let's be clear about this. The circumstances are that a lovely young girl who was the victim of a terrible crime needs a coffin. Don't you dare even think about passing judgment on my sister. The white one. Understood? Now, what else do we need to deal with?"

He shrugged his shoulders, an elaborate gesture which would have said volumes about difficult families and women who don't understand the proprieties, but there was no one around to appreciate it except me and I didn't. After that came reams of paperwork, and a dozen additional choices, which I made numbly. I'd had no idea there were so many details and even less idea what the proper choices were. Mom should have been doing this, she was the one who cared about propriety, but she was even more devastated than my dad. So I waded through questions like how many copies of the death certificate we needed, and how many limos for the funeral, and when was I going to bring the outfit she was to be buried in, with the funeral director being deliberately unhelpful to punish me for my impertinence.

The little bit of energy my rage had given me quickly subsided. By the time I'd dragged myself out to the car, I was exhausted. Dad had taken one look at my set face, driven straight to the nearest bar, and ordered us both double bourbons.

My reverie was interrupted by a warm hand on my arm. "Thea, dear, it's time to go," my mother said. I looked around. Carrie was gone, and everyone was waiting politely for the family to follow. I hoped I hadn't been tuned out too long. Probably not. My mother wasn't one to ignore proprieties. It wasn't so much a concern about what people might think as it was consideration for their feelings. No one likes to be kept waiting. I let her steer me out of the pew and down the aisle. I could hear the shuffling of feet and the murmur of voices behind me, but I didn't look back. Numbly, I let my mother lead me out of the church. Carrie couldn't be dead. I still needed my little sister. I'd always need her.

I stood at the top of the steps, watching them slide the gleaming white coffin into the hearse. I still couldn't believe it. How could someone have done this? It takes a long time to accept death. I knew that. It didn't make me feel less sad, or less angry.
They're not going to get away with this, Carrie,
I thought.
Whoever did this to you will be punished. I'll see to that. Thea will take care of it.
I fought off another flood of reminiscence, all the other times I'd made that promise to Carrie. I'd never let her down. My mother tugged on my arm, and I followed her down the steps and into the waiting limo.

Chapter 2

I woke the next morning to the smell of strong coffee somewhere very close to my nose. When I tried to sit up, my nose hit the saucer, rattled the cup, and a few drops of scalding coffee dripped onto my chest. I fell back against the pillow and opened my eyes. My brother Michael was bending over me. "Morning, Sunshine," he said. "As Ann Landers always says, 'Wake up and smell the coffee.'"

"As if I could do anything else," I said. "You practically poured it on me." I didn't say it nicely. I hate getting up in the morning.

Michael ignored me. "You are invited to breakfast with the assembled multitude, or morning of the living dead, if you can stir yourself anytime soon." Michael has a sick sense of humor and no tact. I couldn't figure out what he was doing in my apartment.

I struggled up against the headboard and reached for the coffee. "What are you doing here, anyhow?" I asked. Sunlight streamed in the windows, illuminating old rock posters, a shelf of dolls, the huge jar of pennies on the desk. I was in my room at home. At my parents' house. Because Carrie was dead. And that was why Michael was here, too. "Who's downstairs?" I asked. The coffee was hitting my empty stomach in a harsh acid wave. I hadn't been able to eat anything yesterday, after the funeral.

"Mom and Dad. Uncle Henry and Aunt Rita. Todd and Charlie and Mrs. Hodgson. Mr. and Mrs. Foster. And my beloved Sonia, who is in a snit and agitating to leave."

"Why don't they go away and leave us alone?"

Michael shrugged. Introspection isn't his strong suit, and he doesn't try to figure out other people's reasons, either. "Maybe they think they're needed. Or maybe they don't want to be alone themselves. Especially Todd. He's in real bad shape. You'd better come down and talk to him, Thea." He slouched toward the door, my lanky, handsome, and utterly useless brother. "Everyone around here is waiting for you to take charge. So come down and do it. But put on something decent first, OK?" He disappeared, closing the door behind him.

I inspected myself. Nothing so risqué, really. A Calvin Klein tank top and bikini briefs in a nice utilitarian shade of gray. My usual sleeping costume in spring, summer, and fall. Not something I'd even dream of wearing out of this room. Michael had only mentioned it to make me feel uncomfortable. Such a sweet guy. Even with the family brought together for such a sad occasion, he couldn't resist getting his needles in. I pulled on a faded purple sweatshirt, jeans, and socks, and staggered into the bathroom. The mirror on the wall didn't agree that I was the fairest of them all, but it did say I wasn't bad for a lady who was pushing thirty. I still looked good in the morning.

I dragged a brush across my teeth, splashed cold water on my face, and pulled my half-acre of wild dark hair back into the confines of a barrette. My eyes were very green today, which meant I'd get into trouble before the day was over. My eyes change color. From green to blue-green to blue. Sometimes even hazel. The really green days always mean trouble. I don't need an astrologer; I have eyes. Today my eyes looked like Christmas. Red and green. I'd done a lot of crying last night when I was finally alone.

The banister was smooth under my hand, polished by all those years of little bottoms sliding down it. I turned through the arch and went into the dining room. It was empty, the only evidence of use a few dishes on the table. I was surprised Mom hadn't whisked them off to the kitchen already. She has more energy than anyone I've ever met, and she uses much of it keeping the world in order. I shouldn't be critical, though. She never expected me to be like that, and she was wise enough to let us all make the messes that kids will without fretting about her perfect house. Mostly she'd been a pretty good mom.