Thicker Than Water (17 page)

I couldn't believe I gave him that bottle of pills.

What in the fuck was I thinking?

Now, in every way, my brother was gone. I'd lost him for years to soccer, then to his addiction. Now I'd lost him to my carelessness and my stupidity and my greed and my plans for the future.

I was no better than Jane or my father.

I was no better than Dr. Frank.

What am I going to do?

It was a far bigger question than I was ready to answer. Instead, I made it smaller.

What am I going to do
right now
?

Like so many things, the stairs felt impossible to overcome. I stopped in the foyer and looked out at the yard. The way the sun filtered through the trees was like a miracle. I wanted to believe it was a soul leaving earth. But I didn't believe in anything anymore. So I reached for the phone instead.

Operator:
911, what's your emergency?

Caller:
My—my brother's dead.

Operator:
I'm sorry, you said your brother is dead?

Caller:
Yes. He's—he's in the basement. He isn't breathing.

Operator:
Did you attempt CPR?

Caller:
No. I told you. He's dead.

Operator:
Ma'am, how did this happen? Was he injured?

Caller:
He—I—it's my fault. I did it. I did it.

Operator:
Can you repeat that?

Caller:
I said it's my fault. [sobbing] He's dead and it's my fault.

Operator:
[pause] Ma'am, can you tell me your name?

Caller:
[unintelligible crying]

Operator:
Ma'am? You're going to need to calm down. Can you hear me?

Caller:
Y-yes.

Operator:
Ma'am, can you tell me your name please?

Caller:
[pause] It's Cecelia.

Operator:
Okay, Cecelia. I'm sending assistance immediately, but I need you to stay on the phone with me until they arrive.

And that's when I hung up.

WHEN WE'D PRACTICED, JENNIFER HAD ALWAYS CALLED ME AS HER
first witness. Today, she passes me over in favor of Trina.

“Doctor, could you please state your name and job title for the record?”

“Dr. Trina Galinitus. I'm a psychologist with Parson's Cognitive Therapy.”

Jennifer sends a pointed look at Mason, as though rubbing Trina's doctorate in his face. Mason yawns. The tit-for-tat in this room is becoming palpable.

“Dr. Galinitus, you have been working with Cecelia Price during her time at Piedmont Behavioral Therapy, correct?”

“Yes. I see CeCe once or twice a week.”

“Could you describe the nature of those visits?”

Trina pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and I want to wince at her helpless nerdiness.

“Cecelia has experienced a lot of trauma in her life. The
death of her mother, her brother's drug addiction—”

“Objection.” Mason narrows his eyes at Jennifer. “Cyrus Price is not on trial here.”

“Your Honor, the witness is merely recalling subjects mentioned in the context of her therapeutic sessions.”

“Overruled. Please continue, Counselor.”

It was the beginning of a consistent four-way banter between two lawyers, a doctor, and a judge. Trina would make a remark about the problems Cyrus caused in my family, Mason would object, Jennifer would contextualize or defend Trina, and Judge Collins would either allow Jennifer to continue or make Mason happy. It was tennis doubles in a wood-paneled courtroom.

I have to give Trina credit. She made me look good—well, I mean, as good as she could make me look. She described the visualization and journaling as though I'd made dramatic headway in therapy. She defended my reticence. She shot sympathetic glances my way now and then. Her loyalty was almost jarring. I am a defendant. Jennifer is my public defender. But Trina? Trina was really
defending
me up there.

“So, Dr. Galinitus, would you say you've seen an improvement in Cecelia Price?”

“Absolutely.” Trina nods vigorously. “Cecelia hasn't had it easy. She knows she's made mistakes and she takes responsibility for that. However, Cecelia needs healing, not jail time. She does not belong in prison, where she might lose that momentum to work toward something better. Right now,
in Behavioral Therapy, Cecelia is getting well. That's what needs to be encouraged. An environment where Cecelia can get better and make amends and move on.”

“Thank you, Dr. Galinitus.”

Jennifer looks like she might be gloating, which she shouldn't. Mason would slam Trina now if we were starting to feel confident. But instead he surprises me.

“No questions, Your Honor.”

And, like that, Trina is excused. She gives me a smile as she steps down. I try to smile back, but it feels a little more like a grimace.

“The defense calls Cecelia Price.”

For some reason, I'd hoped Jennifer had decided to pass me by. That she wouldn't need to question me at all. But, of course, you don't really ever have the right to remain silent.

Standing up felt sort of foreign and walking felt like I might as well be on the moon—slow-motion treading across a territory I can't even imagine navigating. I had to make the conscious choice to lift my feet and propel forward.

I've made my promises to Trina and Jennifer—I'll tell the truth and everything that comes along with it. The court reporter, who I've been ignoring for the last few hours, suddenly feels like a buoy in a sea of something impossible. Is she an asset, this woman taking down every word I say? Or is she the enemy I never anticipated—the one who is writing down every word I say to use it against me later?

“Cecelia?”

Jennifer's in front of me now and I try to focus.

“Cecelia, I know this is going to be difficult. But I need you to take us back to the day your brother died.”

I clear my throat. I don't think I can take a deep enough breath to fuel everything I have to say.

“It was a Wednesday. I came home from school around three.”

That afternoon was the last time I did so many things—the last time I drove the Honda, the last time I sat in Chem class, the last time I unlocked the front door of our house. I take a breath.

“Cyrus was planning on meeting up with friends that day, but he was supposed to be back before I got home. I didn't see him, so I went downstairs and knocked on the door. When he didn't answer, I went in. And found him.”

Sympathy emanates from Jennifer like fumes. She clasps both hands in front of her waist like she wants to pray for my very soul.

“In what condition was Cyrus when you found his body?” she says quietly. The court reporter stops typing and for a moment, the entire room is waiting for the same thing—my description of my dead brother.

“He was—it was . . . he was sitting on the couch. There was a syringe still—it was still stuck in his arm. There wasn't any blood or anything. So, I knew—you know? That he'd overdosed.”

“Did you call 911?”

“Not right away.”

Jennifer takes a breath before lowering her voice a few octaves.

“And why did you wait to call?”

I blink, then shake my head. “I don't know. I didn't think it mattered if they couldn't save him.”

“Would you say you were in shock?”

“I guess so.”

Jennifer nods. “Now, before you called 911, Cecelia, can you tell me what upsetting items you found near your brother's body?”

“A spoon. Pills—leftover pills and a bottle. A lighter.”

“And what were those pills, Cecelia?”

“They were OxyContins.”

“And whose pills were they?”

The weight in my chest spreads over my body like something contagious. I want to be honest. People know the truth, anyway. But, still, somehow, being honest was so damn hard.

“Mine. They were my pills.”

“Right. They were pills
prescribed
to you.” Jennifer pushes herself off the table and starts walking away from me and toward Mason. Suddenly, she spins back around.

“Cecelia, did you inject your brother with drugs?”

I blink. “No.”

“Did you put them in his mouth?”

“No.”

“Did you crush them up and force him to inhale them?”

I'm beginning to understand what she's trying to do. “No,” I say again.

“But when you called for assistance, you said that your brother was dead and it was your fault?”

“I —” I can feel my eyes beginning to pool with tears, something I was desperate to prevent. I look down at my hands.

“Cecelia?”

“Yes?”

“Did you say that to the operator? That it was your fault?”

I feel a shudder of shame ripple over the front of my body and settle into my skin like sunscreen, minus the protection.

“Yes. I said that.”

“What did you mean by that?”

I look up at Jennifer, brows furrowed. “I don't understand.”

She moves close, closer than she's been since when we were seated side by side.

“I mean, Cecelia, that if you didn't put the drugs into your brother's body, how could it be your fault?”

I know that this is the question Jennifer has wanted me to answer since the day she met me. When she agreed to be my defense attorney, she wanted me to help her out—to give her something to defend. She felt pretty strongly about my innocence—that giving Cyrus pills wasn't like pulling a trigger. We could never agree on that. She didn't see Cyrus as helpless. She didn't see me as diabolical.

“Cecelia?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Jennifer's smile turns almost smug.

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Mason hardly waits for her to move to her seat before he pounces. I force myself to look him in the eye.

“Ms. Price, I only have one more question,” he says, his voice sort of slick. “Did you give your brother the OxyContin that killed him? Did you give him the pills that stole his life? Did you pass him a murder weapon with the full knowledge of what he could do with it?”

Jennifer is up and out of her chair like a shot. I hear her objection, but I'm focusing on Mason's eyes. They're an unnatural shade of green. You could find them in a Crayola box.

“Sustained. You don't need to answer that, Miss Price,” the judge says calmly. Mason shoots Jennifer a smug look.

“I have no further questions,” he says in an almost whisper.

And he retreats, smiling at me in a way that makes me terrified and nauseous. I look around the room and I force myself not to squint. I know when they're wide, my eyes look sad, but that's just something we'll all have to live with.

“I gave him the pills,” I say, my voice calm and almost vacant. “It's my fault he's dead.”

Mason turns around to look at me as Jennifer's eyes will me to be quiet. She should have known better than to trust me. She should have listened when I said not to put me on the stand. Or maybe she should have entered a guilty plea. I hate making her look foolish.

“Giving him those pills was like pulling a trigger,” I say, using the exact words I know she'll hate to hear.

Jennifer is up and moving toward me within seconds.

“Your Honor, I think the witness needs a break. Would it be possible for a short recess while I confer with my client?”

“No.”

It's my voice, not the judge's, that rings out. I shake my head hard so I don't have to see the faces staring at me.

“I deserve to be punished. My—my brother is dead and I made it happen. I can't be innocent when I'm so guilty.”

The silence is the only thing that isn't shocked by my outburst. Even Mason looks like he's been slapped. Suddenly, I understand why I'm here. Jason, Lucas, me—we were doomed before we walked into the room. We're all addicts and dealers and bad seeds. Unlike Cyrus, though, we're not dead. We have to accept our fates as they're handed down to us. In the end, it's people like Jennifer I'm trying to protect here. Jennifer, who's worked so hard to be someone who could save me.

Despite my best intentions, I begin to cry and the world around me starts to melt. I hear Jennifer's voice and feel her grab my arms as she pulls me up to stand and starts to lead me out of the room. All I can think of is how her hands are icy cold. That and how, somehow, the grip of her fingers feels like handcuffs.

Jennifer's been a lot of things. Frustrated when I won't talk. Sympathetic when I do. Tired pretty much always. But this is the first time she's been legitimately angry. It's actually kind of terrifying.

“How could you do that? You basically begged for a
guilty verdict,” she practically spits, pacing back and forth in front of me. I'm sitting on a bench outside the courtroom, smoothing my hands over my skirt.

“Do you have anything to say?” Jennifer asks, stopping in front of me.

“What do you want me to say?”

“How about ‘Sorry I totally screwed up my not-guilty plea'?”

I shrug. “I didn't think it mattered?”

“Are you kidding? You could have pled the Fifth, CeCe! Instead, you incriminated yourself!” She just stares at me like I'm a crazy person. “I don't get it, CeCe. It's like you
want
to go to jail.”

I don't say anything. Jennifer mutters something I can't hear and clenches a piece of paper in one hand.

“I'm going to make a phone call, then we're going back in there and performing some magic. I'm not letting you fuck yourself over.”

Wow. I've never heard her use the F-word.

She spins on her heel, saying something to the officer guarding me before heading down the hallway.

“Can I go to the water fountain?” I ask the officer. He shakes his head.

“No, miss. Sorry.”

It's the first time anyone has apologized to me in a really long time. I'm disproportionally grateful.

I stare out the window at the moving traffic, the gray office buildings, the signs of city life I haven't seen in forever.
It feels weird to be out in the land of the living again, like I've been sleeping or dead for a lifetime and now I have to get reacquainted with what living really means. I don't know if I'm ready for it. All the more reason to stay exactly where I've been.

The clock on the wall has hands that are sort of gothic and lacy. It reminds me of the kind of clocks you see in antique stores, the ones that haven't worked for years and maybe never will. This one does, though. It's almost one. It's almost time to go back in.

I smooth a hand over my skirt again, wishing it were pants. I hate that my legs are showing, even if I'm wearing pantyhose. Everything I am is covered in something synthetic right now—something fake. 100 percent polyester, rayon, and lies.