As a woman named Marsha talks to me, I feel like I’m not really here. I’m sitting on the couch in my living room, but it’s like I’m not. She’s been talking to me about grief, but I feel like she’s speaking to someone else.

“Do you have a relative or friend?” she asks with a worried brow.

“Huh?” I stare blankly at her. Is her hair real? Is it as stiff as it looks like…a bad case of helmet hair…a strange shade of blonde…kind of greenish yellow…or maybe it’s just me.

“A grandparent? Or an aunt? A neighbor?”

“Why..?” I squint at the sunshine coming through the blinds. Mom usually tips them up by this time of the day. She worries that the direct light will bleach the dark green couch. “Someone you can stay with,” Marsha explains. “A friend perhaps?”

“My best friend moved away today,” I say in a flat voice that doesn’t even sound like me. “And now they tell me my mom is dead.” I begin to cry again. My head hurts from so much crying, my throat feels raw and sore, and my eyes burn. I want to sleep for a long time…and wake up from this nightmare later.

“Officer Lake told me your father should be home sometime before midnight. Do you think you’ll be OK until then?” I just look at her. Doesn’t she get it? I will never be OK again…ever.

“Or I can arrange for someone to come over and stay with you until then. We have volunteers who are happy to step in and help.”

I turn away from this woman with weird hair. I want her to leave. I don’t want her strangers coming into my house. “I know this is very hard for you, Cleo. And I really don’t want to leave you alone like this. Are you sure you don’t want to come to the— “

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. “I want to stay here. And I’m not a child. I do not need a babysitter.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But you are very upset. And it’s understandable. I really hate to leave you alone like this.”

“Please, go.” I try to force some life back into my voice. “Really, I will be OK. I just need to deal with this in my own way. Please.”

“Well…” She stands and shakes her head. “You do have my card. I hope you will call me if you need anything. If not today,
perhaps tomorrow or next week.”

“Yes.” I stand, too. “I’ll do that.”

She looks at me as if she knows I’m lying. But then she picks up her purse or briefcase or whatever it is and leaves. And now I
am alone. Really alone. She’s barely driven away when the phone rings again. It’s been ringing like this about every five minutes. Instead of picking it up, I just let it go to the answering machine. This time it’s Dad’s golfing friend.

“Hugh, this is Glen. I just heard something terrible on the news. Was it really true? Is that Karen Neilson your wife? I sure hope not. But call me, man, tell me what’s up. And remember I’m here for you, buddy.”

I turn the volume way down on the answering machine, then head for my room, which still looks trashed from last night—dried-up salsa, tortilla crumbs on the rug, soda cans, unmade beds. I turn off the light, close the drapes, step over the trundle, climb into bed, pull up the covers, and take in a jagged breath. My head is still throbbing, pulsating behind my eyes, ringing in my ears. I close my eyes and begin counting backward from a thousand.

When I wake up, it’s to the sound of my cell phone ringing, and for a moment I forget…and then I imagine I’ve been having a bad dream. But then I answer my phone, and I can hear it in my dad’s voice. This is real.

“Are you OK?” he asks with so much concern that I know I’m going to start crying again.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“I’m in shock, too, Cleo. But I’m about to board the plane. I just wanted you to know.”

“Yeah…”

“I have a connection in Chicago with a three-hour layover. I’ll get it changed if I can. Otherwise it’ll be after 11 by the time I get to the airport. I’ll just get a taxi to bring me home.”

“I could pick you up.”

“No, I don’t want you driving into the city at that hour. Not after what…well, you know.”

“Yeah. OK.”

“I wish I was there for you, Cleo. I just can’t believe this…It feels like a nightmare.”

“I know. I keep wishing I’d wake up.”

“I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

“Hang in there.”

“You—you too.” My voice cracks.

“I’m coming home.”

“I know.” Then we both say I love you again and hang up. I’ve never been really close to my dad. I know he loves me—and
I love him—but he’s always traveled so much with his work, and Mom was always the one there for me. I sit on the edge of
my bed, staring at my phone and trying to make sense of this madness, lining up the facts as if they are numbers. Numbers
that should all add up.

My mother is dead. She was murdered by strangulation. Her body was spotted early this morning by a jogger who immediately called 911. Several hours later, detectives found her purse, minus credit cards and cash, in the bushes nearby. Her car, now reported stolen, is still missing. Estimated time of death is between 10 and midnight last night. But it’s the location of this incident that made me so sick to my stomach that I vomited several times already.

My mother’s body was discovered in Riverside Park, a strip of greenway that borders the river running through the city, right next to the Coliseum.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what my mother was doing there last night. Still I need to know. I push the key to access my
voice mail; afraid to breathe, I listen to the female electronic voice telling me, “You have four new messages— ” Before she can
finish her sentence, I push the key to listen to my messages. The first one is recorded at 7:49 p.m. Friday. It’s from my mom, but
I clench my teeth as I hear her speaking—she sounds very upset.

“Cleo!” Mom’s voice is tight but controlled. “I just spoke to Vera, and she informed me that you and Lola have gone to the
concert! She thought you took Dad’s car, which you know you were forbidden to do. I’m leaving Trina’s party right this minute. I am getting into my car and going home. If you get this message, I expect you to do the same.”

The next message is also from my mother, about an hour later, but she’s still agitated. “Cleo, while I am slightly relieved to see that you did not take your father’s car, I am extremely concerned as to where you and Lola are right now. Vera maintains that you
are at the concert, and her guess is that you took the metro to get there. I cannot even imagine you would do something so foolish, but she seems quite sure of it. So I am going to drive to the city and go directly to the coliseum. It’s not quite 9 yet, so I expect to get there before 10. I will call you as soon as I arrive so we can plan to meet and I can drive you girls home. I am so disappointed in you, Cleo. I cannot believe you did something so thoughtless. And I can’t believe you did it behind my back. Call me!”

The third message is from my mother too. “I’m at the coliseum. It’s 9:53. It doesn’t look as if the concert has let out yet. So I will drive around the neighborhood a few times until it gets out. Then I’ll see if I can spot you. Please call me as soon as you
get this. I want you to call me!”

I brace myself for the fourth message, but to my surprise it’s from Lola. “Hey, Cleo. We’re just stopping for lunch now. Mom’s
been letting me drive. Last night was so cool. And, oh yeah, Mom says your mom called her a couple of times last night and that she sounded a little worried, but I reminded her that your mom worries about pretty much everything.” Lola laughs. “Anyway, I miss you already. And I’ ll try to call you next time we stop, since Mom refuses to let me talk and drive at the same time—even if we’re on the most boring straight stretch and there’s not a car in sight. Later!”

And that’s it. “You have no more new messages,” the electronic voice informs me. I just hold the phone in my hand, staring at it
like it’s a living thing, like it has the secrets of life inside it. Then I consider replaying my mom’s messages again, just so I can
attempt to fully wrap my head around exactly what happened last night. But I cannot bear to hear her voice again. Not like that. So frustrated, angry, hurt…and disappointed. I don’t want to hear the desperate tone of her voice as she begs me to call her back. Besides, I’m pretty sure I know what happened last night…and why.

I know who’s to blame for my mother’s death. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to vomit again, except nothing’s left in my stomach. Even so, I dash for the bathroom and, clinging to the toilet seat, dry heave until it feels like my internal organs are about to come out—and maybe I wish they would.

Then finally I collapse, exhausted, on the hard tile floor, curl up into a ball, and just cry. I wish I were dead.