One Day More: A Life After Theft Novella Page 2

  And since I don’t act out anymore—at least not in ways they see or hear about—it must be working.

  I hate Dr. Carson.

  The first thing I stole was a tiny porcelain box from her desk after about three sessions, when I realized she was never going to do anything for me.

  She never asked me about it. Never suspected.

  No one ever does.

  Because after her brilliant therapy I’m so perfect, no one has to notice me at all.

  I didn’t keep that one. I waited until my parents were gone one Thursday and I dropped it from the balcony and then had to sweep up the mess all by myself. And then I wished I hadn’t done it. Not that I hadn’t stolen the box, but that I hadn’t broken it. I wanted it back.

  I stole a tube of lip gloss from a store the next day and kept it under my bed. That was the beginning.

  I walk into the Schaffer house and hang my keys on the Kimberlee hook. They look lonely beneath the empty Mom hook and Dad hook. But the Kimberlee hook is used to it. They leave before me every morning—not just on Thursdays.

  “She doesn’t mind getting herself ready,” my mom explained to Dr. Carson when she raised one eyebrow at that.

  “No, no, certainly I don’t mind.” Smile big!

  Our housekeeper, Maria, left turkey meatloaf with garlic-and-rosemary mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus on the counter for me. Comfort food. It’s even still a little warm because she put a cover on it. She does something like this every Thursday because somehow, she knows. Knows how much I hate Thursday night. The night that’s somehow all about me even though it’s the night that I’m invisible.

  The woman doesn’t even speak decent English and yet, she knows.

  I pick up the plate and fantasize about throwing it against the newly seafoam-green wall across from me. Part of my mother’s forty-thousand-dollar kitchen renovation; the paint has been dry less than two months. I imagine the light-brown gravy sliding down the walls in stripes, and in my head they look like bars. Bars would be more fitting.

  But I am a mature young woman who knows how to control my childish impulses, so I don’t do that.

  I don’t eat it, either, even though my stomach is growling. I don’t want food; I want vodka. I want it to burn into my empty stomach and spread through my arms and legs until I can’t feel anything.

  Then I’ll be able to face the cave.

  Feeling sick, I dump the food into the garbage disposal so no one who isn’t bothering to check up on me will know I didn’t eat. I consider leaving it on the counter, all perfect under its little cover. But as much as I wish someone in this household would notice something about me, I figure that if yelling at teachers got me utterly ignored 14.3 percent of the week, not eating and stealing will probably land me in some kind of solitary confinement.

  As I head up to my room I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror and stand straight, scrutinizing what I see. My not-quite-brown roots are starting to show; I need to call my stylist. My blue contacts do enhance my eye color, but only from light blue to bright blue. I lean forward until my nose is almost touching the mirror and wonder what I would look like with brown eyes. Because, seriously, I’m a blonde with blue eyes. Nothing special about that. I’m what everyone thinks of when they hear the phrase California girl.

  The sight of myself suddenly makes me angry. I tear my eyes away and toss my hair over my shoulder so I can’t see the golden ends.

  Parents’ room first. They keep the liquor in there to protect me because they read about it in some parenting magazine that claims to know more about me than they do. Too bad I stole and then copied the key to their enormous liquor closet—really, cupboard doesn’t begin to cover it—over a year ago. And they throw so many parties with their thirty nearest and dearest friends that they have no idea how many bottles of what should be in there. I usually only take one at a time, but a few months ago I made off with two bottles of Jose Cuervo, one of Gold Crown, two of Jack, half a bottle of Wild Turkey, some Jägermeister, and a dozen various minis for a Harrison Hill party.

  They never missed it.

  They won’t miss one little fifth of Absolut. But just in case, I bring my Evian bottle in with me and empty most of the vodka into it, leaving the actual container behind. That’s the safest way.

  I lock everything up behind me and use my hands to smooth away my shoeprints from the carpet. You’d think they’d pay more attention to the liquor cabinet than the carpet, but an imperfect carpet means a possible opportunity to bitch at Maria. And if you can’t yell at the help, really, what fun is there in life? Luckily, they walked around in here after Maria vacuumed, so it’s pretty easy to disguise.

  It’s warm today and I need some kind of excuse to go down to the beach anyway, so I figure I’ll take my bottle and go swimming for a bit. I take as big a swallow as I can handle before stripping my clothes off and digging out my wet suit—even in Southern California the ocean is cold in the winter. My mouth and throat burn and the sensation makes my eyes water.

  Maybe it’s not entirely from the alcohol. But maybe it is.

  I dump the contents of my jewelry box onto the floor, then perch on the end of my crisply made bed and stare at the pile. All of the stuff I stole in the last three days: a set of rhinestone earrings I took out of a girl’s gym locker on Tuesday, two rulers I swiped when I went to the office supply store with Kyndra, a cell-phone case I managed to get out of a guy’s backpack in history yesterday, and another knickknack from Mr. Bleekman’s never-ending supply on his desk.

  At least I didn’t steal from a person today.

  Somehow, stores seem less wrong. I’m not really hurting anyone by stealing from stores. They’ll write it off.

  Oh, I suppose that someone, somewhere, will pay for it, if I follow the money far enough. But it’ll almost certainly be some old rich guy like my dad, or a stuck-up CFO like my mom. So I don’t feel very bad.

  Not as bad as I ought to.

  I stare at the peanut-butter Snickers bar and even though it makes my stomach churn, I take one bite, then another. The stealing doesn’t seem quite so pointless if I do something with it.

  But after forcing myself to swallow two bites I know I’ll puke if I eat any more. I take a swallow of the vodka instead and flush the rest of the candy bar down the toilet.

  I need to get out of here.

  I’ve always lived in this house. Mansion, really, and I’m not too modest to admit it. It’s a humongous house, even for Santa Monica, with private beach access and everything. But I didn’t really appreciate the beach that much until I found the cave. It became my secret place. My special place.

  Then I started stashing my stolen stuff there.

  I hate it now.

  I wish I could have it back the way it was, but I’ve ruined it. Ruined a lot of things. Things that are too far gone to ever get back.

  I grab a wide, flat water noodle from the beach house on the way down the path—paved oh-so-naturally with sea rocks—my stealthy Evian/Absolut bottle clutched in one hand and my stuff in the other in a shoulder bag I grabbed on my way out.

  I should have come down and put everything away yesterday. I shouldn’t have left the stuff in my room where Maria might find it.

  I shouldn’t have put it off until Thursday.

  Sometimes I wonder if I want to get caught. But as much as I’d like to believe that would make them see me, I know it’s not true. Having my parents find out what I do wouldn’t suddenly turn me back into a person; I’d just be a more well-defined problem. A different kind of problem. I’d become my kleptomania. I would be even less Kimberlee than I am now.

  My eyes are tearing up again and I can’t decide if that’s a sign I’ve had too much vodka or not enough.

  I settle on not enough and take another swig.

  Despite my buzz, I climb into the cave where I keep my stash—where I sort it and put it away with an efficiency born of hours of repetition. The empty boxes are already up here, flat rectangle
s stacked against the wall waiting to be unfolded into cubes. So are boxes of Ziploc bags in various sizes, waiting to carefully preserve and store the pieces of my shattered life. And Sharpies, of course, to mark everything. To record its history. Something I started doing once when I couldn’t remember where a pair of shoes I stole came from.

  As I write the date and store of origin on the first bag, I start to wonder how it came to this—when this stupid cave became the most important thing in my world. How pathetic am I, sitting in my wet suit in a shadowy cave, surrounded by stacks of boxes that have become my life? More so than Langdon, or my pointless quest to make the cheer squad, or my parents, or Kyndra, or . . . or Khail. But I push that thought away. He was never really a part of my life. He never will be.

  Even if he were, I don’t know if I’d have room for him and the boxes.

  And I’m not sure I can live without the boxes.

  In a rare fit of anger, I kick one of the stacks; four boxes topple over and go sliding into the darkest corner of the cave. One of the lids pops off, spilling little baggies all over the floor. I stare at the mess of boxes for . . . minutes, probably, and am half-tempted to do it to the rest of them. To knock them all down, scatter them all over the cave, and then maybe throw them all away.

  To just be rid of everything.

  But a wave of panic starts in my stomach at the thought and, like a dutiful child, I gather the spilled bags, return them to their boxes, and carefully restore the stack.

  No more cave time.

  I don’t bother to climb down—I just jump. I’ve done it hundreds of times. In spite of the soft sand, the force of my landing sends a shock up my legs, almost buckling my knees. But I manage to stay on my feet.

  I always manage to stay on my feet. Somehow.

  My black water noodle looks sadly solitary lying in the middle of the swath of white sand, so I go rescue it from its loneliness. We paddle out past where the waves break so I can just wrap the floating rubbery thing under my arms and bob on the gentle waves, with no risk of getting dunked into the chilly water.

  I swim a lot. All year round, thanks to my wet suit. Not swim, really—float. Everything feels quieter out on the water. I’m separate from the rest of humanity. But it’s my choice. I decide to sequester myself. To be in my own world.

  I finish the vodka, forcing down the last mouthful, and fling the plastic bottle as far as I can. “To hell with the environment!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I watch it fly.

  A few minutes later it drifts back over to me. I throw it again, but don’t yell this time. I make it a game. Throw, float back, throw, float back. Kinda like my life, over and over again in a spiral I can’t escape. I imagine my parents flinging me away and yelling, “To hell with Kimberlee!”

  The next time the bottle comes back I throw it in the other direction.

  It doesn’t come back anymore.

  I relax into my black foam cradle and close my eyes as I let the waves lift me up and down until I’m on the verge of feeling dizzy.

  And sick.

  I drank too much, too fast, on an empty stomach.

  Just like I wanted.

  But I really am going to hurl if I don’t do something, so I open my eyes and an endless gray sky greets me.

  That actually doesn’t help—just makes me feel even dizzier.

  And small.

  I roll over so my chest is pressed against the squishy foam. I lift a cupped hand full of seawater and splash it onto my face.

  Actually, it feels pretty good.

  I do it again. My stomach starts to settle.

  Refreshing, I decide. I slip the noodle out from under my arms and put myself under, letting the waves close over the top of my head.

  I burst back up, sputtering. Damn, that’s cold.

  A smile curves at the sides of my mouth. I want to do it again.

  Over and over I dunk myself, feeling fresher and more sober each time I emerge, gasping for breath. It feels like some kind of weird baptism. Not that I remember my actual christening or anything. But I totally get it now as I fling my face out of the water, feeling better, purer, cleaner every time I come back up.

  Of course it isn’t a real baptism. I don’t believe in that kind of stuff anyway. And a drunken dip in the ocean is certainly not washing away any of my sins.

  Don’t I wish.

  The next time I go under, I don’t come up so quickly. I’m not sure why—just want to see how it feels. I wait, keeping myself under until my lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and my head aches from the cold.

  When I break the surface this time I’m gasping, and my teeth chatter in spite of my wet suit. Brain freeze creeps down my neck and forehead and soon my whole body feels sore and drained.

  But it was kind of a rush, too.

  I want to do it again.

  I try to hold myself longer this time, and only when I can’t keep my arms from clutching at the noodle to save myself do I let my face turn back toward the surface.

  The sensations are stronger this time. More cold, more pain.

  More reckless abandon. Letting go. I never let go. Everything in my life is about control. Even the parts I can’t control—I have something about them that I am in charge of. Something.

  But this—it feels strangely freeing.

  I don’t go right back down, though. The sun is setting and the air isn’t even pretending to feel California-warm anymore. My whole body is shaking and shivering and I wonder how anyone could make themselves do this until . . . well, until they die.

  I don’t think I could. Don’t think I’d have the guts to stay under for as long as it would take.

  To end it, I mean.

  I shiver more violently and I don’t think it’s from the cold. Maybe drunk and freezing isn’t the best time to make a decision like this, but I want to know.

  Could I do it?

  Would my body let me, or would it do its own thing—fighting me like it did when I tried to stop stealing? I don’t know if it’s the buzz talking, but somehow conquering the need to breathe sounds easier than conquering the need to steal.

  And I guess the one would naturally lead to the other.

  This isn’t something I’ve ever really contemplated before. It’s . . . sobering. Is my life so bad that I don’t want to live anymore? That doesn’t seem quite right. My life is . . . well, it’s perfect.

  So perfect I could scream.

  My arms sag as I realize that I haven’t got any reason to go.

  I just have no reason to stay.

  A lifetime of insipid perfection—that’s what my future holds. That, or a lifetime in and out of prison. I know—I’ve known for a long time—that someone has to catch me stealing eventually. And my dad will only be able to protect me for so long. It’s not something I like to think about, but I have an odd sort of resignation to it.

  Especially after I couldn’t stop, and that future became ever-so-slightly more likely than the other.

  My arms are shaking and I don’t try to convince myself it’s from anything but fear. Fear of myself, fear of what I’m contemplating. Maybe even the fear of never being able to take anything again.

  Yes, definitely fear of that.

  “I can’t,” I whisper through shivering lips. And then something else comes over me. A simmering anger. No one tells me I can’t do something. Even my parents haven’t really said no to me in years.

  Who the hell says I can’t?

  Still, it takes me a long time to work up the courage to even try.

  It won’t work, I tell myself, so you might as well get it over with.

  But what if it did? Who would even care? Who would miss me? Langdon? He’d find someone else to party with. Kyndra? She hasn’t had much time for me lately, either.

  Khail?

  I bet Khail would be glad.

  And that’s when I decide to try.

  Should I take a deep breath? Empty my lungs first? Does it even matter? Before I can let myself anal
yze it too much I suck in some air and plunge once more into the water.

  When I feel myself drifting toward the surface, I scream into the sea, exhaling until I feel my depth stabilize—though with my eyes squeezed shut I guess I can’t be sure. I reach the point where my lungs begin to ache and I feel my elbows tremble, but I keep my limbs straight. If I let them move, I know, I’ll flail back to the surface. My whole body is shaking, though somehow I don’t feel as cold. It’s like getting drunk all over again, but fast. My thoughts are slipping away and my body is growing numb.

  Straight, I tell my elbows. Just stay straight, and the fact that they do makes me feel like I’m winning an imaginary contest even though there are no winners in this game.

  I start to feel woozy beneath the water and my lungs use that moment to try to force me to take in a breath. I fight it, but the water is starting to feel warm and my body is relaxing and almost without realizing it, my lungs rebel and make me take a breath.

  And it destroys everything.

  I suck in water and my nose burns like fire and my fingers are scrambling upward without permission, pushing my face out of the water, where I gag and retch and cough and do anything I can to get the fire out of my nose, my lungs, my eyes. My foam noodle didn’t drift very far, but I barely reach it and fling my arms over it—my muscles completely useless. Everything hurts, and not in the calming, almost pleasant way it did before. No, I’m weak and trembling like an infant. Snot is running down my face and I barely have the energy to lift a quivering arm to wipe it away.

  I’ve failed at yet another thing and now I’m a shivering, wet loser in the middle of the ocean.

  And I realize I just want to go home. Not really to my parents, just to my house. Where things are warm, and soft, and safe.

  When I have the strength to do more than just drape my limp arms over the noodle to keep myself afloat—and it takes a surprisingly long time before I do—I adjust it and pull myself up to look over it for the shore. At first I don’t see anything, but when I remember to use the setting sun to get my bearings, I’m able to face the right direction and realize I do see my house.