A Look Back: Rennillia Series - Prequel Page 5

  Breakfast was on the table when I walked in. My father was seated at the table and my mother stood at the stove as usual.

  Pushing the chair next to him slightly, my father offered, “Sit and eat.”

  Staying still, I replied, “I’m not hungry.”

  With a slight grunt, my father finished his breakfast before leaving the table to finish getting dressed.

  “It means a lot to your father that you’re going,” my mother whispered.

  Nodding at her, I thought, like I had a choice.

  Making my way over to her, I asked, “Why aren’t you going?”

  Without answering my question, she shook her head and stated, “You should get your hair done more often. Then you wouldn’t have to pull it up all the time.”

  Before I could question her again, my father walked back into the room and it was time to go.

  On the way to the funeral, neither one of us said a word. I knew my father was thinking mean things about Hert and Mrs. Herterand by the way he would squint his eyes and then mumble to himself. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes and wondered how Hert was doing. The last time I saw him, it was clear, the answer to that question was ‘not so good’. Far more people attended Charles Herterand’s funeral than I would have thought. Although we sat on the front row, we were all the way on the other side from Hert and his mother. The service was short, which was a relief because my father blocked my view of Hert and I really wanted to see him.

  As people stood and made their way to the front to offer condolences, my father took my arm and led me in the opposite direction. Instantly I knew why. My father didn’t pretend. He was the type of man that would refuse such a thing, if he deemed it beneath him. I started to get upset to the point that tears were filling my eyes. Then I saw Mr. Roberts walking towards us from the back row. Both my father and I stopped suddenly.

  Giving me a slight nod, Mr. Roberts greeted, “Rennillia,” before staring at my father and asking, “Are you leaving?”

  Letting go of my arm, my father snapped, “The service is over.”

  Mr. Roberts took a step closer to my father and narrowed his eyes as he questioned, “You’re not going to offer your condolences?”

  Raising his voice, my father snapped, “Not to them.”

  Mr. Roberts tone turned angry as he questioned, “You have watched the boy grow up and you aren’t even going to go shake his hand?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Roberts stood tall and glared at my father before softening his expression and asking me, “Rennillia, would you like to walk with me?”

  I was so shocked, I couldn’t respond.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to. My father walked away without a word, leaving me there with Mr. Roberts. Giving me a reassuring smile, Mr. Roberts headed towards the front as I followed. Out of respect, I stayed at his side but kept my pace a step behind. I started to feel anxious the closer we got to Hert. Mr. Roberts went first. I watched him give Mrs. Herterand, who was standing behind Hert, a thoughtful look before holding his hand out.

  Hert greeted, “Mr. Roberts,” taking his hand with a firm shake.

  “If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate,” Mr. Roberts assured.

  With a nod, Hert accepted saying, “Yes sir.”

  Turning to me, Mr. Roberts said, “I will give you two a moment,” then glanced at Mrs. Herterand again before stepping off to the side.

  I walked around Hert to Mrs. Herterand and hugged her, saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  At first she seemed shocked, then patting my back she breathed, “Thank you.”

  Looking down at me, Hert’s expression was serious. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Forcing a soft smile, I shrugged my shoulder at him. As I started to walk away, he caught my arm.

  Leaning to my ear, he whispered, “Don’t come by.”

  Nodding, I couldn’t look at him.

  I met up with Mr. Roberts and followed him to his car. The driver opened the door for us and motioned for me to go first. Sliding in the back seat, I folded my hands onto my lap. My mind was racing with how sad Mrs. Herterand appeared, the way Hert looked and my father leaving me with Mr. Roberts. Staring at my hands, I pretended I wasn’t on the verge of bursting into tears.

  “Are you alright?” Mr. Roberts asked with a thoughtful tone.

  Giving a slight nod, I replied, “Yes sir.”

  “Would you like to go home?” he questioned.

  His tone was so smooth, I felt like it required an explanation, as I answered, “No sir, my father won’t be happy to see me.”

  Tilting his head to the side, Mr. Roberts inquired, “What does your father have against Scott?”

  Looking up from my hands, I replied, “He isn’t Emerson.”

  With a slight nod he shared, “Emerson is very fond of you.”

  “I like him a lot too,” I assured, wondering where this was going.

  Then the conversation took a strange turn as Mr. Roberts said, “Life is full of difficult decisions. You should be proud of the way you handled yourself today.”

  Unsure of what he was referring to, I questioned, “Sir?”

  After drawing in a deep breath, he replied, “You are very different than I expected you to be. I am glad my son has you in his life.”

  Feeling like I was missing something, I asked, “Mr. Roberts, are you okay?”

  Thrown off by the smirk on his face, apparently he found my question humorous, as he imparted, “By the time you get to be where I am, there is no way to answer that question.”

  Nodding, we silently continued to the Roberts’ house.

  At the Roberts’ house, I was happy to find Emerson already home from school. Mr. Roberts informed us he had business to attend to and would return later. Mrs. Roberts was at one of her Society functions and would also be gone for a while. As Emerson and I headed to his room, I looked forward to seeing how his day went and catch up on anything I had missed over the last few days.

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, I asked, “How’s the new one?”

  Shaking his head at me, Emerson corrected, “Emma is fine.”

  Laughing a little, I imparted, “If she stays with you for more than a few weeks, I’ll call her by her name. Until then, she’s the new one.”

  With a slight laugh in return, he questioned, “Why did you stay home from school?” I shrugged as he explained, “Your father said you were sick.”

  Stating, “Okay,” I slipped my shoes off and folded my legs in front of myself on the bed.

  Emerson’s eyes were sympathetic as he offered, “You can tell me.”

  His line of questioning made me uneasy as I snapped, “Tell you what?”

  “If something’s wrong,” he replied.

  Shaking my head at him, I fussed, “What would be wrong?”

  With a light shrug, Emerson confessed, “I could tell you what I think, but I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

  Without being able to help myself, I started to cry.

  Everything that had happened seemed to weigh heavily on me. Hert, my father, Hert's father and all I could do was cry. Emerson wrapped his arms around me tight at first. Since I was still sore from not knowing my place my whole body tensed up. Loosening his hold, Emerson’s arms gently draped over me. Lightly patting the side of my head, he just sat there letting me curl up onto him. As I let every held back tear loose, I thought it wasn’t Emerson who needed me. I needed him.

  Chapter 8

  Three months had passed since Mr. Herterand’s funeral and although things seemed to go back to normal, they weren’t. My little stunt at the funeral, in my father’s words, cost me the use of my car. It didn’t really matter though, Emerson just picked me up for school instead. Hert drove himself and met us in the parking lot every morning. Aside from that, Hert stopped by Emerson’s occasionally but never stayed very long. I wondered if maybe Carmella was the reason and that would explain why he didn’t want me coming by anymore but seeing
as he never took her out in public, that more than likely wasn’t it. Maybe his father’s death affected him more than anyone realized. Emerson was on new girl number three for the year and she was something else. In fact, Mrs. Roberts, who was always composed and proper, had a hard time tolerating her. I had even heard her use the words low class in reference to Miss Number Three, which was odd because her family was very well to-do. Not understanding what Emerson saw in her, I decided she put out and that would account for the goofy way he mooned over her. Other than that, she didn’t interfere with my time with Em, so I didn’t put much thought into her.

  In the car on the way home from school, I sat on the passenger side pouting. Emerson was failing miserably at making me feel better.

  “They are just looking,” he insisted.

  Shaking my head, I argued, “Your mother didn’t make it sound like they were just looking.”

  With a heavy sigh, he said, “Her family is from there and they have been talking about purchasing an Estate there for years.”

  “Spain, Emerson! They are looking for a house in Spain!” I fussed before reminding, “That’s a whole other country.”

  Giving me a slight reality check, Emerson shared, “I know. I’ve been there before.”

  Thinking, 'oh that’s right', for a minute there I forgot who I was talking too. We pulled up in front of my house and as I waited for him to open my door, I had to admit what my real problem was. As soon as Emerson opened my door I slid my arms under his and hugged him tight.

  Frowning, I said, “I just don’t want you to move away.”

  “They are just looking,” he assured, hugging me back.

  Nodding into his chest, I pulled away and walked to my front door. Once inside, I headed straight for my room. Barely glancing toward the kitchen, I saw my father sitting at the table. My mother was nowhere to be seen so I assumed I was in charge of dinner. I threw my books and purse on my bed before heading back to make dinner.

  My father sat in his usual spot but as I got closer, I noticed a bottle of liquor and a glass in front of him. It wasn’t unusual for my father to drink. Chianti was his drink of choice with dinner. From the time I was twelve my father allowed me a glass of wine with Sunday dinner. It really consisted of a wine glass with the bottom barely filled, two sips at the most if I stretched it. This was different. It was a bottle of Nocino. Finally noticing me, my father slid the glass to the spot next to him and filled the bottom.

  His voice was low as he offered, “Have a drink.”

  Never having seen my father like this, I asked, “Where’s mom?” starting to feel nervous.

  Motioning to her room before sliding the glass closer to me he ordered, “Sit.”

  Watching him take a long swig directly from the bottle, I quietly sat next to him. Since I had no idea what was going on, I assumed keeping my mouth shut was the best route.

  Narrowing his eyes at me, he questioned, “Too good to drink with your own father?” in the same low tone.

  I wrapped my hand around the glass. He wasn’t slurring but his motion and speech were so calm and slow, I knew he was drunk.

  As I took a sip, he shared, “Charles and I used to drink this.”

  The liquor wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. I quickly downed what was left in my glass thinking, if I had to listen to this man glorify Hert’s father then I definitely needed to drink.

  After refilling the bottom of my glass, my father took another sip from the bottle before saying, “Not me.”

  “Sir?” I asked, taking another sip.

  With a heavy sigh, he explained, “Margaret, she’s sad,” then with an eerie smile he said, “Not me.”

  Downing the rest of my glass, I questioned, “Why is mom sad?”

  Shaking his head, my father mumbled, “Maybe me too.”

  I slid my glass away before he could refill it as I questioned, “You’re sad?”

  Nodding his head, he shrugged saying, “She didn’t die.”

  “Who?” I blurted.

  Without answering me, my father started to laugh.

  Jumping up from the table, I ran to my mother’s room. She was sitting on a chair next to her bed. I could tell she had been crying. I didn’t have to ask her anything.

  Looking over at me, she said, “Abigail.” As I slowly shook my head she informed, “She tried to kill herself,” with tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Surprisingly I wasn’t sad, I was angry. Running out of her room and back into the kitchen, I stopped at the table.

  Staring at my father, I shouted, “You’re sad because she didn’t die?!”

  He started to get up then quickly slumped back down in the chair and smiled at me. Shaking my head at him, I felt sick. All sorts of things flashed through my mind before I dashed to my room, locked the door and climbed out my window. Only thinking of Hert now, I couldn’t imagine what he was going through. First, his father and now his mother. How could she do this to him? How could either of them have done this to him? Stopping at Hert’s window, his room was empty. As I made my way around to the front, I saw him walking into the house.

  Knocking on his front door, I waited for him to answer. A minute passed and I knocked again. Still, there was no answer. I opened the door and walked in. All the lights in the house were off but I could see Hert sitting on the couch in the dark.

  “Get out,” he snapped almost immediately.

  Ignoring him, I walked over to him asking, “Is she okay?”

  As Hert gave me a stupid look, I rephrased the question, asking, “Is she going to be okay?”

  Shaking his head without looking directly at me, he yelled, “Why are you here?”

  “You shouldn’t be by yourself,” I insisted stepping a little closer.

  Jumping to his feet, Hert stood right in front of me and shouted, “You don’t know anything! I don’t want you here, now leave!”

  Keeping my tone soft, I said, “I’m not leaving.”

  Taking a step back, he nodded before griping, “Ok, stay as long as you want.”

  Before I could say anything else, he turned and walked out the front door.

  I stood there for a while before deciding his house was a little creepy in the dark. Flipping the light switch up, I noticed nothing happened. With a sigh, I walked around flipping every switch, still nothing. Walking back to the couch, I sat down placing my head in my hands. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let him stay here in this house like this. My father would never help and Hert would not agree to hiding in my room again after what happened last time. Mr. Roberts told him he would help, why wasn’t he taking it? Stupid question. Shaking my head at the situation, I waited for him to come back home.

  Nudged awake, I realized I had fallen asleep. Hert sat down next to me on the couch. I scooted back a little, thinking of everything I should say. As it turned out, when I looked at him, I knew there was nothing to say.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked.

  Tilting my head to the side, I replied, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  After a long pause, Hert said, “You need to go home.”

  “Look, we don’t have to talk but I know you want me here…so just stop,” I informed scooting closer.

  Nodding at me, he said, “Its two and we have school in the morning.”

  With a slight smirk, I said, “Then I guess I’m riding with you tomorrow.”

  Sighing, he scowled at me, warning, “That’s a bad idea.” As I rolled my eyes, he stressed, “I’m serious Renni.”

  Not wanting to give him anything else to worry about, I gave in pouting, “Fine. I’ll go home.”

  Feeling as though I had tried my best to be there for him, I headed home.

  Chapter 9

  Mrs. Herterand was released after a few days. The psychiatric evaluation concluded that she had a breakdown. She was scheduled weekly appointments and prescribed medication. Hert still went to school every day but nowhere else. I understood why, but still, I missed seeing him o
utside of that. Especially when my birthday came, it was the first year I didn’t go out to the pond, or see Hert. I had a nice dinner with the Roberts’ but was instantly depressed when I found out they were leaving to go to Spain for a week. Then to my surprise, Mr. Roberts informed me that he had already spoken to my father and if I wanted, I could stay with Emerson at their house while they were away.

  I stood in my room trying to decide what exactly to pack. It was Sunday night and I was so excited, I had a hard time concentrating. Not only did I get to stay with Emerson, I was going to be free from my house for a whole week. I didn’t want to bring too much but at the same time, seven days was a long time and I did not want to have to come back early for any reason.

  As I laid jeans and t-shirts out on my bed, my father walked in my room saying, “Emerson’s here.”

  “I’m almost ready,” I lied, still having my bag sitting empty on the floor.

  He shook his head then turned and walked out. I grabbed my toothbrush and a few other items from my bathroom thinking I should have done all this yesterday. When I stepped back into my room, Emerson was standing in my doorway.

  With an apologetic smile, I said, “Sorry,” and picked my bag up off the floor.

  His smile was forgiving as he assured, “It’s alright,” before glancing around my room and asking, “Is that the shirt I gave you?”

  Nodding with a smile, I looked at the shirt pinned to my wall.

  Just before Emerson’s basketball season started he gave me a team shirt. I’m sure he was hoping I would wear it to his games, but since I felt the same way about school as I did living at home, I hung it on my wall.