PROLOGUE
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“Watch it, young Mr. Durst. No running in the house!”
Ms. Jonson squeezes my hand so tightly it almost hurts. She may just be my nanny, but lately, her duties seem to go way beyond just looking after me when I’m not in school. In fact, now that my mom’s sick, Ms. Jonson has almost become her substitute. Only stricter. And apparently, proper etiquette is crucial, even for a seven-year-old who’s eager to go see his mom.
“Walk with elegance and style,” my father always says. “That’ll get you far.”
Ms. Jonson has just picked me up from school, and I’m trying to walk slowly without rushing, although all I can think about is my mom.
“Please please please, let her still be in her bed, breathing,” I pray without saying a single word out loud.
I don’t care about elegance and style. Right now, all I care about is making it to my mother’s bedroom as quickly as possible. Ms. Johnson knows what I want but insists that we follow the usual routines. Take my backpack to my room and wash my hands, before she leaves me and I’m free to do what I want. We walk through the huge rooms in our family mansion. Our footsteps echo from the marble floors in the halls.
It feels like forever before she lets me go.
“Go ahead now,” she says in her sharp, British tone. She’s alright, I guess, but I have my doubts she was ever a seven-year-old kid. Before she changes her mind, I spin around and take off.
I walk as fast as I can towards my mother’s bedroom. Up the stairs, down the hall, and into the second room to my right. I stop in front of her door to listen before I enter. Not a sound. My heart is pounding, the sound of it echoing in my head. I take a deep breath, turn the doorknob, and open the door. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Hi, sweetie.” My mom’s voice is weak, but she smiles at me with her big, brown, kind eyes. She’s still here. The pit in my stomach disappears, and I run to her bed and hug her. She’s lying in a big, white hospital bed by the window.
My arms only reach halfway around her neck, but it’s more than enough for me to hold her tight and feel her heartbeat against mine. She smells like an old person. Maybe it’s the medicine, or maybe that’s just how hopelessness and sadness smell.
But I don’t care. She’s still here.
I use the stool next to her bed to climb up on the bed and sit down next to her.
“What do you need, momma? Do you want me to get you something?”
My hand finds hers and I gently play with her fingers. Although it’s a little big on her finger now, she’s still wearing the pretty diamond ring my dad gave her when they’d been married for ten years.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says and smiles. I already know what it is, because we do this every day.
But I play along like I always do, sit up straight and say: “What is it, momma? What is it?”
My mother tries to sit up and says: “Help me sit up, baby, and then ring the bell on my nightstand for me. I’ve asked Ms. Jonson to prepare something for us. I know you’ll like it!”
I jump off the bed and stack a few pillows behind her back. I’ve done this a million times before, so I no longer need to ask her how she likes it. Then I pull the cover up and tuck it around her chest so that her arms are free.
“Is this good, mom?” Gently, I flatten the cover on her tummy.
“It’s great, honey,” she says and continues: “Go on, now, ring the bell!”
I ring the beautiful brass bell next to my mother’s bed. The delicate ring sounds through the halls, and it doesn’t take long before Ms. Jonson comes rushing with a tray with two glasses, a jug of milk, and a small plate with two chunky cookies. She sits the tray on my mother’s bed stand next to the bell, pours milk into the glasses, and hands my mother a cookie wrapped in a napkin.
“Thanks, Ms. Jonson,” my mother says and takes the cookie. “I think we can handle it from here.”
Ms. Jonson gives my mother an elegant head bow and leaves. She may be in charge when my mother is not around, but in here – in my mother’s bedroom – she has no jurisdiction.
“Come eat with me and tell me about your day,” she says and pats the bed next to her to invite me back up.
It’s the same every day. We eat cookies and drink milk, and I tell her about my day in school.
“You’re such a good boy,” she says and plays with my hair a little bit.
I am just seven years old and have still to learn the cruelty of life and death. But for some reason, I sense that this time with my mother is precious and something to hold on to.
We finish our cookies, and I put our things back on the tray. Then I cuddle up with her, my body half under the covers. She’s so skinny, almost bony. But she’s nice and warm, and I feel so safe when I’m close to her.
I don’t know how long we stay like this. I must have fallen asleep a little bit. My mother’s uneven, hoarse breathing wakes me up. I sit right up.
“What is it, momma?” I say and turn her head towards mine so that I can look right into her eyes.
She tries to say something but she can’t. She struggles to breathe. Her cheeks are turning blue, and her chest rises and falls frantically. “Mom!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Moooooooom! Someone help me! Help me!”
I don’t know what to do, I just know that this is bad.
“Momma! What’s going on?”
The dark pit in my stomach bursts and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I shake my mom’s arms to make her stop whatever she’s doing. She’s still choking, but her body completely limbs now.
“Blake, get out of here!”
Ms. Jonson rips the door open and runs into the room. She pulls me out of the bed, away from my mom. “I said, get out!”
Quickly, she pushes me out of the room and closes the door. Out butler comes running to the room, too, and pushes me to a side as he passes me. A loud, endless scream leaves my mouth as I collapse on the floor and hide my face in my arms, wailing.
They don’t have to tell me. I already know. She’s gone.
1
BLAKE
“Mr. Durst!”
A distant voice calls my name. “Mr. Durst! Please wake up! You’re having one of your nightmares.”
Still in a foggy state between sleep and merciless reality, I blink my eyes to wake up. Someone’s screaming, and it takes some time for me to realize that it’s me. “Mr. Durst, it’s me. It’s okay.”
I open my eyes and sit up.
Mr. Gray, our housekeeper, is standing right in front of me and politely hands me a glass of water. “For you, sir. I heard you screaming and wanted to wake you.”
I take the glass and drink the water in one take. I hadn’t even heard him come into the room. My heart is pounding. Although it’s been more than 30 years since my mother died, the nightmares I have about her passing always feel disturbingly real. My hair is wet from sweat and clings to my face. God, I miss her.
“What time is it, Mr. Gray?”
The old man looks at his watch. “It’s 03:30 a.m., sir,” he replies and picks up my glass. “If there is nothing else, I’ll head back to my room,” he adds and turns around to leave.