Dr. Mallory leaned toward her. “But you do have dreams, passions. What would you like to be, dear?”
“A geologist,” she blurted. “Okay? Now can we stop this stupid game?”
“A geologist? What sparked that interest?”
Rain didn’t answer. She was done with this foolishness.
“You know it’s a good thing to have ambitions and aspirations, Rain,” Dr. Mallory said. “The root word of aspiration comes from the Latin, meaning to take in breath. To have life. Our aspirations fill us with life.”
Rain shifted in the chair. A memory rose up. She and Lucy lying on Lucy’s bed. Someday I’m going to live in Paris. I’ll speak perfect French and be a writer for a magazine there. I’ll write about food and travel and what’s it like to be an American living in Paris. And you could come and stay with me. Wouldn’t that be the coolest?
Her stomach ached and she curled her fingers into a tight fist, pressing her nails into her palms, harder and harder. Her gaze fell on the backpack, still on the floor where she’d left it when she’d entered the room what seemed like hours ago. Silence filled the air, broken only by the sound of Walker snoring at her feet.
“We got the school yearbook today.” The words slipped from her mouth of their own will. She squeezed her hands tighter. “The senior class dedicated it to Lucy.”
“Was that a surprise?”
“Well, usually the book is dedicated to the class advisor. I mean Lucy wasn’t even a senior.”
“Ah.”
“And there’s one whole page at the beginning with Lucy’s photo and this really stupid quote, and a poem Lucy wrote for sophomore English composition.”
“That must have been a shock. How do you feel about that?”
“The poem?”
“About the dedication.”
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“There are many feelings this could evoke. Sorrow. Grief. It’s possible some people might even feel a little resentful.”
“Why?”
“Because of the attention.”
“That would be just sick.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Lucy was—well, everybody knows what happened to her.”
“Do you want to talk a little more about that?”
“Not really.”
Dr. Mallory sat quietly, waiting for her to continue.
“It’s just that the kids at school act like she’s some kind of saint,” she blurted.
“Have they always?”
“What?”
“Acted like she was a saint.”
“You mean since before she was—before she was gone?” Dead, she thought. Murdered. She imagined Lucy’s murderer still walking around and shut her eyes against the thought.
Dr. Mallory nodded. “Yes. Did they treat her that way before she was dead?”
Rain considered this. “No,” she finally said. “No. They treated her normal. I mean, she was popular. Everyone liked her and stuff. Except maybe for the mean girls like Bethany and Allison—but they don’t much like any of the other girls.”
“But it makes you angry about the yearbook?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s wrong to feel that.”
“Not wrong. Feelings aren’t right or wrong. They just are.”
Right. What planet does she live on? Everyone knew it was wrong to feel angry. Or jealous. Or mean.
“Our feelings can sometimes feel uncomfortable, but they are not wrong.” Dr. Mallory smiled. “Let’s talk a bit more about why you are upset.”
“Let’s just forget it, okay.”
“That’s another thing about feelings, Rain. They’re not so easy to deny or forget.”
“I’m just saying, everyone forgets Lucy wasn’t perfect.” She was lucky to get a C in algebra. And she could break rules, too. Rain remembered the time when Lucy had called her from the Hayeses’ one night when she was babysitting and had told her to come over. It had been Lucy’s idea to open the liquor cabinet and taste the gin. They both hated it, agreed it tasted like pine needles. Wouldn’t everyone be surprised to hear about that? Or about the fib she told her parents about riding in Jared Phillips’s car. “Now just because she’s dead everyone is acting as if she was.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t perfect.”
“What?”
“Well, Lucy was human, so she was flawed. Just as we are all flawed. That’s part of being human. So go on, Rain. Let’s talk more about the yearbook dedication.”
Again anger took hold. “Half the kids in the senior class didn’t even know her that well. Now they’re acting like—like she was their best friend.”
“And she wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Who was her best friend?”
Her throat ached and she swallowed against tears, but one escaped and slid down her cheek. Dr. Mallory didn’t tell her everything would be all right or try to hug her or even reach over and touch her hand. She just waited until Rain’s tears stopped.
“Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m not a baby. I don’t usually cry.”
“Oh, child, tears are one of the most healing things on the earth. ‘The cure for everything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea.’ The writer Isak Dinesen said that. Do you know of her?”
“No.”
“She was another feisty, independent woman. Her given name was Karen Blixen, and she was born in Denmark. She moved to Africa. She was a pilot and a writer. I think you might enjoy reading her.”
“I don’t read much,” Rain lied.
“Tell me, Rain. What’s hardest about missing Lucy?”
“I don’t know.” Laughing. Having secrets. Having someone to have your first taste of alcohol with. Having someone to trust absolutely. One of the great things about Lucy was if you told her a secret she would never tell anyone. “I guess having her to talk to.”
“Yes. I understand that. Having someone to talk to, a friend like that is a great gift.”
Rain nodded.
“I know I can’t take Lucy’s place, Rain. But I hope I can be a person you can learn to trust. A person you can talk to.”
Fat chance. Rain noticed that the time was up. Dr. Mallory crossed to the desk and her appointment calendar. “Same time next week work for you?”
“I guess.” She picked up her backpack, vowing it would be the last time she’d come here. What could her mother do if she refused? Put her in jail?
At the door, Dr. Mallory touched her shoulder. “Wait one minute. There’s something I have for you before you go.” She walked away in her worn black shoes and returned a minute later and handed Rain a book. It was so thin at first Rain thought it was some kind of brochure, or like the monthly devotion pamphlets in the rack by the entry of Holy Apostles. “I think you might enjoy this.”
Rain read the title on the cover. “Babette’s Feast,” by Isak Dinesen.
“Dinesen understood a lot about dreams, about destiny and courage.”
“Whatever.”
“One more thing, Rain. I’m going to ask you to do something.”
Rain waited.
“Do you have a favorite shell or something like that? Something small you found or someone gave you?”
“I don’t know.” The Lucky Strike stone. “Why?”
“I want you to carry it with you. And when you feel sad or angry or overwhelmed, take it out and hold it in your hand.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Can you do that?”
“I guess. It sounds pretty stupid.” But it wasn’t. Not really. She and Lucy used to carry the Lucky Strike stones around with them.
“You know, in some cultures there are traditions of carrying amulets, touchstones, and charms. Worry beads,” Dr. Mallory said. And then, as she had at the end of Rain’s first appointment, she said, “Take care of yourself, Rain. And if you aren’t able to take care of yourself, call me.
”
As if.
Outside, the driveway was empty. No big surprise. She could have predicted it. Duane had forgotten he was supposed to pick her up. She swung the backpack over her shoulder and started walking, knowing when she got home and told her mother she’d had to walk somehow it would turn out to be her fault. Another predictable thing.
She had gone two blocks when she heard the sound of his for-shit Mazda slow down beside her, but she wouldn’t give her brother the satisfaction of looking over. The car crept along beside her.
“Hey there.”
Not her brother. It was that pervert custodian from the school. Jervis.
“Need a lift?”
“No thanks.” Like she’d ever get in his car. Creepy.
“It’s pretty hot to be walking. Where are you heading?”
She walked a little faster and stared straight ahead. She’d kill Duane when she got home. If she got home. Thoughts of Lucy popped in her head.
“Come on. Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.”
“No thanks.”
A car headed toward them. It slowed down as it approached, but Jervis continued to creep along at her pace, the smell of his car’s exhaust clouding the air. The other driver glanced over at her and then continued on. Rain swung her book bag from one shoulder to the other so it hung between her and Jervis.
“Hey,” he said again.
She stopped and turned. “Look,” she said. “I don’t want a ride, okay. My brother is on his way to pick me up.”
He smiled. “Yeah? Looks like he forgot.”
“He didn’t forget. He’s just late.”
A car pulled up next to Jervis, and Rain recognized it as the one that had passed moments before. The driver rolled down his window.
“Any problem here?”
Relief swept her. She knew him. Mr. Hayes. So funny he should appear, as if she had conjured him by remembering the time she and Lucy had tried his gin when Lucy had been babysitting for his little boy.
“Hey, you don’t want a ride, that’s okay. Suit yourself.” Jervis floored the gas and took off, trailing the scent of exhaust.
Rain looked at Lucy’s neighbor. “Thanks,” she said.
“No problem. Glad to help.”
“My brother was supposed to pick me up, but I guess he forgot.”
“If you’d like I could give you a ride,” he said. “Or if you prefer I can drive and you can walk and I’ll escort you home, ride shotgun as it were. Keep away unwanted advances.”
Rain had to laugh. She scanned the street. Still no sight of Duane. “That’s okay. I don’t want to bother you.”
“No bother. If we see your brother along the way, we’ll flag him down.”
“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure it’s no bother.”
He reached over and opened the passenger door for her. “You’re one of Lucy Light’s friends, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Her best friend.” It came out like she was bragging, and she wished she had only nodded.
“I haven’t seen you around for a while.”
“No.” Even for someone older, he was good-looking. She wished she had worn something a little prettier, wished the polish on her toenails wasn’t all chipped.
“Buckle up. Got to keep you safe,” he said.
Her cheeks heated, and she reached for the strap and engaged the buckle.
“So, where to?”
“Where to?”
“Where do you live?”
“Oh, right.” He must think she was an idiot. “Chandler Street.”
“So what were you doing in this part of town?”
“Oh, nothing. Visiting a friend.” She could only imagine what he’d think if she told him she was seeing a shrink. Too soon they turned onto her street and he pulled into her driveway.
“Here you go,” he said.
There was no sign of Duane and his piece-of-shit car or her mother’s Volvo, which saved her from spending the next hour being cross-examined about how she got home. “Thanks again. For everything.”
“Anytime.”
Anytime?
“I’m always glad to help a damsel in distress.”
Damsel in distress.
What an old-fashioned thing to say. But she played the words over. Damsel. In distress. Rescued. And for a moment, for one of the few times since Lucy was murdered, she felt protected. Safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I’d had a week of fitful sleep and felt as if I suffered from some kind of wasting disease.
A partially completed canvas waited at the easel, but I stared blankly at the painting that had once been so promising. Technically the composition—five oysters on the half shell set on an indigo plate—was not the problem. It was fine, I could see that, the light refracting off the flesh of the mollusks was exact, yet I had lost interest in it, cared no more about it than I would a dead houseplant, as if an unseen yet powerful force had stilled my hand. So even this last refuge in my life, the slender modicum of peace I had found in the studio, was to be taken from me. From the hollow, aching emptiness of the house I heard the phone ringing. Finally the caller gave up and the echo of the ringing evaporated and, as always, Lucy’s absence crowded in, a deafening presence. This absence was like the sky, covering everything. It was like living in a room hung with heavy curtains. Unable to bear the claustrophobic silence any longer, I fled the house.
The market was nearly deserted. It was far too early for the after-work crowd, and the morning shoppers had come and gone. I grabbed a basket—no need for a cart—and negotiated the aisles, shopping for the few items that now sustained me. I passed the long stands overflowing with fresh produce and turned toward the meat department, where a white-jacketed butcher was busy arranging cellophaned packages of chops and steaks, chicken thighs, and ground beef in neat rows in the display counter. Not for the first time, I was struck by the extravagance of it all, the waste implicit in such abundance, the food that would remain unsold past expiration dates, produce already decaying and destined for the huge garbage bins that lined the concrete wall behind the market. I had to resist the urge to abandon my basket there in the middle of the aisle.
Today the spike-haired cashier at the checkout sported two-inch strands dyed purple. Not any improvement over the usual pink. “Hey, Mr. L,” she said. She looked at my groceries. “You find everything you need?”
I nodded, avoiding conversation. I no longer trusted my hearing. A sign hanging above the belt read, “Remove All Items from Your Cart or Basket at Checkout.” Dutifully I emptied the groceries. Coffee. Bread. Peanut butter. A stack of frozen dinners I once would have considered inedible but that now comprised most of my meals. I sensed rather than saw another shopper push a cart into the narrow space beside me. The woman began to unload her groceries. I set the plastic divider between our orders and moved my few items along the belt toward the cashier.
“Hi,” said a small voice from below.
Two toddlers stared up at me from the folds of the woman’s skirt, the girl a miniature version of her mother, the boy, younger with a darker complexion. A baby was propped up in a yellow molded infant seat in the grocery cart. It was the girl who had spoken.
“Hi,” she said again, staring up with clear brown eyes, steady and trusting.
“Hi.” I pushed the word out and turned away. The cashier scanned each item with infuriating slowness. I reached for my billfold, as if that would make her quicken her pace. Beside me, the mother lifted the baby out of the seat, straddling the infant on one hip. She turned to lift the molded seat from the cart, and from the edge of my vision, I caught a glimpse of the infant just as he slid from her grasp. Motion seemed to slow—the open-mouthed mother crying out, her eyes wide, the cashier’s hands frozen at their task, baby slipping, slipping, slipping, from hip to thigh to knee, toward the floor.
Without thought, I brushed aside the other children and lunged for the infant, felt my shoulders jerk as I caught him.
“Whoa. Gre
at save, Mr. L,” the cashier said. “You totally rock.”
The infant was heavy in my arms.
The woman, shock fading, reached for her baby. We were separated by an arm’s length, and I looked fully at her for the first time. As our eyes met, a faint memory stirred, a familiarity. Do I know you?
“Thank you,” she said as she lifted her infant from my arms and cradled him close to her chest. Relieved of the burden, my arms felt lighter, emptier. Bereft. The mother held my gaze a moment longer, as if searching for something else to say. Again I was struck with a sense of knowing her. A hand tugged at my shirt hem. The girl reached an arm up to me, holding something toward me in her fist.
“Here, mister,” she said.
I shifted my gaze from the child to her mother, as if for guidance, and was struck by the calmness she radiated, how peaceful she seemed, only moments after the near disaster. She nodded her okay.
I opened my palm; the child deposited a red chunk in it.
“Lick wish,” she said in her tiny voice.
I tried to make sense of the word, one probably mangled by my hearing problem.
The mother smiled. “Licorice,” she said. “It’s her favorite.”
Lick wish. A Lucy word. The familiar pain of grief stirred in my sternum. More memories surfaced, ambushing me. I managed to mumble my thanks, then grabbed my groceries and walked away, leaving in my wake a buzz of conversation, the voices of the teenage clerk and the woman, and then the higher voice of the girl. And then, just as I reached the automatic doors, a surprising ribbon of laughter, light and joy-filled, floated to me, and I knew without looking that it was the mother.
Even before I had crossed the parking lot, I discarded the sticky red chunk. Lick wish. In the car, I rummaged through the glove box until I found a tissue. I wiped my palm clean of the moist residue, but the vision of the woman, the weight of the infant in my arms, remained, and with it memory and the ever-present pain. I drove home in a cloud of despair, one that carried with it a hopelessness more powerful than any I had ever felt. I could not see a future that held more than this. Terrible solitude and utter isolation. It was a future I wasn’t sure I could any longer bear to face. Certainly I was unable to return to the emptiness of the house that awaited me. In the driveway, I left the groceries in the car, the frozen dinners to melt in the heat, and walked away. My stride was fast, although I had no destination, not walking toward anything, just away from something. Move on. Pick up the pieces and get on with life. The directives echoed in my head. Others were quick with advice. One person had even told me it was unhealthy to stay stuck. You wouldn’t believe the things people said. Maybe you are thinking of them too. Perhaps you want me to get on with it, but unless your life has been rent with violence, you cannot imagine how thoroughly it destroys the foundation.
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