Mattie glared at Pink, then clenched her fingers over the necklace and shoved it back in her purse.
“Look, Mama, you don’t have to get angry with me,” Pink said. “I just want to know what’s going on. How do you think you can help Mrs. Stage? You think you can bring her husband back from the dead?”
Pink was suddenly sorry he’d snapped at his mother, even sorrier when she slapped him across his face.
“Don’t speak to me that way, Pink. Ever again!”
She had never hit him before. It hurt worse than he ever imagined, as if she had rejected some part of him, had broken off a chunk of his soul and tossed it out the window. His mother was the only person in the world who had ever accepted him completely. Not even Isabelle, who was probably his closest friend, could look at him without some trace of pity or irritation. But it never mattered, because it was his mother who held firm to his image, who upheld the highest reflection of who Pink could be, who he was, who he would like to be. She would never betray him, no matter what. That knowledge, he realized in this moment, his cheek stinging, was what made him resilient, confident, strong
She sighed, and Pink could tell she was sorry, but neither of them would say a word. By tomorrow, all would be forgotten. It was the same way with Isabelle when they argued, and Pink preferred it that way. There was no need for boiling it all down, sifting through the rubble of anger, offering foolish apologies wrapped in remorse. Even so, this felt different to Pink. He and his mother had argued plenty, but she had never hit him, and now she seemed to possess something crucial to his wellbeing, something he couldn’t describe, but knew he needed desperately. And whatever it was, it seemed impossible to get back through silence. It was as if she had exposed some inferior part of him that had been hidden, as if his shame and vulnerability would now be obvious to the world.
The road to her house was slick. Pink put the Suburban in four-wheel drive and the tread found footing. Across the seat, his mother fingered her purse, as if her thoughts processed through her fingertips. Pink had never seen his mother so pensive, so distressed.
His mother’s house was dark as he pulled up to her porch, the headlights reflecting like glowing eyes in her front windows.
“Mama . . .” Pink tried to apologize, but Mattie pushed the door open and jumped out before he could.
“Pink, do you know where Mrs. Stage might have gotten Isabelle’s pendant?” His mother held the door open, a cold draft sweeping across the seat.
Pink shrugged. “What difference does it make? It’s just a little damn piece of jewelry. It may not even be Isabelle’s.” But he was almost certain it was. “What do you care so much about it for? And why are you so—” Before Pink could finish, his mother slammed the door and hurried to the porch. She fumbled a moment with the doorknob then disappeared inside the house, not bothering to wave or acknowledge him in any way.
He drove home dumbfounded, the radio playing an elevator rendition of a Waylon Jennings song. Pink’s house was dark when he arrived home. He really hadn’t expected Claire to be up and was relieved she wasn’t. He stepped softly through the living room, past the couch where Claire slept, and was almost to his bedroom when he heard Claire whisper, “Pink, come back here. I’m still awake if you ain’t too tired from all that voodoo.”
Pink hesitated a moment at his bedroom, then went in and closed the door behind him, pretending he hadn’t heard her.
Chapter 29
Sunlight cut across Michelle’s hospital bed and glistened off the white breakfast plate sitting on her food tray. Dr. Price, the resident psychiatrist, had been in earlier that morning, talked with her, and she was surprised to have fallen back to sleep after he left. Dr. Price had told her she would be released today, so long as it was agreeable with the sheriff.
She stretched her arms, her muscles aching from nonuse, as if she’d been laid up for weeks. Or maybe it was stress. Dr. Price had not given her Xanax when he’d visited earlier, wanting to see how she would do without it. Was Dr. Price aware of her personal history? That was such an odd concept now, personal history, her daughter’s death, Cliff’s cheating. It had always seemed to Michelle that she could have only one account of her past, and that everyone would agree on the facts of it. But that was not the case. Darcy remembered events differently than she did, even events they had experienced together. And Cliff was constantly negating her memory of things, as if her mind was a faulty contraption, incapable of accuracy. And now Dr. Price. What was his version?
“Bye, Michelle,” someone said.
Michelle looked up to see her roommate, dressed and clutching a plastic Ardenwood Hospital bag with her clothes. Michelle figured the things in the bag were probably donations, and wondered where she was going, if she was being moved to another ward.
“They found me, Michelle. I’m Charlene House. They contacted my daughter in Chicago. She’s flying here to get me. I was hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
Even though the woman spoke with apparent relief and joy, there was a reserve of sadness beneath her words, the information coming from her lips like rehearsed sound bites on the evening news.
“Did you hear me get up last night?” Charlene asked Michelle, as if skeptical over details of her apparent good fortune.
“No, I didn’t.”
Charlene pointed to the white message board. “The nurse figured I must have sleep-walked to the board and written my name. Isn’t that amazing?” But there was no amazement in Charlene’s eyes or voice, only a residue of doubt and confusion. She looked more lost than the previous night when she had no idea who she was. Now that she’d been told she was someone named Charlene House, memories should have flooded back, but Michelle could tell they hadn’t.
“You’ll be okay,” Michelle said, not sure where the encouragement had come from. It felt phony.
The woman nodded, then smiled, as if she were unable to connect the two gestures, as if they couldn’t be linked. When the nurse brought in a wheelchair, Mrs. House guided herself backward into the seat and placed her feet on the metal rests, the plastic bag nestled in her lap. Michelle couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to Charlene when she was safely back in Chicago, if she would remember why she’d left her home to hike the Appalachian Trail, if she’d been fleeing a stale life, a lonely existence, or seeking an adventure. When Michelle heard her assumptions about the woman playback through her head, she realized it was her own life she was examining not Charlene’s.
A moment after the nurse wheeled Mrs. House from the room, Darcy came through the doorway, as if cued by the departure of Michelle’s roommate.
“Hey, Darcy,” Michelle said, ecstatic to see her sister, thankful there was no question about their relationship, about who they were to each other, and that no matter what happened, she knew Darcy would always be there for her. She hugged Darcy close and didn’t want to let go.