The better part of the day was meeting the Marshalls. Although they didn’t see Preston often, they were devastated to lose him.
Preston’s with Krystal now. That’s what they said, like it should comfort me. It doesn’t. It pisses me off. He should be with me, damn it. He belongs here. With. Me.
“Are you all right?” Bridgette asks timidly.
She’s staring at my hands, and I realize I’m squeezing the pamphlet to the point of destruction. It’s all twisted and crumpled.
“Sorry,” I mumble, smoothing it back out on my thigh.
Fidgeting with her purse, Bridgette smiles. “What I’m trying to say is, the sky’s the limit for you, Melody.”
I wince at the name, and she notices, then immediately apologizes.
I tell her it’s fine. It’s hard for someone to understand why I don’t want a name anymore. Not just that name…
Any name.
I don’t want to be called anything. Not Melody, because that’s not who I am. Not Rosalie, because any version of Rosie reminds me of Preston. Rosie Doll died when he did.
I still have times when I think he’s alive. At night, sometimes I dream about him. It usually starts with a nightmare. Even though I know the source of my drowning dreams is from an actual event, it hasn’t made them go away. Sometimes when I’m cold and thrashing, I think I feel Preston’s arms around me. It’s so real, but when I wake up, he’s not there.
One time, I swear his side of the bed was warm and I smelled his scent in the air.
Looks like I’ve gone a little crazy after all.
I started antidepressants seven weeks ago—the legit kind, prescribed by a real doctor—and they’re helping.
Well, they’re making me numb.
I don’t feel joy, but I’m not crying all the time either.
I didn’t even shed one tear when Loralee hanged herself in her jail cell just after the new year. When she was arrested, her lawyer claimed insanity as their defense, and she was supposed to have a psychological evaluation to prove it. She probably could’ve avoided prison by going to a mental institution, but I guess she thought death was better.
In the end, she was just as selfish as she’s always been. She couldn’t even stick around long enough to give me closure. I’ll never get to ask her about the day she took me. I have nowhere to direct my anger over the entire ordeal.
I took Jen’s advice and started drafting a letter to Loralee. Although I’ll never get to read it in court, I figure it can’t hurt to get my feelings on paper. My progress has stalled a bunch of times, though, and the waste basket in my room is filled with crumpled papers. It’s just, nothing I write seems right.
Dear Loralee, fuck you.
Dear Ms. Pearson, eat shit.
To whom it may concern…
I really would like to finish it. Maybe I can bring that up with Dr. Fairmont today. That’s a safe, Preston-free topic.
It’s weird that there’s no one else in the waiting room with us. Three other doctors practice out of this building, so usually, there are at least a few others in the chairs around me.
It’s so quiet in here, I can hear the clock tick, tick, ticking behind the receptionist desk. A pretty, middle-aged woman with red hair sits behind it. Maggie. I think that’s her name. A call comes through on her phone, and her eyes go to me.
It’s time.
Standing, Maggie smiles. “Dr. Fairmont is ready for you.”
Bridgette gets up with me, and she pleasantly comments about the homey décor as we file into Dr. Fairmont’s office. I nod in agreement.
The room is covered in warm colors. Browns on the walls and burnt-orange curtains. Ceramics and plants are placed near the window, on bookshelves, and on the coffee table that sits between us. My favorite feature is the fireplace. I don’t know if Dr. Fairmont burns logs year-round, but it’s definitely nice during winter. On the mantel, there’s a card with pink and red hearts on it.
That reminds me, Valentine’s Day is coming up.
It’s the Parks’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, and they have family coming from Connecticut, including their daughter, who will be arriving with her husband and kids tomorrow.
Technically, Tennille and I are sisters. Bridgette and Mason adopted her six years before me. I don’t remember her from when we were little, but we met at Christmas. We didn’t talk much, and I’m not sure if it’s because she wanted to give me space or if she doesn’t like me.
Maybe she resents me for being such a draining focus throughout her childhood.
That.
I can definitely talk about that.
It might piss Bridgette off.
I sneak a look at my adoptive mother as we sit on a cushy brown leather couch.
On second thought, it’s likely she won’t get mad about anything I say. The woman is so level-headed and nice all the time. She’s a gentle soul. Zero temper. It’s incredibly disarming. Riling her up isn’t fun. Just the opposite, it makes me feel guilty. She makes me want to be rational.
Being raised by her would’ve been good. Really good.
Safe.
Filled with unconditional love, understanding, and valuable life lessons.
For the first time since losing Preston, I feel negative emotions that aren’t associated with him.
Something like regret.
True longing for a past I didn’t get to have.
“Your thoughts seem deep today,” Dr. Fairmont says, and I wonder if I’d been talking out loud.
“What?”
“I said hello three times and you just kept staring at my spider plant. Do you have something you’d like to talk about?”
“Actually… yeah. I feel…” I thought my eyes were all dried up, but I guess I was wrong. Tears blur my vision, my chin trembles, and my lips wobble. “I’m sad,” I croak out.
Ever attentive, Dr. Fairmont nods. “Can you tell me why?”
I look at Bridgette, and a tear streaks down my face. “You would’ve been a great mom to me. I think I would’ve really loved you. And you would’ve loved me. With you and Mason, I could’ve grown up in a normal way. And I wouldn’t even have known it was normal because it would’ve been all I knew, and I probably would’ve taken it for granted. I wish I had that.” My chest convulses with a sob. “I wish I could know what it’s like for life to be so easy that I don’t even have to think about it.”
“Oh,” Bridgette sighs sympathetically as she slides across the couch and wraps me in her arms.
I like how soft she is. She’s on the plump side, but it makes her hugs better. More comforting. She wears oversized clothes, too. Lots of sweatshirts. From the pictures I’ve seen, she’s been a little overweight for a long time. I imagine snuggling with her as a kid would’ve been awesome.
Thinking that only makes me cry harder.
“I’ll always be your mom,” Bridgette says softly as she strokes my hair. “Since the first time I held you, I’ve never stopped being your parent. No matter where you are, you’ll be my daughter.”
Once I’ve finally gotten myself under control, I pull back and wince at all the tears and snot I got on Bridgette’s gray shirt. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” She laughs a little, though she’s crying, too. “You think this is bad? One time, Tennille brought the stomach flu home from school. I think I was covered in barf from my hair to my feet.”