Melanie swiped at her damp face as if she could erase any evidence of her weakness. “Sure. I’m fine. I just need to make some calls.” To prove it, Melanie stalked toward the window that gave her a view of inky darkness and a mostly empty parking lot.
She spoke to her lonely reflection. “I guess I need to call Hillary’s ex-husband, Kyle. Though I don’t know why. He’s a proven asshole. Then I need to call Osborn Funeral Home and see about arrangements. Is there a death certificate? I think someone has to sign that, right? I can do it. Since I’m obviously the only person here.”
On the edge. She was right on the edge of tipping over into madness. Into something she couldn’t stop. Into a rage. A hissy fit. A place she didn’t want to touch, like floating above in the water, refusing to feel a muddy lake bottom. She couldn’t let her toes sink into the muck. She had to stay afloat, treading the water, shoving all the feelings aside, because if she let herself go there, she’d be stuck.
“Uh, I can check on that for you, Mrs. Layton.”
Melanie watched in the reflection as Dr. Williams rose and looked at Tennyson as if she might tell him what to do. Surely, this doctor had seen every reaction there was to grief? Or maybe he didn’t know what to do with a dysfunctional, repressed forty-six-year-old woman whose only defense was to be efficient and refuse to crumble? Maybe they hadn’t taught him that in medical school.
Tennyson ran a finger under her eyelashes and sniffed. “I’ll stay here with her.”
He nodded. “Again, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Layton.”
Melanie gave a nod. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. Very, very sorry.”
He walked out, and for a moment Tennyson stood, staring at her back as she looked out the window.
Finally, Melanie turned around. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You can go, you know. I’ve got everything here under control.”
Tennyson gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure you think you do.”
“No. I do. I’ve been through much worse. When Daddy shot himself, I had to deal with all that. Horrible business. Replacing carpet, dealing with the coroner’s office, and an ensuing investigation. This will be a piece of cake. I mean, yeah, they both killed themselves, but this will be easier, don’t you think? So, by all means, take your cute guy and go on home.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think I will.”
“He’s really good looking, by the way,” Melanie said.
“Yeah, he is. But I’m not concerned about him. He’s a tough guy and used to waiting.” So Tennyson was staying because of her. She probably thought Melanie was going to lose her shit or something. Didn’t she know that Melanie didn’t have that luxury? A ladylike tear or two? Yes. Breaking down? Not acceptable.
Tennyson stepped toward her and just stood there. Like she didn’t know what to do.
“Suit yourself,” Melanie said, pulling her phone out and calling her mother. The phone rang. And rang. And went to voice mail. When she clicked end, she saw that Emma had indeed gone to Starbucks and wanted to know if she wanted a skinny vanilla latte. She typed no thanks and put the phone into her pocket. “You don’t want Starbucks, do you? Because Emma is there now.”
“No.”
Melanie could feel something inside her rising like magma. Was that what that red stuff was called? Yeah, it became lava when it erupted. She felt like melted rock churned in her gut, threatening to gush forth and spew everywhere. She sucked in a breath. And another. And one more for good measure. Push it all down, Melanie. Don’t let it up. “I’m good. I’m good.”
Tennyson narrowed her eyes. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
Melanie pulled away and looked around the waiting room, remembering she was still in a public space. The mother and son huddling in the corner stared at her with abject sorrow on their faces. They knew the score—doctors went in and out of this horrible room all day and night, consulting families, holding fate in their hands. If she were a betting woman, she’d wager these two had seen a few “we’re so sorry for your loss” faces before. Something about those two watching her, the coffee stain in the shape of an amoeba on the green floor, and the horrible landscapes on the wall beside plants that looked like many of the patients beyond the double doors—barely hanging in there—made her livid. Made her feel like someone needed to wipe everything away. Just toss out the worn furniture, tear out the plants, throw the ugly paintings across the room. Just destroy it all. She thought about being the one who did that. The image of her stomping around and Godzillaing everything in her path made her giggle. She used the toe of her tasteful sandal to tap the stain. “What do you think this shape looks like?”
Tennyson looked down. “I don’t know. Jesus?”
Melanie started laughing harder. “You don’t know what Jesus looks like.”
“And you do?” Tennyson asked, arching an eyebrow. Wow. Her brows were pretty. Who had pretty eyebrows, anyway?
“I’m closer to God than you are.”
“Because you go to church? Okay. Whatever.” But Tennyson smiled through her tears. Then she moved closer to her. “You want a smoke?”
“Here?” Melanie looked at the NO SMOKING sign by the open double doors leading to the hallway. She absolutely wanted a cigarette. Like, desperately.
“No. Back at my place.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “I have a few joints.”
“Tennyson,” Melanie said, knowing her eyes were about to pop.
“Don’t tell the cop. I actually got Marc to get them. I was going to take them to Hillary. Weed makes you crazy hungry, and I thought . . . you know.” Tennyson looked totally earnest.
“You were going to take Hillary marijuana?” she whispered.
Tennyson shrugged.
Melanie started laughing. “You’re crazy. I mean, truly bonkers, but I sort of love that about you. I’m not sure I know anyone who would procure illegal drugs to give my sister but you.”
“So? You wanna?”
“I can’t leave. My sister just died. I have to—”
Tennyson held up a hand. “Whoa, hey, this is exactly the best time to do this. Like, I think Hillary would approve. I think she’d tell everyone waiting on you to do everything responsible, dutiful, tactful, and appropriate to fuck off.”
“Hillary would never say fuck.”
Tennyson rolled her eyes. “She’d hold up her three fingers and say read between the lines.”
Exactly.
Melanie stood for a moment, glancing around at the nearly empty space around them. At the handsome police officer leaning against the wall in the hallway. Then she looked back at Tennyson, who wore the same kind of T-shirt dress she’d always loved in high school. And Tretorns. She didn’t know they still made those. This woman didn’t look like the Tennyson with the Birkin purse who had sashayed back into her life and busted it open. This woman looked like the friend she’d once loved like a sister.
Her sister.
Hilly was dead.
“Let’s go,” Melanie said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN