The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(44)

“You too,” he says—sincerely, if hurriedly.

Mr. Coffee is busy on his laptop when she hangs up. He doesn’t even glance her way.

Relieved, she goes back to her magazine.

It’s much too early to check in when Kay arrives at the hotel on the suburban outskirts of Cincinnati. She drives past it, making note of where to turn later, and then decides to head on down the road to familiarize herself with the place where Meredith’s service is being held.

McGraw’s Funeral Parlor is a squat yellow brick building set back from the two-lane highway. Next door on one side there’s a bowling alley with a neon sign and a gigantic satellite dish that sits right on the property perimeter. On the other side sits a boxy duplex with an aboveground swimming pool in the small yard.

It bothers Kay, for some reason, to think of people swimming and bowling and watching TV in such close proximity to dead bodies and grieving families. She wishes the funeral—Meredith’s funeral—were being held elsewhere.

Meredith’s funeral . . .

Dear God.

She turns around in the empty parking lot and backtracks toward the hotel. For a moment she considers jumping right back onto the interstate and heading home.

No, don’t do that. You’re much too tired to drive, and hungry, too. You’ll feel better if you get something to eat and relax for a bit.

There are a couple of restaurants near the Wal-Mart shopping plaza. It’s too early in the day for Applebee’s or Chili’s, and she bypasses Starbucks as well. She entered one back home a few years ago, wanting a plain old cup of coffee, and was immediately intimidated by the sleek decor, unfamiliar beverages on the overly complicated menu, and the impatient girl at the register, who asked rapid-fire questions that might as well have been in a foreign language: “Tall, grande, or venti? . . . Blond, medium, or Bold Pick? . . . With or without room?”

Shuddering at the thought of repeating that experience—and in an unfamiliar city, besides—she opts instead for a Bob Evans restaurant, a familiar chain she’s visited back home.

The parking lot is full. Inside, she finds herself surrounded by senior citizens, truck drivers, and families with small children.

“What are you doing up so early on a weekend, hon?” asks the friendly waitress, after taking her order.

“Me? Oh, I always get up early.”

“Not me. If I weren’t here, I’d be in bed until noon, believe me.”

Kay smiles at her. She’s the motherly type. Probably a grandma, too. Women like this always make her wistful—not just for what she, herself, is never going to be, but for what her own mother chose not to be. And now, for what she found, and lost, in Meredith.

“Can I bring you cream with that coffee, hon?”

“Yes, please. And real butter with the biscuits, please, instead of that spread, whatever it is.”

“You got it.”

Meredith was always blogging about eating natural foods, avoiding chemicals. She taught her so much about nutrition.

Some of the bloggers—like Elena—might argue that it doesn’t matter much at this point. Not for them. As she put it . . .

Either you’ve already fought cancer and won . . . or you’ve lost, and at that point might as well throw caution to the wind.

Meredith’s diplomatic response: To each his own.

Kay finds herself swallowing back the ache in her throat, thinking of her friend. It feels wrong to be here in Cincinnati, about to meet some of the others without Meredith.

She forces the sorrow away and notices a trio of white-haired women in the next booth. Two are smiling, chatting easily between bites of omelets and pancakes. The third is silently picking at a poached egg, wearing a dour expression.

Making eye contact with Kay, she scowls, and Kay quickly averts her eyes, wishing she’d thought to pick up a newspaper or something.

Dining out solo has never been very comfortable for her—though it’s preferable to dining out with Mother, back when she was alive. That didn’t happen very often, but on the few occasions when it did, Mother complained about the service, the prices, the food . . .

She was just like you, Kay silently tells the dour woman, though she doesn’t dare sneak another peek. A miserable human being.

Why would anyone, blessed with the gift of longevity, waste all those years finding fault with everything around her—especially with her own daughter?

But then . . .

Why did I waste all those years trying to make her see past her resentment of me; trying to make her love me?

She had known damn well that it was futile from the time she was a kid. She should have walked out of that house the moment she turned eighteen and never looked back.

She thought of doing that. She did.

But where would she have gone? She had no plan, no college tuition, let alone money to live on campus. She’d always thought she might want to become a writer, but that was an impossible dream.

That’s what her high school English teacher told her.

A frustrated novelist himself, he said, “Don’t waste your time on anything frivolous when you have bills to pay. Get a real job and save your money, and when you’re rich, you can write all you want . . . or win the lottery. Those are your choices.”

On some level, Kay respected his blunt honesty.

On another, she hated him.

But she listened. And she stayed put.