Cackle(50)

“Sophie,” I call. “Sophie?”

Footsteps.

She pokes her head through the doorway. “Yes, pet?”

“What’s happening? What time is it?”

“It’s three thirty,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

I prop myself up on my elbows. “Pretty bad. What was in that tea?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Was it too strong?”

Images sweat from my subconscious. They’re heinous. Abstract. A collage of Bosch paintings.

“I think I had some kind of trip,” I say, scratching my neck. “Or an allergic reaction. I . . . I might have hallucinated or maybe had nightmares. I don’t know.”

Sophie comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. Her hair is in a long braid draped over her shoulder. She’s wearing a velvet dress with a corset top and long sleeves. She looks great, as always.

I probably look like a hag.

“I may have been a little heavy-handed,” she says, nibbling on her thumbnail. “It’s been a long time since I last made that blend. I’m sorry.”

“I got sick,” I say.

“Oh, no!” she says. “It was supposed to make you feel better. Soothe you. Maybe boost your mood.”

“Well,” I say, rubbing my temples, “I think it was a successful distraction.”

The picture flashes before my eyes. Sam. And Shannon. Shannon. Worse than any echoing nightmare, than any Bosch painting.

“I see you’ve destroyed your torture device,” Sophie says, holding up my smashed phone. She sets it on the nightstand.

“Yeah. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I can’t really afford a new one.”

“You’ll be better off without it,” she says. She stands up. “Let me make you something to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” I say, sinking back into bed.

“Why don’t we watch television?”

I think about it.

“Annie,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. “We can watch TV.”

She helps me out of bed and over to the couch, where she settles me under a thick knit blanket.

“I made this for you,” she says.

It’s soft and warm, a pretty baby pink. It smells like lavender. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “May I choose the program?”

I hand her the remote.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“No,” I say. I’m too afraid I’ll throw up again, though there is a sour taste lingering on my tongue I’d like to evict.

“More tea?” she asks. “Different tea? Have I ruined it for you?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Oh, dear,” she says. She doesn’t seem too bothered. She turns on the TV and selects a series about international luxury real estate properties.

I find it depressing.

But that’s probably because I’m depressed. All I can see is that image. Sam and her. Someone else. All I can feel is the twist of the knife, the slow death of possibility. This isn’t temporary.

I still love him, but he doesn’t love me.

It’s gone. Whatever he felt for me, he doesn’t feel it anymore. Not at all.

I lost it. I fucked up. I wasn’t enough.

“You were right,” I tell Sophie, who’s totally engrossed by this show, now featuring a gorgeous villa in the Italian countryside with its own spa.

“About what, pet?”

“I shouldn’t have called him,” I say. “I wish I didn’t know.”

“Someday you won’t care,” she says. She puts her arm around me. I rest my head on her shoulder and she rubs my back. “Shall I make you a revenge dress? Like Princess Diana?”

“You have to stop with the Windsors,” I say. “And I have nowhere to wear a revenge dress.”

“That’s the thing about a revenge dress, darling. You can wear it anywhere, everywhere, whenever your heart desires.”

I sigh.

“You don’t seem like a vengeful person,” she says. “I am.”

“No,” I say. It seems like the polite response.

“It’s true,” she says. “You should know that about me, Annie. I don’t mean it, like, you know . . . It sounds a bit cryptic. It’s not a threat. I’m just saying it’s my personality.”

“You’d wear a revenge dress?”

She laughs a little. “Among other things.”

“Yeah,” I say. “A bit cryptic.”

She laughs again, then turns up the volume on the TV.

We spend the afternoon like this—side by side on the couch. At some point she goes into the kitchen and comes back holding two caramel apples.

“Where did you get these?” I ask her as she hands me one. It’s on a long wooden stick.

She winks at me. That’s her answer.

I don’t have an appetite, but I eat it anyway. It’s delicious. Worth the risk of getting sick again.

It actually makes me feel better, somehow settling my stomach.

“How do you always know what I need?” I ask Sophie.

“I’ve told you,” she says. “I consider myself very intuitive.”