Whisper Me This(75)

“How long are you staying, Daddy?” Elle chirps, and I feel my shoulders tighten, listening for the answer.

“Thought I’d stay a few days and help your mom square away some paperwork. Maybe I’ll take you back with me.”

“I’m staying till Mom goes.” Her voice is decisive and fearless, and I feel a small burst of pride at her strength and confidence. “School’s out next week already. I’m not missing anything.”

“We will discuss it later,” he says, and I wonder if he’s already bought her a ticket. “Got an extra bed for a stray traveler, Walter?” It’s a question, technically, but said rhetorically. My stomach rises, then free-falls, like a broken elevator in a high-rise.

Dad hasn’t made a single decision since my arrival. Sometimes he’s reasonably present and focused; sometimes he wanders where I can’t follow. I’m not capable of telling Greg no. I can already see all the rational arguments he’ll trot out if I should even try.

“I don’t,” Dad says. “No room at this particular inn, I’m afraid.”

Greg laughs. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

“Well,” Dad says, in a considering sort of way, “Elle has the spare room bed. Maisey’s got the couch. I could offer to give up mine, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t dream of taking your bed, sir,” Greg says. “Elle can sleep on the floor. Right, Ellie?”

“No.”

My response surprises all of us, especially me.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Medina whispers, releasing my head and patting my shoulder.

I sit up, roll my shoulders back, straighten my spine. “Nobody’s sleeping on the floor. Nobody’s sharing beds. Wouldn’t your mother be disappointed not to have you?”

“She moved into Parkview last summer. You know that. She doesn’t have room for guests.”

“Neither does Dad. You could get a motel, maybe, or else sleep on her couch.”

Greg laughs again, in a doting, condescending way as if he’s humoring a precocious child. “Come on, Maise. That’s just silly.”

My momentary courage ebbs. He’s probably right. What would it hurt me to share a house with him for a couple of days? He’ll need access to paperwork. We have funeral food that needs to be eaten. He can spend some time with Elle, see that she’s okay, and will be more likely to let her stay with me, at least for the summer.

I’m about to acquiesce when my father speaks up. “Maisey’s right. I’m afraid I can’t possibly put you up with any sort of comfort. Maybe Benny’s Inn? Or there’s that new hotel down by the Super One. What’s that called again?”

Dad and Mrs. Carlton dive into a discussion of the merits of the local motels. Greg gives me his I know best and you’d better pay attention stare, the one he likes to bestow on the jury during his final argument, and then seamlessly joins into the motel discussion.

“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Medina leans over to whisper in my ear.

I blink at her, finally shaking my head. I’m not sure which time frame she’s talking about, but if she means today, the answer is no.

“Come with me, dear. Let’s get you fed.” She hoists herself up with a whoosh of expelled breath and then reaches down and pulls me up. She precedes me down the hallway, runs interference between me and anybody who presents as too weepy, too clingy, or too nosy, and makes sure my plate is filled with not only salads and veggies, but two brownies and a slice of apple pie.

“Don’t you dare even think about dieting at a time like this. Comfort food all the way. I wonder where my children have got to?”

I shrug, but if Tony and Mia have any sense, they’ve gotten themselves well away from the train wreck that is me and my life. My sadness about this feels as inevitable as rain, and I brush it off. There’s a little glimmer that keeps me afloat. With Greg here to occupy Elle and keep an eye on Dad, with Tony and Mia safely out of the way, there is nobody to interfere with my plan to drive down to the TriCities and make my sister talk to me.





Chapter Twenty-Three

I use Dad as an excuse to go home.

He’s clearly exhausted, his face drawn, eyes sunken. He looks like I feel. But once he’s tucked into bed for a nap, I still can’t rest. My nerves zing, my heartbeat won’t slow down, and the internal shaking feels like it will go on forever.

Elle has gone off with Greg to see her grandmother. With Dad in bed, I have space and time to myself to read, to nap. But I feel too restless and unfocused to do either. My body aches in a million small places.

It occurs to me that a hot bath would be a luxury, and I make my way into the bathroom, where I gaze, appalled, at myself in a mirror that performs the opposite of the Snow White magic.

My mascara has smeared under my eyes; my blusher is long gone. I look pale and wretched, and the sight of myself makes me feel even less like the princess a knight would fight for. Tony was wise to flee. It’s a miracle Greg still talks to me.

I give myself a mental shake, remind myself that the lighting in this bathroom made me look hideous even when I was sixteen. The walls are green, for one thing. And my parents have installed a set of harsh and unforgiving bulbs directly above the mirror.

Fortunately, what the bathroom lacks in lighting and mirror kindness, it makes up for with the bathtub. Sometime after I left home, my parents installed a huge tub with water jets. I’m not sure if either of them ever used it, but I am about to.