Stay Sweet(6)

Amelia lifts him straight up by the scruff, careful not to disturb Molly’s body. He’s a baby; he fits easily into her hand, and she can feel his tiny bones underneath his fur.

Then she notices a drum of ice cream that Molly must have carried into the stand and set down on the floor before she died. It’s seeping pink across the white penny tile, a strawberry puddle creeping closer and closer to Molly’s dress. With the tip of her finger, Amelia guides the hem so it’s clear of the growing spill. Then, on unsteady legs, she flees into the office, sets the kitten on the desk, and picks up the heavy black handset of the landline.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

Amelia peeks around the doorway and sees the toes of Molly Meade’s slip-ons pointing to the ceiling. She answers, her voice trembling. “I . . . I don’t think this is an emergency, exactly,” she says, trying to clarify. “It was. Only not anymore.”

After hanging up, Amelia debates calling her mom at the bank, but decides instead to text her dad, knowing his phone doesn’t get much reception when he’s fishing in Sand Lake.

Hey Daddy. Molly Meade passed away. I found her when I got to work this morning. I’m okay. Handling things here. Just wanted to let you know.

Next, she calls Cate. “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” Amelia whispers.

It takes a few rings. “Hello?” Cate’s voice is groggy, though once Amelia tells her the news, she sounds instantly, fully awake. “Wait, hold up. Are you for real?”

“Yes.”

Amelia hears Cate swallow. “And you’re there with her dead body right now?”

“I’m hiding in the office. I just called the police.”

“Jesus,” Cate says, and lets out a long breath.

Amelia lets out one too, and then notices an envelope on the desk, addressed to her in Molly’s handwriting. “Cate, I should go.”

“Do you need any help? Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“What about the other girls? Should I let them know not to come in?”

Amelia doesn’t say what she is suddenly thinking, the ever again part, because it is too sad. “I’ll do it, Cate. You should go back to sleep.”

“Amelia, there’s no way I’m falling back asleep now! Please, I’ve got it. You’re going to have enough to deal with there.”

“Okay. Thank you. You’re the best.”

After hanging up, Amelia carefully opens the envelope.

Dear Amelia,

Happy First Day of Summer.

The walk-in freezer is fully stocked, as are all supplies. I tested the three waffle irons yesterday and found that one wasn’t heating up properly, so I ordered a replacement. Hopefully you can manage with two until then.

Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything or have questions. You Head Girls never seem to, but I am here if you do.

And thank you for working so hard for me over these past four years. I always loved seeing your polo tucked in so neatly. It’s a little thing, but it speaks volumes about the kind of girl you are.

Stay sweet,

Molly

Amelia feels the back of her shirt as sirens wail in the distance. Being chosen wasn’t arbitrary or accidental, the way Amelia had assumed. Somehow Molly had known her. Seen her. Believed in her.

The paramedics burst in. Careful to keep the kitten corralled in the office, Amelia slips out and watches as one calls out Molly’s name, as if she might suddenly wake up, while another checks her neck for a pulse. It takes less than a minute before they radio for the coroner.

Amelia slinks backs to the office and closes the door.

A policeman arrives next, and double-checks with Amelia if there’s anyone he should inform that Molly has died. There isn’t, Amelia confirms, assuming his question is more a matter of procedure. Everyone in Sand Lake knows that when Molly’s parents passed away, the farm was left solely to her. Though she had two brothers, she outlived them both. Molly Meade never married, never had kids. There’s no next of kin, no anyone. Aside from the kitten pawing at Amelia’s shoelaces, Molly Meade was alone in the world.

A little while later, the local funeral home arrives, trades some paperwork with the policeman, and takes Molly Meade away.

Then it’s just Amelia.

Underneath the window is a love seat, a floral pattern on sun-bleached goldenrod velvet. Though it’s threadbare in certain places—the center of each cushion, the top of each armrest—Amelia finds it beautiful. It’s like a couch that might be for sale in a fancy shop, purposely distressed in that perfect way.

She lies down on it, her head propped against one armrest, her feet dangling over the other. She wonders how many girls over the years have sat on this love seat. Girls wanting to be consoled over fights with their boyfriends or their best friends or their mothers, girls hoping to spill the beans on terrific first dates, or giving the unvarnished truth of what it was like when they lost their virginity. Girls cooking up plans for a random adventure. Or simply trying to catch a few minutes of sleep during a shift break.

Amelia herself learned many lessons on this couch, like which teachers were good and which to avoid, how to lie to her mom and get away with it, and ways to protect her heart from being broken. Could she have survived high school without them? And what a shame to not have this sacred place to pass that knowledge along.