The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(46)

“Oh.”

“Do you need to go inside and help her?”

“Nah, she doesn’t like being bothered this early in the morning. She’s able to get what she needs by herself. Come get back in bed.”

I removed my clothes and snuggled next to his naked, warm body. He was still very fit, although he’d allowed some of those muscles he’d honed in the army to soften. As for me, my figure was darned fine for a forty-year-old, if I do say so myself. My weight could have been reduced a bit, but that’s because I was a sedentary person by nature. My New Year’s resolution was going to be the same as the previous year’s and the one before that. Exercise more, damn it.

After Eddie got up to pee, too, we went at it again. An hour later, spent, we both decided that our stomachs could use some protein. First, he returned to the house to check on his mother. Thankfully she was able to go to the bathroom, get in and out of the wheelchair, and more or less dress by herself. Eddie simply had to prepare her meals and make sure she took certain medications. I helped him in the kitchen as we made a Mexican breakfast with eggs, tortilla chips, cheese, salsa, and peppers. Mrs. Newcott joined us in her wheelchair, staring at me the whole time. I smiled at her and said things like, “I don’t think it will be too cold today, do you, Mrs. Newcott?” She didn’t respond—just shot daggers at me with her eyes. I suspected she didn’t approve of me; maybe she was being protective of her son. Perhaps she knew how ill he was and didn’t want me rocking the boat. Who knew.

I spent the rest of the day with my father, who didn’t say a word until we went out to lunch. “So how’s Eddie?” he asked.

“Geez, Dad, how did you know?”

“There aren’t many other people in Limite you would spend the night with. Since I didn’t get a call from the highway patrol about an accident, I figured you were with him.”

“Sorry I didn’t call you.”

“Hey, you’re a grown-up now. It was my car I was worried about.” He smiled and I punched his arm.

I went about the rest of the day in a bit of a daze. Had I really done it? Slept with Eddie again after so many years? One thing was certain—he had rocked my world. It felt as if I had let go of years of stress and pressure from work, and I was totally relaxed. I was no longer Shelby Truman the famous author when I was with him, but simply Shelby the girl who once lived across the street.

That delusion would be overturned in less than twenty-four hours.

I hadn’t admitted that it bothered me that Eddie was taking antidepressants. I suppose back then there was something of a stigma attached to the drugs. We know a lot more now about those kinds of mental illnesses than we did back then. However, my concern bubbled up that night when he and I got together again, this time at a new Mexican restaurant in town. A pretty hostess knew him by name and escorted us to the table. The waiter also knew who he was. At some point during the meal, I heard a woman tell her husband at another table, “Look, there’s that devil worshipper!”

“See, I’m as famous as you are,” he told me. “I think more people recognize me in Limite than they do you.”

“Eddie, what’s the Zoloft for?”

He ignored the question at first, talking instead about some of the items on the menu. I asked again. Finally, he said, “Shelby, I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist ever since I got out of prison. Right after I turned thirty-two.”

“Okay.”

He shrugged. “So I’m crazy. You knew that.”

“Eddie. Stop. You’re not crazy.”

He shook his head. “Shelby, it actually started in the late seventies, but I did nothing about it. Panic attacks, mostly really scary ones. Compulsiveness. Depression. I started doing some crazy-ass stuff. I was still taking care of my mom, who had her stroke about a year before. I was having a hard time. I kind of freaked out one night when I was driving. I had an accident and smashed myself up. I was in the hospital for five days.”

“I didn’t know that! What happened?”

“Broken collarbone, two ribs broken, and a punctured lung.”

“Jesus!”

“Nah, he had nothing to do with it. It was all my fault.” Eddie laughed. “Anyway, I started seeing a shrink, and he recommended the medications.” He shrugged again and looked away.

“Geez, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, either.”

“Eddie, I didn’t know. Does the … does the medicine help?”

“Yeah. It kind of makes me cloudy-headed at times. I laid off of it the past few days so I can be more myself with you.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking with it.”

He waved me away. “They say that, but really, it doesn’t hurt. Makes me feel better, actually.” Eddie leaned closer and whispered. “I was mostly afraid the medicine would give me sexual problems, but that didn’t happen.”

“No, I guess it didn’t.”

A pitcher of frozen margaritas, which I hadn’t realized he’d ordered, came to the table. I was about to refuse since I’d overdone it the night before, but Eddie had already poured two glasses. He held one up. “Hair of the dog,” he said and clinked my glass. “It’s the holidays, drink up.”

“Jesus, Eddie, I don’t think I can. My stomach and head still haven’t recovered—”