“You said you’d talk to Evan about Kyle playing at the wedding?”
I slapped my forehead. “Oh, crap. I didn’t get a chance this weekend and—”
“Of course you didn’t. That’s why I brought you one of his CDs.” She took one out of her purse and set it on the table.
“I’ll try to listen to it.”
“Why do you have to try? Why can’t you just say, Sure, Melanie, I’d love to?”
“Why are you always picking fights with me?”
She said, “Because you’re always looking down on
I shook my head and opened my mouth to tell her she needed to get over herself. Then I remembered there was a dead girl. A girl who had a sister named Anita who pleaded on TV last night for her return.
“I’ll listen to the CD.” I glanced at my shop door. “But I have a lot to do, so…”
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” I didn’t try to stop her when she got up and headed to the door. I just followed behind and stood on the steps, waiting for the parting shot.
At her car she turned and said, “You should go see Mom sometime. Or did you forget about her too?”
“I’ve been really busy.”
“You haven’t gone over in a long time.”
Guilt spread through me and was quickly followed by anger. Melanie didn’t have a clue what was going on in my life — she never had.
“Worry about your own relationships, okay?”
She slammed her car door and backed up, spraying gravel all over the driveway.
After she left I walked inside and slammed
I was going to phone Lauren and bitch about Melanie, mostly because I couldn’t talk about what was really bothering me, then decided to wait until Greg was back in camp. I know, me waiting — what a shocking concept. But it’s not the same talking to her when he’s home. Lauren got together with Greg when she was so young, I wonder sometimes if she missed out. But she usually seems happy and doesn’t complain about him, so I guess it doesn’t matter what age they met. Then again, Lauren never says if something’s bothering her unless I hound her, and even then it’s like pulling teeth to get her to talk about it.
I asked her why once, holding back being so completely foreign to my own nature, and she said she doesn’t like to dwell on the negative parts of life. I wish I could say the same. Maybe then I could forget that a woman is dead because of me. Maybe then I could forgive myself. At this point I’d settle for forgetting. But my guilt is like a canker sore in my mouth and I can’t stop my tongue from running over it and over it and over it again.
SESSION THIRTEEN
I’d like to say I’m doing better. Mostly because I love the way you smile when I tell you things worked out or that something you said helped. A lot of what you and I talk about
Every day I Google Danielle’s name to see if there’s another article. Her family started a memorial Web site and I can’t stop looking at her photos and reading the little facts that made up her life. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid in her friend’s wedding this summer and they’d just had their dresses fitted. I cried, thinking of her dress hanging in a closet somewhere. You asked if I might be obsessing about the victims because I’m trying to come to terms with my own worst fears of losing my daughter, but I don’t think that’s it. I don’t know why I put myself into Danielle’s pain, why I conjure poignant images, each more painful than the last. Why I can’t stop wanting to know everything about her life.
You taught me years ago that we can’t choose how we feel about something; we can just choose how we deal with those feelings. But sometimes even when you have a choice, the things you’re choosing between are so horrible it doesn’t feel like much of a choice at all.
Saturday morning I was at the grocery store with Ally when my cell finally rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was BC. I answered with a cautious, “Hello?”
“You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”
I stopped in the middle of the aisle as fear gripped tight around my chest. A few paces in front of me, Ally was pushing a small buggy, with her red purse slung over her shoulder. She stopped and examined a bag of pasta, her lips pursed.
I said, “No, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
I thought about Danielle. If I didn’t say the right thing I might be next. My face felt hot and my vision blurred. I forced myself to take a breath. I had to sound calm — had to keep
“I was being cautious. You hurt people, and—”
“She’s my granddaughter!”
Ally wheeled her cart back toward me. I pressed the phone against my chest.
“Sweetie, why don’t you go to the end and pick out some cereal?” She loves examining all the boxes for their various prizes. Picks one, puts it back, picks another. Normally I hated it.
John said, “Is she with you right now?”
Crap. He heard me. “We’re grocery shopping.”
“What’s her name?”
Every fiber of my body wanted to lie, but he might already know.
“Ally.” She glanced up. I smiled and she went back to debating cereal options.
“How old is she?”
“Six.”
“You should have told me about her.”
I wanted to tell him he had no right to know anything about my life, but this was not the time to piss him off.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. But I was just protecting my daughter. Any mother would’ve done the same thing.”
He was silent. A woman walked down the aisle. I moved to the side, wondering what she’d think if she knew who I was talking to.
He said, “You don’t trust me.”
“I’m
“I don’t either.” When we first started talking his voice was angry and tense, but now he seemed almost defeated. My heart rate slowed slightly.
“You have to stop hurting people.” It came out as a plea.
I held my breath, expecting him to flip out, but he just sounded defensive when he said, “Then you can’t lie to me again. And you have to keep talking to me when I need you to.”
“I won’t lie, okay? And I’ll try to talk to you when you call, but sometimes people are around me. If I can’t answer, you could just leave a message and I’ll call you—”
“That won’t work.”
I wondered if he still suspected the cops were tracing his calls.
“If you keep phoning a bunch of times in a row, my friends and family are going to start asking
