Kelly offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, sounding like she meant it. Amy nodded but let Kelly’s hand dangle. I held the roses stupidly while the women in my life pretended that they weren’t checking each other out.
Suddenly my legs felt like sand, and I started yawning, the roses falling from my grip.
“No!” Amy and Kelly yelled, simultaneously, both attuned to the warning signs of my narcolepsy. Kelly grabbed my shoulders and shook them roughly, which sometimes worked, while Amy jabbed me in the stomach with her fist, which never worked but which she enjoyed anyway.
Ms. Sandifer watched closely, considering a court order for all three of us.
“I have narcolepsy,” I told her. “They’re trying to keep me awake.”
I yawned again, but my legs felt fresh, my mind sharp. Whatever it was, it had passed.
“Can we go now?” Jill asked.
“Ms. Willingham, you need to sign the discharge forms.”
Sandifer slid some papers across the desk along with a pen. Though her grip seemed unsteady, Amy scratched her signature across the bottom of the form, and three days after her suicide attempt, she was back in the world.
. . . . .
It was Amy’s idea to stop at the beach. On the drive from the hospital she had said little; we relied on the radio to mask the awkward silence, the rental car suddenly too cramped for such a strange quartet. In the rear-view mirror, I saw glimpses of Amy and her daughter whispering like schoolgirls while Kelly, riding shotgun, fidgeted with her sunglasses and stared out the window, awkwardly commenting on the scenery, as if the billboard for Larry’s Lobster House were some famous Jersey landmark. Finally, we escaped the car, and Kelly, bless her heart, started chatting with Jill about her Drama Club, the two of them hanging back, Kelly’s way of saying, go ahead, do what you need to do. With the Memorial Day holiday still a week away, the beach was empty. Overhead a red sea plane buzzed along the coast, pulling a long banner touting thirty-dollar lube jobs at Sam’s Automotive. The sun was at its peak and I felt the heat spreading across my shoulders, the crook of my neck already slick, the beginning of an early season burn. I checked on Kelly, who had settled down by the dunes with Jill; she gave me her little “I’m okay” wave, so Amy and I continued toward the ocean, our feet leaving soft trails in the warm, damp sand.
“She stays away from the water,” Amy said, glancing back at Jill. “I never taught her to swim.’
The Atlantic stretched forever in front of us, beautiful and deadly. I wondered, as I always did whenever near water: what would a drowned body look like after twenty years? I had googled it once and immediately wished that I hadn’t; sea lice can enter the body quickly, causing internal lacerations and the pooling of blood; discoloration of skin; bloating. In saltwater the lips and eyelids are consumed within hours. Maybe it was a blessing that Sarah’s body was never found.
We came to a spot ten feet from the shoreline, and Amy sat cross-legged in the sand.
“Are you okay?”
“My brain is soup. They doubled the medication, but it’ll level off soon. I’m fine …I think.”
Her halting cadence reminded me of Nancy. I had to ask. “How come you never told me about Uncle Dan’s houseguest?”
“What? Oh…that woman. Is that what you mean?”
“Her name is Nancy.”
“Weird, huh? But your uncle has always been…I don’t know…off-beat.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Once or twice, at the Jaybird.”
“Did he mention his relationship with her?”
“He’s in a relationship with her?”
“Yes. He’s not dating her, but…there’s a relationship.”
“I never gave it much thought,” she said, yawning, stretching her legs and flexing her toes, and for a flash all other thoughts disappeared except this one: I wanted to kiss those pretty toes.
“So you don’t know who she is?” I asked.
“Should I? Is she a famous one-armed fat woman?”
I wanted to tell her but felt like a jerk bringing up my crap when less than an hour ago she’d been in the hospital. Whatever we were doing, or were about to do, was about Amy’s need to heal. There’d be plenty of time later to make it all about me.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I was just surprised he was living with someone.”
She read my face as only Amy could. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”
“No—”
“Yes,” she said, “but whatever. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’m not exactly losing sleep wondering who your uncle is living with.”
We watched the gulls swoop over the shoreline, buzzing the water for snacks.
“I’m sorry I lied,” Amy said. “About needing you to sign me out of the hospital. You don’t have to stay at the house if you don’t want. But maybe you will anyway, at least until…you know ...”
I did—the anniversary of Sarah’s disappearance was fast approaching.
“What about Kelly? I can’t stay without her.”
Amy looked over her shoulder, where Jill and Kelly sat cross-legged by the dunes, deep in conversation.
“Good old California Kelly,” Amy said. “She’s inconvenient, but I’ll try not to be too giant a bitch.”
I spotted a seashell poking out of the sand and dug it out, holding it up to my ear; sometimes you could hear the ocean echoing through the curves of the shell, but this one had nothing to say. I tossed it back in the sand.
“Jill said there’s been a strange man popping up around the house.”
“Before you say it’s not him…”
“It’s not him.”
“Say what you want about my mental state, but my daughter is not delusional.”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe there is a man stalking your house. It’s just not….”
“Okay, Scooby-Do, then who is it?”
“Maybe it’s some horny
