“Did you cry?” she asked.
“Like a baby.”
She opened her hand and I squeezed it.
“And you feel better, don’t you? Having a cry is good for you.”
I looked at her closely, seeing how translucent her skin had become, how sharply her cheekbones jutted from her face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a little uncomfortable. We can ask the nurse tomorrow about upping some of my doses. But I’ll be fine for tonight. You two go on and have your dinner.”
I started to move back, but she held on to my hand, bringing my head closer to her. “You are strong enough. And he’s not Cal,” she whispered.
Impulsively, I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
She winked at me, then mimicked putting lipstick on her lips with her finger, and I rolled my eyes before turning away and snatching up her tube of lipstick on the dresser before leaving the room.
“Don’t forget to use a mirror,” she called back, her voice weak but still audible.
I felt my face heat while Gibbes struggled to hide his laugh with a cough as we headed down the stairs.
chapter 33
MERRITT
I sat at Loralee’s dressing table, staring in the mirror at a prettier version of myself than I was used to seeing. Loralee sat on the bed behind me, propped up to get a good view of my face’s reflection. She told me that I needed to learn how to do it myself, but we both knew she was too weak to hold her arms up for long enough to curl my hair or flick a mascara wand through my eyelashes.
“Is the light on the curling iron green yet?” she asked. Her voice was reed thin, but still held the unmistakable twang of Alabama behind each syllable.
“Which one’s the curling iron?”
She at least had the energy to roll her eyes. “It’s the one with the round barrel. The flat one is the straightener.”
“I could just wear my hair in a ponytail and not worry about either one,” I suggested, already exhausted from the makeup lesson. Who knew that making one’s face look natural took so much effort?
“There are no shortcuts to anyplace worth going.”
I turned to look at her. “Is that in your little book?”
“Not yet. But I don’t think I have the strength to write in it.”
“Would you like me to do the honors?”
She nodded, and I stood to retrieve the pink journal and the pen that she always kept nearby. I opened it, surprised to find that all the pages were filled with her elegant handwriting. I flipped to the back and read her last entry. Try to remember that the best days of your life are still ahead of you. I blinked back the sting in my eyes and held the pen poised over the page. “You’ve only got half a page until the book is filled. I’ll have to go find you another one—although I don’t know how easy it will be to find another pink journal.”
She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t look up as I wrote, my handwriting looking large and childlike next to hers. There are no shortcuts to anyplace worth going. “There,” I said, closing the book and sticking the pen in the last page. “I think there’s room for one more.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll start thinking of a good one. An appropriate one for the end of the book.”
“Of volume one, anyway. I have a feeling you’ve got a few more journals in you.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, her breath rattling. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“After I die, can you make sure that Owen gets my journal? That’s why I’ve been doing it, so that he’ll sort of still have me even after I’m gone. I want you to read it, too.”
“Sure,” I said, working hard to keep my voice steady, and even managed a smile. I turned back to the mirror. “Are we done here?”
“Almost. Just pick up the curling iron—don’t touch the metal part or it will hurt like the dickens, and I speak from experience—and twist it into those front sections of your hair like I showed you.” Her breath came in gasps, her chest rising and falling. It was difficult to listen, but I also knew that Loralee’s favorite thing to do was talk, and I wasn’t about to tell her that she couldn’t.
I did as she told me, although with questionable results, and returned the curling iron to the dresser before unplugging it and the straightener. I made a move to stand, but she called me back. “Don’t forget the hair spray—in this humidity you have to spray it to death or you will look like a drowned rat in less than thirty minutes. Don’t be all delicate on me now; hit that pump and just keep going.”
There was a fog of hair spray around my head by the time I was done. I quickly fanned at it to make it dissipate before it reached her. “What is that—shellac?”