“I’m fine,” I say, trying hard to look spunky and not tragic. I lean back in my chair and look up at the television dangling in the corner. “I have my Snuggie on. I’m cozy.”
Flatso gives me a hug and a quick kiss near the ear. Then she and Zitsy head out into the parking lot. As I watch them through the window, I have to fight the urge to run after them. But what good would it do? There’s no point in going home. I’ll just stay here… with Katie, even though she doesn’t know it.
A cell phone rings, and I look around in confusion because I’m the only person in the waiting area. Until I remember that I have a cell phone—one of those cheap in-case-of-emergency things that Mrs. Morris insisted I keep with me. I’ve never actually used it before.
When I pull it out of my pocket, I see that it’s Mrs. Morris’s number, the only one I put in the contacts. I choke on my panic, and press the talk button to say, “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for worrying you! I’ll come home right away!” But before I say anything, I remember she’s dead.
My mind is still reeling as I press the phone to my ear. “Cuckoo?” Marjorie is saying. “Kooks? Are you there?”
“Marjorie?” My voice is a hoarse whisper, scratchy as sandpaper.
“Oh, I’m so glad I reached you! Are you okay? Are you coming home?”
“I’m at the hospital in Tuality—”
“The hospital?”
There’s fear in her voice, and it leaves me weak with surprise. I hadn’t realized that she cared about me—that she would want to know where I was and whether I was all right. I hadn’t thought of her at all. But she saw me rush out of the house in the middle of the night—she must have been worried.
“I’m okay, I’m okay. It’s Katie. She’s—hurt. And they won’t let me see her and…” My voice starts to quaver, and I have to count ceiling tiles until I feel somewhat normal again. “Anyway, I don’t think I can leave. I don’t want to leave until I know she’s okay.”
The line is quiet, and in the space of the silence, I realize something. Even though I’ve been living with Marjorie, I’ve been treating her the way you treat a wobbly desk. Like something that isn’t ideal, but is okay for now. But Marjorie isn’t a desk; she’s a person. She’s Mrs. Morris’s daughter.
I feel bad for treating her like furniture.
“I understand,” Marjorie says finally. And it really sounds like she does.
Marjorie may be a flake, but she’s a flake who seems to actually get me. I don’t know what that means, but it’s true.
Chapter 55
AFTER MIDNIGHT
I’m staring blankly at the television screen in the hospital waiting room when I hear someone sit down beside me.
“He isn’t guilty,” Marjorie whispers, jutting her chin at the TV. “It’s the blond prep-school teen who witnessed the crime.”
I click off the television. We’re the only two people in the waiting room, so nobody protests. In the sudden quiet, I hear the walls humming around me, full of the sounds of machines and people breathing in rooms beyond.
“Are you here to keep me company?” I ask. “Or to take me home?”
“I’m here to convince you that you need a hamburger,” she says. Marjorie spreads the fabric of her Indian skirt over the torn chair cushion, hiding its orange foam guts.
“I don’t want to leave.”
“I know, but you can’t get in to see her until eight, anyway. We’ll just hit the drive-through and come right back.” Marjorie sees me hesitate, and adds, “You have to come with me! I’m starving, but those drive-through intercoms freak me out. Don’t make me go alone. Please?”
Then she gently takes my hand and tugs on it until I follow her to the door. I’m too numb to put up much of a fight.
Marjorie’s car is a vintage Buick and smells like an old man. But it’s still warm from her trip out to find me, and it’s snug as we drive around looking for burger places. I tuck the Snuggie I’m wearing under my thighs.
“I always love driving around at night, don’t you?” Marjorie says. We pass a streetlight, and it illuminates her face, then plunges her into darkness again.
“I don’t really do it much.” A country-western song mumbles from the radio. I can’t make out the words to the song, but it’s comforting, somehow.
“Mom and I used to drive at night all the time. Especially in the winter. We’d head out and look at people’s Christmas lights. In summer, we’d drive around with the windows open, let the breeze blow over us.” Marjorie is smiling as she says this. It’s sweet to imagine her and Mrs. Morris out for a drive.
“She always supported me,” Marjorie says. “Even when I wasn’t a very good daughter, she always acted like I put the stars in the sky. I was so lucky.”
“You were,” I agree. We both were.
“She never told me to get a real job or to give up on my screenplay,” Marjorie goes on. “She believed in me. Even when I had doubts, she always believed.”
Marjorie is humming to herself as she drives, and I realize that she’s not just a crazy flake. She’s a person following her dream. When you look at it in a certain light, she’s incredibly brave.
I lean my head against the glass and look out the window. We’re passing a strip mall, like a million others, but the lights look pretty to me, glowing in the darkness like that. It’s a strange, beautiful world, but I don’t think I understand it very well.
Katie seemed perfect.
Marjorie seemed flaky.
I’m starting to think I’m not such a good judge of whether or not people have it together.
Chapter 56
BEST FRIENDS
Kooks.” Marjorie shakes my shoulder gently. “Kooks, wake up.”
“Ohmygod—what time is it?” After a late-night burger and fries, I’ve fallen asleep in the waiting room. Damned cozy Snuggie! Damned comfy chair!
“Seven fifty-five. Visiting hours start at eight. I knew you didn’t want to be late.”
I catch sight of our shadowy reflections in the long windows across the room. Marjorie’s hair is as wild as usual, and mine is sticking up straight on one side and plastered to my head on the other. That, combined with my bright red Snuggie (matted with wood chips and sporting a mustard stain from my midnight burger), makes me look like something you’d find in a Dumpster the day after Christmas. I try to fluff/smooth my hair, but give up after a few seconds. Katie isn’t going to notice. She cares about her own clothes, but not anyone else’s.
“Do you want me to stay?” Marjorie asks. “I can wait for you.”
I give her a little hug, and she pats my back with her small, nervous hands. “Zitsy will take me home,” I tell her. “You go get some sleep. It’s almost your bedtime, anyway.”
Marjorie’s mouth twitches a half laugh, and she rakes her long, elegant fingers through her bird’s-nest hair. “If you need me, call me. I’ll keep the phone by my pillow.”
There’s a new nurse on duty, and she looks up Brainzilla’s room number, then directs me to the elevator. I’m so impatient that I try to calm myself by counting. I do that sometimes. It’s kind of Zen. Anyway, I’m muttering “one hundred and forty-four” by the time I finally find Brainzilla’s room. She’s mostly asleep when I tiptoe in. She looks pale and drained under the bright hospital lights.