“I’ll tell you,” I say, smiling politely. They walk toward the door, opening it wide before peering out into the now-empty lobby. Officer Doyle turns around, hesitates.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Davis, one more thing,” he says. “You look so familiar, and I can’t seem to place it. Have we met before?”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a day full of appointments. My nine o’clock should be here any minute.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I step into my lobby, the quiet stillness amplifying the sound of my own breath. Detective Thomas and Officer Doyle have left. Melissa’s purse is gone, her computer black. The TV is still blaring, Lacey’s face haunting the room with her invisible presence.
I lied to Officer Doyle. We have met before—in Cypress Cemetery, as he lifted the earring of a dead girl out of my palm. I also lied about having appointments today. Melissa cleared them—I explicitly asked her to—and now it’s nine fifteen on a Monday morning, and I have nothing to do but sit in an empty office and let the darkness of my own thoughts devour me whole before regurgitating my bones.
But I know I can’t do that. Not again.
I hold my phone in my palm, thinking about who I can talk to, who I can call. Cooper is out of the question—he would worry too much. Ask me questions that I don’t want to answer, jump to conclusions that I’m actively trying to avoid. He would look at me with concern, his eyes flickering to my desk drawer and back up again, silently wondering what kind of remedies I have in there, hidden in the dark. What kind of twisted thoughts they’re creating, swirling in my mind. No, I need calm, rational. Reassuring. My next thought is Daniel, but he’s at a conference. I can’t bother him with this. It’s not that he would be too busy to listen to me—that’s the opposite of the problem. It’s that he would drop everything and rush to my aid, and I can’t let him do that. I can’t drag him into this. Besides, what is this, anyway? It’s nothing more than my own memories, my own unresolved demons, bubbling to the surface. There’s nothing he could do to fix the problem, nothing he could say to me that hasn’t been said before. That’s not what I need right now. I just need someone to listen.
My head jerks up. Suddenly, I know where I need to go.
I grab my purse and keys, locking my office door before jumping back in my car and heading south. Within minutes, I’m pulling past a sign that reads Riverside Assisted Living, a familiar collection of pollen-colored buildings looming in the distance. I always assumed the color choice was meant to mirror sunshine, happiness, feel-good things like that. At one point, I actually believed it, convincing myself that a paint color could artificially lift the mood of the residents trapped inside. But the once-bright yellow is faded now, the siding perpetually discolored with the merciless effects of weather and age, missing blinds turning the windows into gap-toothed grins, weeds peeking through the sidewalk cracks like they, too, are struggling to escape. I approach the buildings now and I no longer see sunshine gleaming back in my direction, the color of warmth and energy and cheer. Instead, I see neglect, like a stained bedsheet or the yellowing of forgotten teeth.
If I were a patient, I already know what I’d say to myself.
You’re projecting, Chloe. Is it possible that you sense neglect in these buildings because you feel as if you’ve neglected someone inside?
Yes, yes. I know the answer is yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I swerve into a parking spot near the entrance and slam my door a little too hard before walking through the automatic entryway and arriving in the lobby.
“Well, hello there, Chloe!”
I turn toward the front desk and smile at the woman waving in my direction. She’s big, busty, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her patterned scrubs faded and soft. I wave back before leaning my arms against the counter.
“Hey, Martha. How are you today?”
“Oh, not bad, not bad. You here to see your mama?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile.
“It’s been a while,” she says as she pulls out the guest book and pushes it in my direction. There’s judgment in her tone, but I try to ignore it; instead, I look down at the book. The page is fresh and I write my name in the top spot, noticing the date in the upper right-hand corner—Monday, June 3. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the pinch in my chest.
“I know,” I say at last. “I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse. I should have come sooner.”
“The wedding’s comin’ up now, isn’t it?”
“Next month,” I say. “Can you believe it?”
“Good for you, honey. Good for you. I know your mama’s happy for you.”
I smile again, grateful for the lie. I’d like to think my mom is happy for me, but the truth is, it’s impossible to tell.
“Go ahead,” she says, pulling the book back into her lap. “You know the way. A nurse should be in there with her.”
“Thanks, Martha.”
I turn around and face the interior of the lobby; there are three hallways, all jutting out in different directions. The hallway to my left leads to the cafeteria and kitchen, where residents are served from vats of various mass-produced meals at the same time every day—woks full of watery scrambled eggs, spaghetti with meat sauce, poppy-seed chicken casseroles served with wilted lettuce drowning in salty salad dressing. The one in the middle leads to the living room, a wide-open area with televisions and board games and surprisingly comfortable lounge chairs that I have fallen asleep in more than once. I take the hallway to the right—the hallway littered with bedrooms, hallway number three—and walk down the endless stretch of marbled linoleum until I reach room 424.
“Knock, knock,” I say, tapping on the partially cracked-open door. “Mom?”
“Come in, come in! We’re just getting cleaned up in here.”
I peek into the bedroom and catch a glimpse of my mother for the first time in a month. As always, she looks the same, but different. The same as she has looked for the last twenty years, but different from the way my mind still chooses to remember her—young, beautiful, full of life. Colorful sundresses that grazed her tanned knees, her long, wavy hair clipped back at the sides, her cheeks flushed from the summer heat. Now I see her pale, frail legs peeking out from behind the opening of a robe as she perches in her wheelchair, expressionless. The nurse is brushing her hair, now cut to her shoulders, as she stares out a window overlooking the parking lot.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, moving closer. I sit on the side of the bed and smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, honey,” the nurse says. This one is new—I don’t recognize her. She seems to sense that and continues talking. “My name’s Sheryl. Your mama and I have been getting close over these last few weeks, haven’t we, Mona?”
She taps my mother’s shoulder and smiles, brushes a few more times before placing the comb on her bedside table and wheeling her around to face me. My mother’s face still comes as a shock, even after all these years. She isn’t disfigured or anything; she isn’t maimed beyond recognition. But she is different. The little things that made her her have changed—her once perfectly manicured eyebrows are overgrown, giving her face a more masculine appearance. Her skin is waxy and devoid of all makeup, her hair washed with cheap store-brand shampoo that leaves the ends wiry and wild.
And her neck. That long, thick scar that still rests across her neck.
“I’ll leave y’all to it,” Sheryl says, walking toward the door. “If you need anything, just holler.”