She stopped at her mother’s doorway and peered through the portal. Catherine was watching the little television fixed to the end of her bed. All at once it was obvious why her mother looked unfinished: they’d taken off all her makeup, all the mascara, eye shadow, blush, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, everything. They’d scrubbed her clean before the surgery, even though they weren’t going anywhere near her face. Why did they have to do that? Why couldn’t they have left her as she was?
The most shocking thing of all was that Catherine did indeed look a little yellow. Certainly not sunburst or raincoat or daffodil yellow, but not quite skin-colored, either.
“Goddamn it,” Joanna said through her teeth. All the times she’d accompanied her mom to the ER, all the times the doctors had come out and said it was nothing and her mother had protested later that the doctor was a quack. She felt like something was wrong, and so reached into her purse and took God-knows-what blue or pink, white or neon green pill. Joanna had wanted to grab Catherine by the shoulders and say Would you just stop this? Can’t you just be happy?
So now Catherine was right? Well, great. She was right. She got her wish.
Joanna turned from the door and walked back down the hall to the waiting room, past the fake fig tree and the ugly triage nurses. Scott followed. “You don’t want to go back in?” he asked.
“No.” Joanna marched past the vending machines, the check-in desk, and finally out into the cold air.
She turned her cell phone back on and looked at the screen. She had six new messages. They could have been from Charles, but she didn’t feel like listening to them. She dropped the phone back in her pocket.
Scott sat down on a wet bench and lit a cigarette. He took off his jacket and arranged it on the seat. She plopped down on it reluctantly, keeping her elbows close to her sides. He offered her his cigarette, but she waved it away.
“You can go if you want,” she said stiffly. “I don’t want to burden you with this anymore.”
“Go where?”
“Back to her house. I have the keys. Or drive back to your house in Pennsylvania.”
“What about you? How would you get back?”
“I could take a cab to the train station in Aberdeen.”
Scott took a long drag. “Do you want me to go back?”
Pressure was building at her temples. She had no idea what she wanted. The wind picked up, running right through her. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Scott asked. He cycled his shoulders, starting to shrug off his sweatshirt, too. “I can …”
“No,” Joanna snapped, waving him off. “I’m fine.”
“It’s not a big deal.” He flicked his cigarette and threw the butt into the street.
“I don’t want your sweatshirt, okay?”
Scott stopped. “All right, all right.” He bent his knees, turning toward her a little. “I’m sorry, Joanna. About this.”
She gave him a warning look.
“You don’t think this is your fault, do you? Because of what you said to her in there?”
She dug her nails into her palm.
“She practically forced you to say that. She wouldn’t have stopped until you did. She probably wanted you to say it.”
“Just stop it, okay?” she burst out, not able to contain it anymore.
He sat back. “What?”
“Stop being so nice to me,” Joanna said.
Scott blinked. “What do you want me to do, laugh?”
“Yes,” Joanna said.
“Jesus Christ.” Scott crossed his arms over his chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
She let her hair fall around her face. He was still watching her, waiting for an answer, maybe even for her to apologize. She looked up, her body trembling. Then she grabbed the sides of his face and pressed her lips to his. His skin was cold. At first his lips were taut, but then he softened and let her in.
It lasted maybe three seconds before he broke away. “Joanna …” he said. Something passed over his face. It was this … look. A sort of empathetic, understanding, pitying look, as if something in his head had said, Yes, you know why she’s doing this, try not to take it too seriously. He was so fucking wise, all of a sudden.
She jumped up, shaking her head madly back and forth. “I swear to God, just stop it.”
He blinked. “Stop what?”
“Stop acting so innocent and concerned. Charles isn’t on a trip, Scott. You knew that. And yet you came anyway. Why do you hang out with me, Scott, if you’re not trying to undermine me and Charles in some way? I know you two don’t get along. I see how you seek me out, preferring to talk to me over your family. You don’t think I see that?”
“What are you—”
“And actually,” she interrupted, “maybe your instincts are right. Charles is cheating on me right this very second. Guess who with?” She waited a moment and then spread out her arms. “Bronwyn!”
“Bronwyn?” He cocked his head.
She lowered her shoulders. “Jesus! How many Bronwyns do you know? His old girlfriend!”