“Blanche, no, we ain’t married.”
Her hand falls away, thumping against her leg. She holds up a finger to a man at the bar who is trying to get her attention. “Okay, well I’m half impressed. ’Bout time you two kicked it up a notch.”
I smile to myself. In that moment with Roy, the idea of freezing time didn’t cross my mind. I wanted more. More touching, more kissing, more pleasure. Heck, I still want more.
“You’re grinning all goofy,” Blanche says, smiling too.
“I think I may’ve created a monster. Roy didn’t want me to leave.”
She laughs. “I take it back. I’m fully impressed. Maybe I’ve created a monster. Ya know, it’s not too late for me to introduce ya to Buck’s bro—”
“Blanche…”
She laughs. “Fine. In that case, I’m done with this conversation. So how ’bout you”—she turns me toward the back room, slaps my butt—“grab me some whiskey. I feel some very thirsty eyes on me.”
Over my shoulder, I smile—the expression stuck on my face—and give a quick wave to Buck, who is ever so slowly settling onto a bar stool, his hand gripping his injured stomach.
In the back room, I pull open the closet door, flicking on the dim light inside. Wooden crates are lined on shelves, and I peek through the cracks for a green bottle.
Found it.
Bottle in hand, I turn to leave, running straight into a crooked smile.
My free hand flies to my chest. “Henry, you scared me.”
He smiles and steps closer.
I look left, right, not sure what I’m expecting to find other than bottles. “What’re you doing back here?”
“You ran out on me so fast last night. I wanted to see you. Really see you.”
I bite my lip. “You did?”
He nods, confident. “And you want to see me, too.”
I push out a hip, meeting his confidence, and create a subtle curve to my body. “Think so, do ya?”
“I know so.”
Now I swallow and bring that hip back in. “How did you get back here, anyway?”
“Your sidekick was distracted with that boy of hers. Slipped right on back.” He steps even closer, runs the back of his hand down my cheek. “I hear you already sang tonight. I wanted a private show.”
Just like that, my insides are engulfed in flames. I tighten the grasp on the bottle’s neck, feeling as if the dark glass could shatter any moment from knowing this is wrong. Or maybe my grip’s so tight from the way the tips of our shoes touch, the way he made our shoes touch, coming back here for me. I can’t help myself; I tease, “Those don’t come cheap.”
“How ’bout this for payment?”
Henry cups my face with both hands and my eyes betray me, falling on his lips before finding those hungry eyes. He tilts his head forward ’til our foreheads touch. I should pull back. But the way he breathes me in …
A second passes, and another.
My arms hang limp at my sides. The bottle slips from my grasp. I vaguely hear the breaking of glass, hardly notice the wetness that splashes my legs.
He crashes his mouth onto mine, just like I’d done to Roy last night.
Roy.
Our life together.
I pull away, gasping for air. “I’m sorry. I need to go.” The broken glass gleams in the dim light, and I stumble backwards. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Brushing past Henry, I rush back into the main room of Doc’s.
“No way,” Blanche is saying to Buck. “Bonn will kill me if I miss the first day of school.”
My erratic movement catches Blanche’s eye.
“Bonn? Bonnelyn? What’s wrong?” Her eyebrows rise. “Who’s that, Bonn?”
“He followed me back,” I say lamely.
Buck still sits at the bar. The pocket watch he tossed plunks against the bar, forgotten. Henry steps forward with an outstretched hand and introduces himself. I stare straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone, too in denial ’bout what just happened.
“Hello, Henry,” Blanche says, not accepting his handshake. “Taken an interest in my girl?”
“You could say that.”
He’s grinning. I know it without seeing his face.
“Are you okay with that, Bonn?” she asks me.
I don’t answer.
“Bonn?”
“I…” I struggle for words. “I dropped a bottle. Broken glass,” I stammer, and weakly point behind me.
Blanche steps forward, takes my hand. “I’ll take care of it. Say, I was ’bout to go get some clean bandages for Buck. Why don’t you go grab that for me? They’re in the closet upstairs.” She turns to Henry. “And why don’t I get you some drinks to take back to your friends?”
I’m happy to leave, quickly zigzagging ’cross the dance floor and clacking against each stair.
Doc Peterson’s office is dark, quiet, and a bit eerie. I hurry toward the reception area, slowing my pace to soften the noise of my heels, and enter an all-purpose room full of supplies, patient records, and a small dinette area. The far wall is nothin’ but closets, with three separate doors.
I proceed to the first, pull open the door, find random office equipment. I go to the second, pull open the door, find a plethora of files marked with patient names.
I step to the right, hand on the third door’s knob. I stop. The name Parker catches my eye. The name Parker, Emma.
My ma.
My family doesn’t see Doc Peterson. We go to Dr. Monroe in Cement City—our local physician for the trivial illnesses and injuries that have popped up over the years.
With a shaky hand, I reach for my ma’s file. I hesitate before opening it, convincing myself that this pounding sensation in my head is an overreaction to what I’ll find to be another trivial sickness—a bad cough that Ma just can’t shake.
But my ma hasn’t been coughing. She’s been overly tired, she’s seemed weaker, she’s seemed distracted.
Opening the file, I start reading, and sink to the floor.
14
Blanche finds me slumped on the cold floor, staring at my ma’s health records. She takes me home, puts me in bed, gives me a sleeping pill she snagged from Doc Peterson’s stash, whispers that she’ll see me at school tomorrow. She pauses in the dark before she leaves, and I imagine her sad expression, mirroring my own.
I lie there, unmoving, knowing only a wall separates me from Ma—who is sick. She’s sick, and not from a cough or a common cold. I think ’bout getting up, curling in bed beside her, but I don’t. I ain’t ready to talk ’bout it yet. Talking means it’s real.
And phrases like “possible mammary ductal carcinoma” don’t exist in my world. My world is already too full and confusing, and that unknown phrase sounds too damning.
When morning comes, I wring my hands and fight through the residual grogginess from last night’s sleeping pill. The clock ticks closer to the library’s opening, and I linger on our front step, debating if I should miss the first day of school and bury my nose in a thick medical book. Skipping class wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done lately. Wouldn’t even come close. But do I want to know what “possible mammary ductal carcinoma” means?
No, I don’t. I’m not ready to know. I step out onto our porch, hugging my book bag to my chest.