With my shoulders pulled back, I hesitated only a moment in front of the closed door and then, without knocking, turned the doorknob and yanked it open. I had a brief recall of my earlier thoughts regarding shell-shocked soldiers, and wondered if it was possible to survive two episodes in quick succession. My first impression was that it was cold, and that I might actually be in a refrigerated storage room. I blinked twice, but not because I couldn’t see. The fluorescent lights were on, illuminating everything in an unflattering blue-white light. I blinked again as if somehow the view in front of me might disappear. But it didn’t.
I was sure the pantry was lined with metal shelves and they might even have been full of bins of fresh produce and large condiment containers, but I didn’t see them. Because all I could see was the beautiful pale blue chiffon of Jayne’s gown, half hiding my view of Jack in his black tuxedo, his left hand—the one with the gold wedding band that I’d placed there a little more than a year ago—cradling her head against his chest. His head must have been tilted toward hers until the sound of the door being thrown open made him jerk it back. I was pretty sure they weren’t practicing their chip shots.
For a moment we stared at each other as if none of the bustle and noise in the kitchen registered, as if the girl in blue standing between us, her tear-streaked face pale with shock, didn’t even exist. And then all the sounds came back with the intensity of a gunshot, and I felt the percussion through my body, the slow movement of a lead slug traveling cleanly through to my heart.
“Mellie,” Jack said, stepping toward me as Jayne pulled away.
But I’d already begun to back up, tripping on my dress and feeling the tug of fabric before the sound of it ripping beneath the heel of my shoe set me free.
“Mellie,” he said again as he began running toward me. “Please come back. It’s not what it looks like—I promise. Please stop. Let me explain.”
But desperation and anger and hurt gave me the energy to move faster than I’d ever run. Somewhere between the kitchen and front doors of the restaurant, I’d lost a shoe, the second one coming off in the middle of Spring Street. I’d only run a block before I realized that Jack wasn’t following me, the absence of the sound of running footsteps making me stop. I sat on the curb to catch my breath, wondering what was worse—the image of him and Jayne in an intimate embrace, or the fact that he didn’t care enough to pursue me.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, unaware of any passersby or the weather or any critters crawling along the sidewalk, much less the passage of time. I remembered trying to cry but found I couldn’t. Like after all those long, sleepless nights with the babies when I’d tried to finally go to sleep and found that I was too tired. It was like that now. My grief and sadness had gone beyond tears.
I’d somehow managed to hang on to my evening purse, the small strap still dangling from my arm. I fished my phone out of my purse, seeing that Jack had left me fifteen text messages and tried to call ten times. I deleted the texts and voice mails and then blocked his number, the new Mellie voice growing fainter and fainter until I couldn’t hear it anymore. Then I dialed my mother, and the sound of her voice almost broke the dam of tears that were blocked in my throat.
I wasn’t sure what I said, but she promised me that my dad would leave right away and could be here within fifteen minutes. I don’t know how fast he drove, or how many red lights and stop signs he must have blown through, but he was there in less than ten. He took one look at me, barefoot and with my dress torn, and he immediately jumped out of his car and practically carried me back to it as if I were a small child.
I know he talked, and asked me questions, but I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t listen. All I could do was relive those horrifying few moments in the restaurant kitchen. It had to have been less than a minute, but the memory of it made it last for an eternity.
My mother was waiting at the front door of her house on Legare Street, and gathered me in her arms before steering me up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she’d filled the tub with hot, scented water. She unzipped my dress and then gave me privacy while I stepped in the tub, then sat on the closed toilet lid while I soaked in stunned silence as the steam wafted over me. She didn’t talk, which made me think she was there as less of a companion and more to make sure I didn’t deliberately slip under the bubbles.
Eventually, the water must have grown cold, because she pulled the stopper on the tub, then placed a large fluffy towel and thick robe on the vanity before stepping out of the bathroom. Afterward, she led me to the large four-poster bed in the room where Nola had once stayed before I married Jack, and pulled back the thick duvet.
“Take these,” she said, offering me two white pills and a glass of water. “They’ll help you sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, and we can talk.”
I didn’t question her but took the pills and swallowed them before lying down on the pillow and letting my mother cover me. I kept my eyes open, not wanting to be tortured with the image of Jack and Jayne, and waited for the pills to take me to oblivion.