Doro settled into a chair and popped her feet up on the ottoman while I sorted through the pile of treasures on the bed. One of the magazines had a cover story about Kitten’s upcoming fortieth anniversary. Frances Ashley Talks Horror, Happiness and Honeymoon. I pushed it away.
“Whoops.” Doro picked up the magazine, and her eyes swept the copy. “Sorry about that.” She dropped the rag in the trashcan. I could smell Doro’s perfume, the faintest trace of something familiar. I couldn’t quite place it. But the doctor had said my neurons weren’t firing normally. Maybe it was a scent Frances used to wear and it was messing with my head.
Doro leaned over and touched my hair—picked something and drew it down a strand. She held the thing up—a tiny, prickly pod.
“Cocklebur,” she said. Her eyes strayed back to the top of my head. “Your hair is full of them.” She pulled another out. “What were you and Koa up to, out there in the woods last night?” I could feel her smile as she worked, combing the bristly husks down the strands of hair and depositing them into a little pile on the nightstand.
“We were just walking, scout’s honor.”
I was tired now, the long day finally catching up to me. The way Doro was pulling the burs out of my hair was sending waves of gooseflesh all over my body. I was so tired, and it felt good. I dropped my head back, let my eyes flutter closed.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“No. Never been married either. Not really on my to-do list. I had my dad to look after. I’ve always had my freedom. And done whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I haven’t missed anything.”
“You’ve never been in love.”
“I didn’t say that.” She pulled a couple more burs in silence. Stroked my tangled hair.
“Tell me,” I said. “I won’t write about it, I swear.”
Her voice was unusually soft. “I don’t think he relished a life with the girl who was Kitten.” She shrugged in resignation. “It was for the best, I think. I wasn’t going to leave the island or my father; I was the hotel’s ringer. As long as the real Kitten was at Ambletern, my dad was making money.”
“But your dad was using you, Doro. Just like my mother did.”
She sighed. “I’m not angry. He did the best he could. We made the best of a bad situation, but I’m not proud of how I handled everything.” She sat up, inhaled deeply.
My mind flitted to the handful of harassment charges.
“Did you really threaten some guests?” I asked.
A beat of silence passed, then she spoke.
“The past couple of years . . . I just couldn’t play the game anymore. When they spray-painted Ambletern and boarded up some of the windows, broke into my bedroom and took personal items—I admit, I lost my temper. I shoved one of them, pretty hard, once. Threw another’s suitcase in the sound.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding. I kind of love that.”
“You should rest.” She swept up the contraband candy and liquor and stuffed it under the vinyl foldout chair, then found a pillow and extra blanket in the closet. “I’ll be right here if you need me,” she said, settling onto the narrow chair. It looked no bigger than a cot.
She stared up at the ceiling for a few long moments, then spoke again. “I was born four weeks premature. My father is the one who started calling me Kitten. He said I was as small as a newborn kitten. Then my mom picked it up, then everyone else. Nobody ever called me Dorothy.”
“So Frances stole your nickname for her book,” I said.
“I guess she did.” She stretched and yawned. “Did you ever have a nickname?”
“Pip,” I said, and a weird pain tore at my throat. “But Frances always called me Megan. Megan Frances, if I got into big trouble.”
Doro settled on her side. “Your middle name is Frances?”
“Mm-hm.”
“She makes everything hers, doesn’t she?”
I didn’t answer.
“You need a nickname,” she said. Her voice sounded strange.
I felt something strange flutter in my chest in response, equal parts pain and pleasure. It was like a shot of whiskey. Or looking at Koa’s face, which could go from tender to flinty in a nanosecond when he looked at me. None of the good in life was purely so. None was untainted. It was all a mix. Dark and light.
“Just not Chubby. Or Stinky,” I said, and Doro laughed. “And I want some of that whiskey when I get out of here.”
“Noted.”
I pressed my face against the bleach-scented pillow, reveling in the pleasant floating sensation I was feeling. Just then, Doro picked up my hand and lifted it to her face. She pressed it against her cheek and then brushed a kiss across the knuckles.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 9
“Now, Kitten,” Fay began in a reasonable tone. “The Guale were a primitive people. They didn’t know about the Bible or have Sunday school, so they had to make things up. Cappie’s mama was pretending with you.”
Now that she thought about it, Fay realized Kitten probably had never been to Sunday school either, way out here on Bonny Island. There was no church or proper school. Why, she thought with a pang of pity, the Murphys were no better than pagans.
“Anyway,” Fay continued, patting her arm just to show the girl she didn’t hold her faithlessness against her. “You mustn’t think about such things. There are no ghosts, Cappie’s gone to heaven with God, and that is that.”
She was saying it for her own benefit as much as Kitten’s, and she did feel better having said it out loud.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I was right about the lead,” Dr. Lodi said. “Your BLL was seventy-two.”
She was standing in my sun-splashed hospital room, her glasses pushed up on her head. Doro stood at the mirror, winding her hair into a knot at the top of her head.
I glanced at Doro. The side of her face looked pale, and her lips were set in a thin line.
“Looks like you tolerated the chelation well,” Dr. Lodi said. “The nurse says you ate. Are you feeling okay?”
I nodded. “I am.”
“Good. So we’ll get you discharged. But first, I do want to confirm that there’s no chance of exposure to lead-based paint at Ambletern.”
Doro spoke up. “Everything’s up to date there. Nothing toxic at all.”
“Okay, then.” Dr. Lodi gave us both a brilliant smile. “Meg, if you’re comfortable with it, Koa can handle your future treatments. I’ll mix up a couple of bags for you to take back and you can give him a call. Sound good?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Let’s keep in touch, Meg,” Dr. Lodi said. “I want to hear how you’re feeling as the treatments progress. And I’d like to see you in my office next week, okay?”
I nodded and sought Doro’s eyes again, but she was already busy folding the sheets and blanket she’d slept under last night. She looked agitated. Nervous, almost.