I stopped. Turned back to her.
She was standing there, in the dark, waiting. Waiting to hear what I had to say. Not defending herself or hurling insults, like my mother. Not preparing herself to batter me with smart retorts and below-the-belt jabs. I couldn’t just run off.
“You lied,” I said.
“Okay.” She lifted her chin. “Tell me what you’re talking about specifically.”
“I don’t want to. You’ve lied over and over to me, and I don’t feel like talking to you right now.”
I stumbled past her, to my room, slamming the door behind me. I shucked my clothes in a pile on the carpet and headed to the bathroom. The shower was glorious, hot, pounding, steamy, and I wished I could stay there forever. Wash away all my fuckups with Frances and Graeme and Doro and start clean. How had I let things get so tangled? Why did I keep allowing people like this—deceivers—to bulldoze my life? I didn’t have any answers, but after twenty minutes, I did feel calmer. At least until, wet hair dampening the shoulders of my fresh T-shirt, I stepped out of the bathroom.
Doro and Koa stood by the balcony doors, and a full bag of Dr. Lodi’s chelation cocktail hung on the IV stand beside my bed. I nearly cursed in surprise. But before I could, Doro stepped forward.
“I want to apologize, Meg,” Doro said. “You were right. I did lie to you. And it was wrong of me.”
I shifted my weight and tugged my T-shirt down over my thighs.
“My family didn’t inherit Ambletern,” she went on, her voice sounding choked. “My father bought it when I was a girl. He is . . . well, he’s not dead. Not in the true sense, just dead to me.” She swallowed. “I was ashamed to tell you that we’d fallen out. Why we’d fallen out. He’s not right, Meg. He was . . . disturbed. Maybe even mentally ill. He did things—interfered in my life, ran off people I loved. He made it so I couldn’t have a life. So, for the well-being of me and the people I cared about, I made a break—”
“Doro,” I interrupted.
She blinked. “There’s more. He—”
“I get it.” Our eyes locked. “I know what it’s like to live with a parent like that.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
“Yeah, okay.” I sighed.
Her eyes shone in the darkness. I wondered if it was with tears; I wondered if she still ached when she remembered how Pete Darnell had deserted her. If she missed her mother and father. I wasn’t a monster. There was no need to hurt Doro any further. I didn’t require a grand mea culpa from her.
But the fact remained: I wouldn’t confide in her anymore. She couldn’t be trusted.
“I asked Koa to give you your treatment. I’ll finish up and then come back and check on you.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
After she slipped out, I climbed into bed and Koa caught my arm. His hand was warm, rough. I covered it with mine.
“Was my mother poisoned?” I asked.
His eyebrows shot up. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“She thinks Doro put something in her soup.”
He shook his head. “No. No chance. I helped Doro with lunch. I was with her the whole time. It was a bug or something. I promise you, Meg.”
I pointed at the IV stand. “I’m going to need to look at the bag.”
He furrowed his brow.
“The bag,” I repeated. “Give it to me.”
He unhooked the bag from the IV stand and handed it to me. I turned it over, examining the seams intently.
“You can think whatever you want of me. But I swear, I would never let anyone hurt one of my patients.” He was so close, I could smell his breath. It smelled like something spicy.
I handed the bag over.
“Just a little stick,” he murmured. I lay back on the pillows and turned up my arm again. Watched him hold up the needle, then lower it to a vein. He pressed it against the skin, then looked up, catching my eye. My stomach fluttered.
Then, like a shard of ice, the needle pierced my skin and slid into the vein. Air whooshed out of my lungs, releasing the pressure that had been building over the past few hours. My body melted onto the mattress.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Be right back.” He slipped out just as Doro came back in.
“Knock, knock,” she said, and I motioned her over. She positioned herself at the foot of my bed. I felt her hand drop lightly onto my leg.
“You’re going to feel better soon,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry, Meg. I truly am. You know, I used to lie when I was younger. About my age, mainly. I said I was seven, all the way up until I was ten or eleven. I don’t know why I did it.”
“Seven must’ve been a good year for you.”
“It was a terrible year, actually. It was the year my mother died.”
“Oh. Doro. I’m sorry.” I struggled up. She was wiping her nose. Dabbing at her eyes. “You were so young. You must’ve been devastated.”
“She was an exceptional person. So compassionate. Always wanting to lift others up. The ones who couldn’t help themselves. That’s how she wound up getting involved with the Indian Movement. Anyway,” she said briskly. “I don’t remember if I cried. It was such a long time ago.” She smoothed the covers between us. “You should lie down. Try to sleep.”
I obeyed but didn’t close my eyes. “I’m afraid when my mother dies, I’ll be secretly glad. I’m afraid everybody will think I’m a monster because I don’t cry.”
She laid her hand on my leg again. This time it felt warm, reassuring, and I was glad it was there.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, if I was you. Crying is overrated. Your connection to your mother is much deeper than a few tears.”
I wondered how she’d come to know better than all the accepted research on the psychology of grief, but sleep smothered me before I could arrange the thoughts into a question.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 18
Fay nibbled tentatively at the edge of the cookie. When the powdered sugar hit her tongue, her resolve crumbled, and she crammed the entire thing into her mouth, then the other two.
While she was still chewing, Fay felt a thin stream of chilled air hit her, and the skin on her arms goosepimpled. She looked up. The house’s great front door was open—cracked just enough to let the air-conditioning escape. Fay dropped the foil and raced across the porch, into the cool house, banging the door closed behind her.
It took her eyes a while to adjust to the gloom.
A voice greeted her, floating through the cool of the foyer. It didn’t sound human.
“You’ve come back,” it purred.
She turned, convulsed in horror, then screamed.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I woke sometime later in the night to see Koa standing beside my bed. I bolted up. Gasped. My pulse racing, images of Billy Kitchens and that horrible Confederate flag on Captain Mike’s truck flashing in my head.
He held up both hands. “Meg. Breathe. It’s me.”
I clutched at my T-shirt.