But I’m better now. I’m best, even! Besides, I still take my other pill because that one keeps the shadow creatures at bay. Last year, they curled their inky arms around me until my Technicolor world became crackling gray static. Until I felt nothing but blankness.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I’m delighted to see that it’s Jonah, who is one of several elixirs I use. When I kiss him, it’s like a sedative, a warm feeling that rushes through my whole body and soothes my busy brain. His prudishness makes anything I do seem filled with intrigue, which is a bonus. He was scandalized that I’d perform a particular act on him in the outdoor shower after a beach trip last week. But I won him over to the idea. “Helloooo.”
“Viv?” This is not his voice, subdued and casual. He’s panicked. “Are you at work?”
“About to unlock the door. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Can you—God, I hate to ask, I can’t believe I’m asking. Can you get to Patterson’s in the next few minutes?” I open my mouth, but he doesn’t pause. “My mom went there this morning, and I thought it was a good sign, but Mr. Patterson just called and said she had some kind of breakdown in the baking aisle or something, I don’t know. He said I should come get her because he doesn’t want her to drive home, but she took the car, and I have the littles here, and Naomi’s at her internship and Silas didn’t pick up the phone at work, and I . . . I . . .”
It takes my mind a moment to catch up, but, when I get there, I shove my keys right back in my purse. “Jonah, listen to me. I’m going to Patterson’s, and everything will be fine. Get one of the neighbors to hang out with the littles for, like, half an hour, then run over here, okay?”
“Okay.”
I hurry down the street, thanking my half-hour-ago self for putting on flats instead of heels. Inside Patterson’s, there’s a man with a gray mustache pacing near the entrance. He’s wearing a green polo shirt with some kind of vegetable logo, perhaps Mr. Patterson himself.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound calm and adultlike. “I’m a friend of Jonah Daniels. He’ll be here shortly, but he sent me in the meantime.”
“She’s in the back room—door to your right.” He shakes his head, bewildered and clearly questioning himself. “I don’t even know what happened. Found her collapsed to her knees, holding a box of bread crumbs and having what I think was a panic attack. I wasn’t sure what to do. I gave her an empty paper bag to breathe in like they do on TV.”
I give him a nod with a look of severity that I hope says: If you tell anyone about this incident, it would be very poor form, indeed, and I will start rumors about wormy produce and salmonella!
The supermarket break room is where cheerfulness goes to die, so I’m not sure what he was thinking, sticking her in here. There’s a brown plaid sofa that is outdated by half a century, a refrigerator, two vending machines, and a lot of notices posted on the cabinets. Jonah’s mom sits upright in a plastic chair behind a round kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap. I’m glad to finally see her in person instead of just in pictures, even if she looks so sad. I know this feeling of being a ghost in your own life—no one sees you, no one feels you, so you stay still as if you could actually disappear at any moment.
“Hi.” My voice sounds abrupt even though I’m striving for gentleness. “I’m Vivi.”
She glances toward me, managing a weak smile that I know as Jonah’s—the one when he is trying his best, but the sadness beneath will not be squelched. “Oh. Hello. Goodness.”
She brushes her hands over her shirt like she’s trying to tidy up. “My kids have told me so much about you. I feel like I know you.”
“I feel like I know you, too, but I’m so glad to meet you in person.” Sitting in the plastic chair closest to her, I look for the littles in her face. Grief has lined her eyes with an irritated pink, but she’s lovely—fair hair and blue eyes like Leah and probably a little too thin. “Jonah’s on his way, but I was just down the street, so I wanted to sit with you until he got here.”
Mrs. Daniels’s voice breaks as she covers her face with her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Eh. I’ve seen worse.”
She gives a harsh laugh of self-deprecation, gesturing from her head to her toes as if summarizing her present situation. “I doubt that, but you’re sweet to say so.”
I hold my left wrist up to her and slide my sleeve down. The scar runs like a pale river, crooked and winding down my arm, and I feel, as I always do, the desire to erase it. This is perhaps the only time I’ve been grateful for proof of my former desperation.
Her eyes narrow, and she cocks her head—not in disgust, but in curiosity. I find myself relieved that she’s not repulsed by something so ugly. I mean, I’m not sure if the scar itself is ugly—I’ve never thought about it—but it represents something scary and bottomless. She whispers again, hollowed out this time. “I didn’t know.”
“I’m better now. I have been for a while.”