Adam enters the room and the fray.
“Honey, Chris is here!” Kayla announces, emphasizing the syllables as if her husband were hard of hearing or an idiot.
Adam nods and smiles. This is his standard. Whenever Kayla states the patently obvious, he blows it off while simultaneously excusing her overbearing and vainglorious behavior.
“Hi, Chris,” he says. “Get a little mixed up today?”
He has no idea just how mixed up, but I ask what he means anyway.
“About coming here. Jenna said I never mentioned it to you.”
“But you didn’t.”
His head pulls back in surprise. “Yeah, I did. I told you at lunch.”
“I don’t remember that at all.” And I don’t, but Subject to Change seems to be the flavor of the day in my world lately, so I add, “Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.”
It was no misunderstanding. It was intentional.
Knock it off.
He can’t get you out of here fast enough.
Shut up!
Adam starts to say something, then thinks better of it, and I see traces of apprehension drift across his face, possibly left from our discussion at lunch, now made worse by a conversation we either did or didn’t have.
“It was probably my fault,” I add, trying to ease the unspoken tension between us.
It was his fault.
Kayla flutters over to us and says, “Come on, you guys! Dinner’s ready!”
Adam smiles blissfully at her.
Kayla flutters off.
And I wonder if being crazy is a good enough excuse to get me out of here sooner.
33
Dinner is served.
Kayla holds the conversation on her own, Jenna and I try to hold down our food, and as usual, Adam holds firm to oblivion. Also as usual, my nerves are screaming for deliverance. It’s not just what Kayla says, or how much—it’s her voice, a high-pitched nasal tone with a handful of gravel thrown in for added irritation. The cathedral ceilings only amplify the sound and make her all that more difficult to endure. It’s like having dinner with ten Kaylas, when even one is far too many.
The meal drags on, then mercifully comes to a close. Adam takes Jenna outside to see the new roses he planted, which leaves me alone with Kayla. It’s awkward and tense, at least for me, because I honestly don’t know what to say, although I’m sure she’ll have no trouble filling the gaps.
“So, Chris,” she starts, “I’ve always wondered . . . Does it bother you talking to all those crazy people every day?”
“Actually, we don’t like to refer to them as—”
“Having to listen to all those horrible, horrible stories? From criminals? Killers even?” She shivers, and a tiny moan escapes her thin lips. “I just don’t know if I could do it.”
“Well, then it’s probably good that you don’t,” I say with diminishing patience. “But what do you think your husband does all day?”
“Oh, that’s different. He’s a medical doctor.” She takes a sip of coffee and nods as if agreeing with herself. She looks back at me. “But have you ever considered doing something not so creepy?”
“I don’t find it creepy. I’m giving help to people who need it.”
With a patronizing simper that one might offer a toddler, Kayla says, “Well, that’s nice for you.” She grabs a few dishes from the table and heads for the kitchen.
I lean over to spit in her coffee.
A few moments later, Kayla returns. She settles into her seat again, sips her coffee, then delivers a tacked-on smile.
I return one.
Jenna and Adam reappear. Kayla’s mouth is once again off and running, and I’ve got to find an escape hatch before she sucks the last bit of oxygen from this room.
I stand.
Kayla ignores my departure signal, then with a kittenish grin asks, “Has anyone noticed something different about me today?”
Has anyone thought about putting the bitch out of her misery?
“No, but if I had a gun, I’d happily fire the first bullet.”
Oh. Shit.
There is charged silence.
Kayla, for once, is speechless. Jenna is clearly shocked. Adam is motionless, but I sense it’s not just because of my rudeness toward his wife. Something else is going on, something that feels a lot like creeping suspicion, similar to what I saw during our earlier conversation, only far more pronounced.
Now I’ve done it.
And I don’t know where that awful remark came from, or even more, how to fix this mess I’ve created. Still, I try.
“Settle down, everyone!” I say, forcing a laugh as an attempt to backpedal. “It was a joke!”
Nobody sees the humor.
I’m mortified, and now I really need to get the hell out of here, so I abruptly leave the table and make a rush for the bathroom.
Inside, I lock the door. I check myself in the mirror. I run the sink water, stick my hands under the faucet. I yank a tissue from the box, throw it into the toilet. I flush.
But really, I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with me. It’s like some stranger is taking over my actions, my speech, and even worse, my thoughts. A stranger who flies into fits of rage, makes inappropriate and now even frightening comments. Who can’t keep track of time.
I fall against the wall and slide to the floor. I hit bottom, drop my face into my hands. I’m so terribly frightened. I feel so humiliated. So goddamned broken.