Page 27 of When We Had Forever
The morning after I rescue the dog, Darlene rings my phone early.
I roll over and pluck the offending device from the bedside table, then wince against the brightness streaming through the windows. How can the sun possibly be so cheerful at this ungodly hour? Can’t it show some respect for the fact that my life has been cut off at the knees?
“Hello?” I manage.
“Mina?” Darlene’s voice wavers, making her sound eighty-nine, even if she doesn’t look it. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” I lie.
“Oh, good. Well, I just got off the phone with your dog’s owner. He’s on his way to pick her up now. Apparently, Barley had been missing for three days. He was ecstatic that you’d found her. He made me promise to call and give you his undying thanks.”
I try to smile, but my mouth doesn’t respond. “Oh. Well, great. That’s great.”
Silence floats over the line. “Is it?”
“Of course.” All the warmth in my body drains out, leaching into the empty sheets.
“Okay, but... You’re sure you’re all right?”
I force my lips into a curve, hoping the smile will sound more genuine than it feels. “I’m sure. I’m just glad she’s going home. Thanks, Darlene.”
After we hang up, I toss the phone aside and curl around my pillow. I feel as though someone could drop a pebble into me and it would keep on falling forever.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a dog. But this newest loss stacks atop the others, another domino placed on a teetering pile that threatens to come crashing down.
The hum of a car engine interrupts my pity-fest. Frowning, I work free of the sheets, then drag myself down the stairs to open the front door. It can’t be my mother with another lasagna, not in August.
Sure enough, Kate’s shiny black Suburban crunches to a stop in my driveway. She kills the engine, then climbs out carrying a bouquet of orange day lilies and one of those round plastic containers that serves as armor for store-bought cakes.
When she reaches my doorstep, her brown eyes catalog my rumpled hair and cracked lips. “Well, you’re alive. That’s something. Did you forget how to answer the phone?”
I give her a sheepish look. I did get the voicemail she left on my birthday, but not until three days later, and by then... Well, I don’t know. I have no excuse for not calling her back.
“Sorry. I’ve been busy,” I say, then wince, because it’s so obviously a lie. Busy with what? Running until my toenails bleed? Reading Jane Austen into the early hours so I won’t have to face the heroic act of sliding between the cold bedsheets alone? Writing articles forMedical Devices Monthly, which requires so little brainpower that I could do it with my eyes closed?
Rescuing dogs I’ll never see again?
“Well, whatever’s taking up your time, it’s not working. You look like shit.” Kate thrusts the bouquet at me. “I still love you, though. Happy belated birthday. I know your mom didn’t wish you one, so here I am. Do you have coffee?”
With a half sigh, half chuckle, I usher her inside. Kate’s a mother of two toddlers, ages one and three, and her patience, already dangerously low to begin with, has now plummeted to undetectable levels. If a cup of coffee can satisfy her, I’m happy to oblige.
Whatever it takes to convince her I don’t need checking on. Even if I kinda-maybe do.
In the kitchen, I drop the lilies into a cut-crystal vase and fill two mugs from the French press. In honor of Kate’s deep-seated aversion to calories, I leave her coffee black, though handing it over undoctored makes my tongue curl.
“Thanks.” She deposits the cake onto the shiny granite island. New York cheesecake with cherries and whipped cream—my second-favorite dessert on earth, besides kettle corn, but it tempts me about as much as a plate of limp lettuce, because whipped cream always reminds me of Michael. Even now. I look away.
“Jesus, Mina.” Kate leans in, sniffing. “When’s the last time you showered?”
I clamber up onto one of the leather-and-chrome stools my husband once chose with such care. “Um...yesterday?”
Her eyes narrow.
“The day before? Maybe?”
She sighs, deep and heavy. Kate never used to sigh like that. She never used to sport dark circles under her eyes, either, or scrape her hair back into a yellow ponytail. She tells me she has to, though, or her kids will pull out fistfuls by the root.
Not that she doesn’t still look fabulous. After two babies, god only knows how. Well, that’s not true. I do know. She gets up at four thirty every morning and inflicts ninety minutes of cardio on herself while the rest of her family sleeps blissfully.
