Page 58 of Even After This
I angle toward her. “Did I commit a crime of some sort?”
“What are you talking about?” Her incredulous tone mirrors the hair-raising lane change she accomplishes by cutting off an unsuspecting Honda to veer around a slow truck.
“You’re listing various volunteer projects as if I’m working off some kind of sentence. Al Capone wouldn’t have had this many community service hours.”
She runs her hands from the bottom of the wheel and around the sides to grip the top. “We’re supposed to keep you busy, Meredith.”
“I’m supposed to keep myself busy, Molly.”
Dealing with grief materializes like a prison sentence some days. Lately I’ve been itching to make a jail break.
The text alert sounds again.
I curl the top of my purse over as the only way I can quiet the annoying noise.
Molly huffs. “What’s wrong? I always plan this kind of thing for you.”
Banging my head against the back of the seat, I swallow my frustration. “Why are these jobs in particular a good fit for me?”
She flips her hand through the air and throws it on the wheel, making a thud. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Am I operating out of my strengths?” I ask the ceiling.
“It’s volunteer work, Meredith. It’s not rocket science.”
Instead of a prick, the hurled comment is a minor stab wound. I snap my head down and glare at her. “What if there’s something more for me in life?”
“I don’t even know what that means. We’re all just living, Meredith, doing the best we can with what we have on board.” She exits the highway and pulls to the far right lane.
Another new text comes through my phone, and my arms spasm around my purse at the sound. I sit up. My right leg bounces in nervous energy.
I’m no longer comfortable in my own skin.
Molly offers me the security of a numb life. But this past week I waded in the ocean of the living. Felt the soft coax of the waves.
I shift in my seat to cross my legs. My life feels like scratchy underwear.
Molly drives in silence through my neighborhood and slows to the curb in front of my North Dallas ranch-style home. “I’ll text you when I hear from Francine.”
I release my seat belt and climb out of the SUV. “I have a few things going on.”
She hops out of the car and moves toward the tailgate. “What does that mean?”
My approach to the back is slower than hers, and I murmur the answer to my shoes. “I need to shop for new underwear.”
She raises the back door and leans around the corner of the vehicle to catch a glimpse of me. “What?”
“I just have to take care of a few things.”
Things like do I need to let my former mother-in-law know I’m dating again?
Wait.
At the top of the list should be to figure out firstifI’m dating again. Next would be breaking up with the person I may or may not be dating. Also important, fixing my stupid cell phone screen. And last, letting my therapist sort through everything flying around my head. Things like that.
We lean in and pull the gargantuan bag out together, her at one end, me at the other. Without an ounce of grace, we all but drop it on the ground.
She straightens, hands on hips.
