Page 125 of Even After This
“Finally.” She shrugs. “I wasn’t in charge of you anymore.”
I close my eyes, take a breath, then return my attention to her.
“Michael gave me some Stanley truth.” She flicks off a piece of lint from her wool pants.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I think it deserves a name, since who knew Stanley had it in him? Anyway, Michael dragged me to a counselor’s office. She scheduled weekly appointments for the next three months, then ordered me to CoDA meetings. Co-Dependents Anonymous.” Molly exhales a heavy breath. “I haven’t been doing life very well for a long time.”
“Molly,” I whisper, compassion drawing through me and wanting to reach out to her.
Her voice cracks and her eyes mist. “You got the help you needed after Steve and the kids died. But I didn’t. I thought I had to hold everyone together.”
Guilt slices through my heart. I take her hands in mine. “Molly, you did a great job in our time of crisis. But at some point, we should all live our own lives.”
She leans in and places her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her and squeeze.
After a while, she asks, “Do you want to talk about Harlan?”
I let out a long sigh. “No.”
Maybe it’s the peace in the garden, but by some miracle, she allows the topic to lie.
She nods. “Do you want to talk about how gross and bizarre the concept of the black-eyed-pea pancakes is?”
My shoulders shake with laughter.
Molly sits up. “Seriously. The least I could have done is gotten you volunteer work that didn’t betray a classic American breakfast food.”
An ache hits my soul, but I smile.
There she is.
My sister.
It’s been a long time.
But while Molly is probably willing and ready to nurse methrough a breakup, I’m aware of the inherent backward slide in that plan.
This newfound space in our relationship is going to take work.
My job is to dream again. Hers is going to be to let me.
31
“You didn’t needto pick me up from the airport, Prissy. I could have taken the shuttle.” I heave my bag into her trunk, thinking that any other form of transportation is probably safer than riding with my realtor.
Ironically, my broken heart has brought me back to Colorado Springs. Two weeks after my painful and productive epiphanies with Stanley and Molly, I’m ready to move forward with life, whatever it might hold.
Prissy pushes a button to shut the back of her SUV. “The Feldmans insisted. They’re so grateful you’re subletting their brownstone, they want me at your beck and call.”
“I don’t think you can be at someone’s beck and call if you’re dressed like that.” I throw a hand at her sleek ensemble while I climb into the vehicle.
Peeking through the opening of her coat is a black jumpsuit paired with half-stacked, heeled ankle boots. The faux fur surrounding her collar is oh-so-Prissy.
“Don’t be silly. I delegate when I’m dressed like this.” Withadmirable grace, she maneuvers into her car, buckles in, and presses a finger to the start button.
“Hello, Priscilla.” The voice of Prissy’s car sounds different than my last visit. “While you’re driving today, please remember your husband loves you. But if you are arrested for speeding, he will make sure you’re locked up in a facility where the uniforms consist of baggy shirts and mom jeans.”
