“That’s fine,” she says. “You called. I answered. That’s enough for tonight.”
“Can I—” The word sticks. I try again. “Would it be okay if I called again? When my head isn’t… When I’m more myself?”
“Sure, you can call. I’m retired now. I live in a townhome with three other old ladies. We’re the West Coast Golden Girls. Easiest way to live when you’re my age.”
“Okay.”
“And Henry?” Her voice softens until it’s almost a whisper. “If your father and his wife made you into a decent man, let them have the credit.” A beat. “Don’t go trying to fix me, sugar. I am who I am, and my life is what it is.”
I smile before I can help it. “I won’t.”
“Good night, then,” she says.
“Good night.” I end the call and stare at the ceiling.
Zach huffs and presses his weight against my shin. It’s almost as if he disapproves of what I just did.
I scratch his ears. “I know, buddy. But I just had to know.”
I close my eyes and see a woman in sunglasses pouring water into small pots, a dog on a porch, a girl in Boulder with her hands on an instrument tray, choosing herself and maybe not closing the door all the way. My head hurts. My chest hurts worse. But something in me eases anyway.
For once, I don’t dream of beams or blood or gunshots.
I dream of a woman who gave me away.
And another woman who I’m not ready to let go.
Seventeen
Tabitha
A week later…
The suture pops.
A clean little ping that slices straight through my nerves. Blake doesn’t flinch. He just says, “Again,” like a robot, and steps to the next student.
I re-thread. Hands steady. Or pretending to be, anyway. Blake said I have good hands, so what the hell is wrong with me?
The needle holder feels slick, my gloves too tight, the blue drape too bright. I lay the knot, square.
The knot slips.
Heat flares in my cheeks.
“Again,” Blake says, back at my shoulder, his voice even. “Precision. Not speed.”
“I know.” I’m going too fast. I clear my throat. “I know.”
Eli slides a box of practice pads closer to me with his elbow. “Switch pads,” he murmurs. “Yours is tearing.”
I nod and begin with a new pad. The next throw lands, and the next. Surgeons’ knot. Square. Tails short and neat. I don’t breathe until I hear Blake’s low, “Better.”
I let that tiny word settle like a weight. It helps. A little.
“Passes,” Blake calls. “Instruments. Go.”
Eli faces me. “Kelly.”
