Page 51 of Dark Ugly Places

“I told you, I need it now. Right now.”

She shrugs, an air of resignation in her. “It’s the best I can do.”

I take the slip of paper, and I head out past all the other patients. Silvia squeezes past me in the narrow hallway.

Once I’m in the elevator, I feel Martha start pricking again at the back of my neck. You wanted to tell her about me, didn’t you?

I say out loud. “Of course I didn’t.”

Well, I think you wanted to. You can’t do that, Nicola.

I slap the back of my neck where I think Martha will feel it. It’s relieving to hit her. To keep her at bay. She disappears for a moment, and there is quiet. All I hear is the ding of the elevators and the sound of the tiny box moving eight floors to the ground.

At home, I find Emmy making grilled cheese sandwiches in our old panini press. She looks up at me, holding a packet of cheese.

“I thought you didn’t eat that,” I say, pointing to it.

“It’s vegan,” she says, holding it out to me.

“Sounds fantastic,” I mutter and start rummaging through the cupboards and drawers, searching.

“What’s gotten into you?” Emmy asks.

“I’m out of meds. I need more.”

“But you threw them all away.”

“I know that,” I say under my breath. “I made a mistake.” The pounding in my temple is creeping forward, sneaking under my eye. It’s happening fast now.

Pounding.

Sickness.

Days without light.

I check the stash of junk in the far-right kitchen drawer, the bottom of my old purse in the closet, and a jacket pocket from last winter, still stuffed with tissue—jackpot! A small plastic baggie filled with two Imitrex. This will buy me a day, maybe more.

I sit on the barstool while Emmy serves me a toasty brown sandwich and brings me a glass of water. Down the hatch. I swallow the two Imitrex whole but push the plate of food away.

Emmy takes a ketchup bottle from the fridge and squirts a puddle onto my plate. The smell and color make my gut roll.

“Where were you last night?” she asks, putting another sandwich on the griddle.

I clear my throat and feel the heaviness of the Imitrex taking hold, the blinding stab in my temple fading to a dull, warm ache.

“You were gone last night. You missed dinner, remember? After CelebrityStalkShow.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Mom? Where were you?”

“I had something I had to take care of, Em. Me and a friend.”

“Wow, that’s freaking vague.” Emmy opens the panini machine too soon, the sandwich still not done. She slams it back down, making a loud clang.

“Yeah. It is. Just leave it alone, Emmy, okay?”

She rolls her eyes, but not in a pissy way—in a hurt way.

“So did you go to that restaurant where Jason Redfern was?”

“No.”