Page 107 of Succubus

“Cursed,” she repeats, shivering a little under the fleecy throw she’s brought from the living room.

I nod.

The elderly man from a few houses down walks briskly past, pausing to lift a hand to us, plaid scarf bundled above the high neck of his coat.

“Hi, Curtis!” Dee calls. I wave.

“Good morning, Miss Dee and Miss T!” We sound like some kind of nursery rhyme.

She waits until Curtis is out of earshot to whisper, “And Joel is the one who— ” But she can’t say it.

“He killed Grub.” My voice quavers on the words. My fingers tighten.

“T,” she says, and then she just looks at me.

And then we’re both crying.

“Oh my God,” she says into my hair, holding me snugly against her on the bench. “What you’ve been through. And I was right here. But you were alone.” She has wrapped me with her in the blanket.

I nod haltingly.

“I’m so sorry, T. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

“You’re never going to be alone again,” she says.

“Why would she be alone?” says Mom from the doorway. I hear the slosh of her vodka tonic, the clink of ice. “My girls aren’t alone! That’s what I’m here for!”

Dee and I both laugh the same tiny, smothered laugh. It is absolutely not what she’s here for. But at the same time, she is here. We straighten away from one another and I wipe my nose.

Mom sets her drink on the ledge. She bursts into tears.

Dee and I look at each other.

“Oh, Tempest!” Mom brushes her face with well-manicured fingers. “I understand how you feel.”

I stand up and she throws her arms around me, snuffling into my shoulder. I rub her back.

“I understand, finally,” she says. “To be unable to have what you know you should have. The wrongness of it. Like looking through a window and there’s your life, spread out in front of you, but you can’t touch it!”

“Um,” I manage, not completely following.

“He was my soulmate!” she cries, drawing back.

“Al?” says Dee, a little startled.

“Yes, of course! And now he’s gone!”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes.” And I sigh, very quietly, to myself, but I hug her. And Dee hugs me. And we are a tower of hugging, holding each other up, holding each other together.

CHAPTER 35

I don’t know exactly what to wear to synagogue, but I feel like it should be a dress. I own a few, which I never wear. I waffle for a bit and then choose a long, flowy blue one with small white flowers on it. It’s very feminine. I found it at a thrift shop in Sedona and saved it all these years with the thought that I might someday find cause to wear it. I leave my hair down and put on dangly gold earrings. I put on a little beeswax lip gloss, the extent of my makeup collection. My hair still shines when I brush it out; not a single strand falls out on the brush.

I have looked up the time of the Friday evening service. I’m a little proud of myself for figuring out that this is where someone would go to commemorate the anniversary of a loved one’s death. The internet has been very helpful with information on Jewish mourning practices.

I hope my worn cowgirl boots and usual sweater-coat aren’t too informal, but I don’t have anything else that works with the dress at all.