Page 59 of After We Fall

“Hi. Uh, hi.” Her voice wavers with nervousness. “Do you, um . . . Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine. How was your honeymoon?” I ask my boss’s wife. The woman I want to be my future boss. The person who needs to think I have it all together.

She chuckles, but it sounds more incredulous than sincere. “Um, my honeymoon was great. Should I come in?”

“No, I’m okay.” My words falter. I pause and cringe. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Penelope.” She sighs. “Okay, don’t hate me. I’m coming in.”

I shuffle my feet to turn her direction, plant my hip against the sink, and muster a smile. The rogue hairbrush hangs from my head with a gentle swing, mocking me while I prepare to placate Meredith with a short conversation. “So you enjoyed Hawaii?”

At the first sight of me, her eyes widen. She shakes her head, then plasters on a fake, perky smile. “Fabulous. Yes. Kauai was amazing. Absolutely.” She swoops her arm down across her body, showcasing the red Hawaiian tunic covered in white hibiscus flowers. Leave it to Meredith to take a tourist cliché and wear it well. With the shirt belted at the waist of her skinny jeans and a pair of cream Converse tennis shoes, the casual ensemble exudes her personable self. As does her next move when she approaches me and makes quick business of detangling the brush from my head. “I’m just going to help this out a little bit.”

Before I can protest, she holds my hair at the root and attacks a lock full of tangles. Her movements are swift but somehow gentle. Once she rakes through the most challenging pieces, she brushes the length.

Long strokes smoothing away the rough spots.

The list of things I lost at the age of twelve when my mother died is quite extensive. But I never considered that I would miss someone brushing my hair. The affection is a memory forgotten somewhere in what became my daily survival of the foster care system.

Tears brim, and I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that I can’t tend to myself or the realization that it’s nice when someone else does.

“Stop that,” Meredith says.

“Stop what?”

“Stop shaming yourself because I’m helping you. This isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for anyone else. I will get it done, we won’t talk about it, and we’ll move on.”

Meredith knows me well. So well that she doesn’t acknowledge the tear I swipe from my cheek.

The problem is it’s not just my pride. With each stroke of my hair, my chance to be the program director at Twelve Bluebells Ranch brushes away.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” she murmurs, “in a different hospital, that you sat on the tile of a bathroom floor with me, handing me tissues while I cried. You’re always taking care of everyone else. It feels good to finally get to do something for you.” She studies my face. “Though, maybe we should consider having our big moments someplace other than a room with a toilet.”

A half-hearted smile tugs at my lips.

After finishing with my hair, she wets a paper towel. “Your lipstick color always packs a powerful punch,” she says as she wipes outside of my lip lines. “I just need to wrangle some of it in.”

With one last perusal, as if she can’t hold back her heart any longer, her eyes fill with tears and her face crumples. “I can’t believe this happened to you,” she whispers.

“Meredith.” My tone doesn’t come out as stern as I want it to. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, sweetie, but you will be. We’re all here for you.”

“Everything okay in there?” Harlan’s question comes through the door, and my body tenses.

Meredith wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and gives me a confident, curt nod. “Yes,” she calls. She raises her eyebrows at me in question.

I straighten my spine and inhale. “I’m ready.”

Only I’m not remotely ready.

Meredith assists me to the bed, and by the time I settle into the firm mattress, the room and my stomach are swirling. I reach for the plastic bedpan.

Wringing her hands, knuckles white, Meredith forces a strained and terrified smile. “Do you feel nauseated? I mean, it would be okay if you did. I’m perfectly fine helping you. If you need it. Do you need it? I mean, right now? Do you need help?”

The story of Kim Sterling throwing up on Meredith’s head in the second grade is more than simple folklore at the ranch. This grown woman becomes a panicky eight-year-old at the mere mention of nausea.

“I’m fine, Meredith.” For her sake, I grit my teeth and hope I’m not lying.