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I can’t hang onto anything else, though. I get a pillow, hold it to my chest, and close my eyes.
“Try to relax, darling.”
I think of her hands in mine, and it works like a pill.
I’m extra grateful for the little bit of sleep when I wake up mid-afternoon and can’t stop shaking. My joints hurt so much, I can barely move. Somehow I make it to the tub and sink into the hot water. I stay there for hours, running more hot water when it cools.
When I awaken to a dark room and a quiet cottage, I pull some clothes on and step onto the back porch. A crescent moon hangs over the cliffs. A long way below, waves break against the rock. I pull my boots off and walk over the scrubby grass with my bare feet. I fold my arms and press my lips together till the tightness in my throat abates a little.
Then I go into the kitchen, open the cutlery drawer. They’re there on the countertop, though—knives encased in a wood block. I choose a chef’s knife and an apple. Wash the apple. Wash my arm. I prop it on the counter, palm up. Shut my eyes as I run the tip over the soft hump of my veins. Median cubital…cephalic. Old friends.
I get a good, deep breath just feeling that slight sting. I can’t put it where I want it, though—not if I want to wear short sleeves when I help dig trenches for the cable.
I roll up my shirt sleeve to the shoulder. My heart pounds. My lungs lock up.
With my fingers bent around the blade and the tip held at a slight angle, I press down, take a deep, slow breath, and draw a line around the inside of my bicep. The release is not unlike what Finley’s hands did for me. In the rush I get right after, I laugh. Didn’t even check for gauze…
But she’s got some. I wrap it. Think of taking Advil for the joint pain, then decide I want to feel it.
I clean the knife off. Slide it back into the block. Then I use the paring knife to peel the apple.
I like apples.
I like cigarettes.
I put my boots back on and head into the dark.
* * *
Finley
“And then?”
“And then he kissed me!” Holly grins like a naughty child, and I stop breathing—and walking—on the right side of Upper Lane.
“Did he really?” I ask when I can breathe.
Baby presses against my legs, reminding me I still possess them.
Holly nods, still smiling smugly.
“He kissed you on the lips?” The gray clouds tilt.
“Well, no—not on the lips of course. How forward would that be? His mouth was here…” She points to her forehead, and I begin to burn.
“As you were dancing?”
She nods, red lips still upturned smugly. “As we were dancing.”
Holly whirls and skips ahead of me, her yellow skirt bouncing around her lean legs. “Homer Carnegie kissed me,” she sing-songs.
We’re en route to the Brauns’ cottage, so I’ve no choice but to follow along behind her. “And you were drinking liquor?”
“Just a bit.” She grins over her shoulder. “Dot saw, too. You should have seen her green eyes.”
Holly’s smirk makes me feel as if I’m running out of air. I tug at my collar.
“Why…would he be doing that?” It’s asked more to myself than her.
