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Star? I thought Doctor Marlowe meant that was her last name when she told me that was the name of one of the girls. Misty was hard enough to carry around, but Star? Doctor Marlowe had left out a small detail, too, that she was black
Star smirked. It was a clear look of disgust, the corners of her mouth tucking in and her ebony eyes narrowing. She stared at me. For a moment it felt as if we were both gunslingers in a Western movie waiting for the other to make the first move. Neither of us did.
"I'm sure the doctor wanted to do all the introductions, but this is Misty," Emma Marlowe said.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi." She looked away from me quickly and practically dared Doctor Marlowe's sister to try to make small talk.
Instead, Emma made dramatic gestures toward the office and stuttered.
"You two can . . . just . . . go right on . . . in."
We walked to the office. Neither Star nor I needed any directions. We had been here enough.
The room was large for an office. One side of it was almost a small living room with two large brown leather sofas, some matching cushion chairs, side tables and a large, rou
nd, glass center table. The walls were a rich oak panel and there were French doors facing the rear of the house where she had her pool and her garden. It was facing the west side so if you had an afternoon appointment, the office was as bright as a Broadway stage. Morning appointments not only didn't have the direct sunlight, but when dominated by overcast skies required more lamplight.
I always thought the moods we experienced in this office had to be different on brighter days. You carried your depression and anxiety like overly loaded suitcases into this office and hoped Doctor Marlowe would help you unpack them. Darker days made it harder, the depression heavier.
I used to believe bad memories were stuck to my brain with superglue and if Doctor Marlowe pulled one off, a piece of me went along with it.
Sometimes, Doctor Marlow sat behind her desk and spoke to me while I sat on one of the sofas. I thought she might believe that if she was a little farther away, I would be more open. She did lots of little things like that to test me, and I couldn't wait to compare notes about her with my fellow OWPs.
I went right to my usual sofa and Star paused. I could see what she was thinking
"Which one do you usually use when you're here?" I asked her.
She glanced at the other and then looked at me sharply.
"What difference does it make?" she replied. I shrugged. She remained standing.
"I always sleep on the right side of my bed. What about you?"
"Huh?" She grimaced and when she did, her eyebrows hinged and her ears actually twitched. I laughed. "What's so damn funny?"
"Your ears moved," I said.
She stared a moment and then she cracked a smile on her black porcelain face. Her complexion was so smooth and clear, it looked like a sculptor had put finishing touches on her just an hour ago in his studio, whereas I had little rashes and pimples breaking out on my forehead and around my chin practically every other day despite my high-priced skin specialist. Mommy blamed it on things I ate when she wasn't around. Doctor Marlowe said stress could cause them, too. If that was the case though, my head should be one giant zit, I thought.
"I know," Star said. "Everyone tells me I do that, but I don't even know I'm doin' it. I sleep on the right side, too," she said after a beat.
"And when you have to sleep on the other for some reason or another, it's a problem, right?"
"Yeah," she admitted and decided to sit on the same sofa I had taken.
"How long have you been seeing her?" she asked me. I thought a moment.
"I think it's about two years," I said. "How about you?"
"Almost a year. I keep telling my granny I should stop, but she doesn't want me to."
I recalled Doctor Marlowe telling me one of the girls was living with her grandmother.
"You live just with your grandmother?"
"That's right," she said firmly. She looked ready to jump down my throat if I made any sort of negative comment. That was the furthest thing from my mind. Actually, I was envious.
