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“Ask away,” I say, feeling slightly more flippant than the occasion calls for.
“How did you get that scar on your chin?”
This again?What is her obsession with my scar? It’s weird the way she’s fixated on it, the way she can’t let it go like she’s thinking I have something to hide when of course, I don’t and—
I look at Billi, at the way she’s looking at me.
My gaze swings back to Sally and sticks. I’m paralyzed and stuck, confused and mad.
My pen falls to the floor.
I don’t bend down to pick it up.
18
Finn
I haven’t slept in two days, and during that time, I have ignored ten calls from my boss, two alerts from the library that a book I requested is in, and one front desk message from Richardson informing me that his wife is in labor. He also informed that my boss wants me to call. What a great coworker he is.
I’m not calling.
I’m also not writing the story he wants.
What I am doing is attending the memorial service half an hour from now and hightailing it back to Houston, to hell with an in-depth article on cracking the hospital fire rumors. What I will write is a fluff piece on living with survivor guilt and the aftermath of lives spent missing loved ones. What I will write is a broad tale about how important the hospital is to this town and how the leaders helped bring it back from destruction.
What I won’t write is any version of the words Sally spoke. The woman is a liar. Full of outrageous beliefs and insane accusations. As crazy as everyone believes.
Dirty Sally has dirt on her hands and is determined to smear it on others, and I won’t have any part of it.
I park my car at the back of the lot and turn off the engine, depleted of the energy it takes to open the door and climb out. So, I watch as people dressed in various shades of black and gray mill around the parking lot. They congregate in groups. Talk in low whispers while giving shoulder squeezes and sympathetic nods to one another. They look up at the sky and chat about the weather. “Will it rain, or won’t it? What a perfect day to remember this tragedy.” As if the weather was perfectly orchestrated by dead loved ones to accentuate the feelings of grief.
Reporters and camera crews set up individual stations, each angling for the best shot. Tripods come out as microphones are clipped to collars, and powder is re-swiped across already camera-ready brows. Reporters sent here to convey grief and suffering laugh in groups and give one another congratulatory handshakes.“Maybe this will get you that promotion. By this time next week, you’ll be working for ABC.”Didn’t I have that thought myself only last week?
Last week I was naïve. Last week I hadn’t yet spoken to Sally or been stabbed in the gut by her vicious words.
The passenger door opens and closes. I don’t turn my head, don’t need to look to know who slides in the seat next to me. We sit side by side, watching the spectacle happening through the windshield and silently counting collective seconds until this blasted day is over.
“How are you?”
“Pissed.”
It’s true, and it isn’t. I haven’t seen her in two days, and I’m simultaneously frustrated and relieved. Why has she stayed away so long? Also, why is she here? I want to be alone, but how dare she disappear?
“I would be too.”
“Thanks for the affirmation.”
“Don’t do that,” she says. “I’m on your side, you know.”
I do know, even though my side offers nothing but two lone members facing many opposing teams. Not the best way to win a game.
“I know,” I say it out loud because she deserves that much.
“What are you going to do?”
I nod once. “Attend this service and get the hell out of here.”
Her head swings toward me. So many things to be shocked about, but my departure seems to affect her the most. There’s a twist in my gut that has nothing to do with my life crumbling in shambles. I’ll miss her too.
