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It’s a perverse choice. But I can’t tell her. Not yet. You can’t deliver news like that and remain on a person’s good side. Anyway, who says you have to b
e honest about everything? Omission isn’t exactly lying. Besides, timing is important. I know this better than anyone.
Coffee can’t hurt though, can it? It’s not like she’s a mind reader. Just in case, I make it a point to push what I’ve learned from my memory like my social worker taught me to do after my mother’s death.
I practice by spending the rest of DUI class thinking about getting a dog and which breed might be most suitable. Something small might be nice, but something big and protective could work too. It is a nice fantasy while it lasts. When I mention it to the lady with the blue hair, she gives me that look again and tells me dogs are like children, just another thing to possibly fuck up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SADIE
It helps to know what kind of moral gray area you’re dealing with, Ann says. She picked me up in my driveway and said we should go out for coffee instead. She said she needed to get away from Penny Lane and wondered if I might want to come along. She suggested we do something crazy, something to take her mind off of things.
Ann has a way of making seemingly small things like coffee feel like a grand adventure, so, of course, I knew I wanted in.
Now, she is sitting behind the wheel staring at her phone. “This will only take a minute,” she tells me as her fingers furiously text away.
It’s nothing new. That’s what I’ve learned about her. Ann always seems to be working. She always has an angle.
“There,” she says, finally. “Now that that’s done, let’s get coffee.”
“Then what?”
“Then we wait.”
I don’t know what we’re waiting for. But Ann seems happy, and she isn’t thinking about overcooked appetizers or work, or hit and runs or overly emotional teenagers, or any of the stuff she said on the way here is nonsense, and that is kind of nice. It’s hard to get her to open up when she’s in one of her moods. She shores it up, battens down the hatches, tightens her borders.
After we place our order at the drive thru, and Ann pays for our coffees—she insists—she parks in the lot. She didn’t elaborate on what exactly she meant by “do something crazy,” but maybe in her world, a chai latte in the afternoon qualifies. Maybe this is the skinny people’s version of letting loose.
I wouldn’t know.
We don’t talk much; we do what Ann tells me is her favorite hobby: we people watch. She says it’s why she went into her field. Which makes sense. She tells me she’s glad we met. She needs a friend she can be perfectly comfortable in silence with. It’s rare, she assures me. She says most people can’t shut up long enough to actually have a thought, and I can’t help but smile. It’s nice to have finally found something precious and rare.
The silence doesn’t last long, because Ann’s phone rings. She doesn’t answer with a hello nor does she offer pleasantries. She asks how she can help. There are no take-backs on this, she says calmly into the receiver. I listen as she coaxes the caller’s address. She teases it out, choosing her words carefully before finally letting out a long sigh. “This is your third call this week. At some point, Kelsey, you have to ask yourself if you’re really serious—if you really have it within you to go through with it at all.”
I can’t hear the other end of the conversation, obviously. “Remember,” Ann says before hanging up, her face impassive, “death is final.”
After she ends the call she looks over at me and apologizes. Ann tells me about the suicide hotline she operates. It’s a very busy time of year—the busiest, she says—on account of the holidays and the weather. Sometimes when they are short on volunteers, she has to forward the calls to her cell phone. The alternative, she says, is people die.
“I BET THAT’S HER,” Ann exclaims, peering over the rim of her cup, which is interesting because I hadn’t realized we were waiting on anyone. There’s a part of me that is disappointed. I was under the impression we were sitting in the car because Ann says it is more private that way. You never know who is listening, she says. She’s sick of taking selfies. She likes her privacy. And, she can’t leave the hotline unmanned for too long.
“Here.” When I look over, she is forcing a switchblade in my direction.
“What’s this?”
Ann points to a tall woman wearing a skirt with boots and a ponytail. “You see that BMW she got out of?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to stab her.”
“What?”
She laughs. “I’m kidding. You don’t have to stab her.” Her eyes search mine. “Well, not unless you want to.”
“Yeah, no. I don’t.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “Go for the rear tires instead.”
