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I am tired.
So goddamn tired.
Chapter 28
Suzanne
When I get Catherineback to the Dressmaker and up the spiral staircase, her crying has completely stopped. But wherever she is now is so much worse. Her eyes are red and swollen but staring, as if her mind is shutting down against something horrific. Her long red hair is pasted to her face. Her arms hang limply by her side. My best friend, who is usually so animated, is gone. And the woman that I met four years ago has returned to haunt me.
Maybe it’s residual trauma from my childhood. Maybe it’s the memory of seeing this exact catatonia in her when we first met, but I am one pin prick away from losing my shit.
I cannot go through this again.
Once was enough.
Leading Cat through to my custom bathroom, I close the lid of the toilet and nudge her so that she’s sitting down on the black top. “Where the hell were you going?” I ask, noting her odd clothing. She’s wearing bell bottom jeans and a double XL Los Angeles Dodgers shirt that definitely doesn’t belong to her. Her arms poke out of the gaping sleeves and even though she’s tucked the shirt in on one side, the other side falls to mid-thigh.
“I was at home,” she says. Her big green eyes slide to mine and the moment our gazes meet, she bursts intotears again. “Toni…” She covers her face with her hands as the words drown in her tears.
Sweeping the long skirt of my dress to the side, I crouch in front of her. Prying both of her hands away from her face, I hold them in my grip, forcing her to look at me. “What happened? You fought?” I guess. “With Toni?”
Catherine nods and whispers, “She fired me, Suze.”
I don’t think I’ve heard her right. “Toni…Fired you?”
“Basically.”
That doesn’t sound like Antoinette at all. She’s so in control. So compassionate. Something’s missing. I look over Catherine, my eyes sweeping for obvious signs that she’s using again. But there are none. Her track scars on her arms are clean and unbruised, the skin thick and scarred over with no new mottling. There are no signs of punctures between her fingers and a glance down at her feet shows me that she’s wearing closed shoes so I can’t check her toes. Although she’s upset, she seems lucid. Sober. Even her small, voluptuous frame is the same, far from the gawping thinness she originally came to us with.
And if Catherine had started using again, Antoinette would have told me as soon as she realized and long before she did something as drastic as fire Cat.
I need answers. And I’ll get them. But sensing that Catherine’s not going to be able to talk for a while, I turn around and plug the bathtub before turning the water on. “I think you need to soak for a bit,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Just relax.”
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at me. She just stares at the floor, her eyes far away.
“Cat…”
Coming to, she shifts a little. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to stay while you undress, okay? I’ll go wash your clothes.”
It’s a lie—and we both know it. But the single thing I’ve learned in life is that you can’t trust an addict.
She doesn’t argue. She leans down and takes off her shoes. Pushing to a stand, she strips her jeans and the Dodgers shirt before removing her lingerie. She leaves everything in a small pile on the floor and steps into the hot water, wincing slightly as she lowers herself slowly into the tub.
Opening the small mirror above my sink, I take stock of all the pills I keep there. Leaving only the birth control, I remove all the rest, and, holding the bottles in my hand, bend down to pick up Catherine’s clothes from the floor.
When I stand, she’s lying back in the bathtub. Her eyes are closed, and she is completely silent but she’s crying again. Her tears drip down either side of her face.
Needing to say something, I sit back down on the toilet, the pile of pills and clothes in my arms. “Everything’s going to be fine, Cat. We’ll figure it out.”
She nods but makes no move to open her eyes or talk to me.
Taking the bundle in my arms with me, I leave, making sure to close the bathroom door so that I can hear when she comes out. I go to my bedroom and put the pills in the locked gun safe where I keep my concealed carry, aBerrettaM9, my cash, and a couple of joints I stock for particularly stressful days. As soon as I’ve locked the pills away, I walk to the laundry room. Slowly, meticulously, I turn Catherine’s clothes inside out, searching the pockets as I go. Seeing as though this is my house, all I need to know is that she came in clean.
When my search turns up nothing except a small ball of lint in the back pocket of her blue jeans, I stuff all of her clothes in the washing machine and set it to quick wash.
The familiar mechanical whirr of the machine starting up soothes me. When Catherine called, I thought she was spiraling. The fear in her voice…the panic…honestly, I thought it might have been too late by the time I reached her. And now…Now I want to scream at God. I want to ask him if giving me an addict for a best friend was my punishment for walking out on my mother? Maybe, it’s some sick joke, a constant reminder of the distance that separates me from the child I once was and the woman I could have been if I’d stayed.
