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Meredith snorts. “Good luck with that. Even if she was normal, it would be nearly impossible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nina is someone who only shows what she wants you to see. Everything about her is a facade. A fake.”
Fake?
“She’s so wrong for Tristan,” Meredith says, her disdain evident. “He’s a creative, an artist, a wanderer, a dreamer. She ran the house like a captain on a ship.”
“Losing a son can change a person,” I say, defending the woman who can’t speak for herself.
Meredith turns her face toward me. Her eyes twinkle like a cat’s. “No, honey, it’s been like this from day one. Long before he went away.” She leans in. “James ran away—fromher.”
“What do you mean, from her?”
“Stick around long enough, and you’ll figure it out.”
My gaze shifts to the pills by Nina’s bed—schizophrenia, anti-anxiety. Nina was a successful editor before James disappeared. Could she have really been unstable enough to cause her only child to run away—assuming that’s what happened to him?
Something isn’t adding up. Regardless, in this moment, my main focus is getting Meredith away from this room—away from Nina. My gut is screaming at me,danger,danger,danger.
“Maybe I should go get Tristan,” I say.
“No,” Meredith snaps. “Never interrupt Tristan while he’s working.Ever.”
“Well, is there something I can get you to help you go back to sleep?”
Get the hell out of here, I mean.
“No, dear, you go on back to sleep now.” Meredith offers me a creepy, doll-like smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Go on.”
I hesitate but then turn away. But instead of going to bed, I close my bedroom door just enough to hide behind it. I cross my arms, lean against the frame, and settle in to watch Meredith and ensure that she does not set foot into Nina’s bedroom.
Five minutes pass, then ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Meredith never moves, just stares into the bedroom in a trance-like state. And despite all her crazy behavior, I get the feeling that Meredith isn’t nearly as dim-witted as Tristan thinks she is.
11
The day before the stroke . . .
Meredith
Iwipe the cum from my lips and stand.
Tristan turns away as he begins tucking himself into his pants and buttoning up.
I remain in place, standing in the middle of the tiny, disgusting, foul-smelling motel room, and watch as he tucks in his shirt and secures his belt. His movements are harried, his mind elsewhere.
Anger stews inside me, hot and rolling like a kettle about to boil over.
Eventually, his eyes meet mine and he flashes me a smile, as if he—we—haven’t a care in the world. If only it were that simple.
Tristan has always been like that, able to compartmentalize his life into sections. Closing the door on one when he is in the presence of another. It’s the reason he is so successful at what he does. When Tristan writes, he truly escapes to another world. Leaving this one—the real one—far behind for as long as he wants. I understand this is a coping mechanism, although he will never admit to it.
