Chapter 22
I manage to avoid bleeding as I prepare dinner this time, but it’s still a mess.
Every shuck is bad. I shuck half of them sideways, losing all the liquid. I have a few good ones, but when I flipped the best one, I dropped it right on the floor. Birdie, luckily, was right there to lap it up.
I under- and then overcook the rice so that it comes out just as mushy as last night’s pasta.
I overcook the fish. Afraid of a repeat of last night, I undersalt everything, which isn’t the worst problem but it sure doesn’t show my strengths.
I find a bottle of wine in the fridge and try to open it and the cork crumbles into pieces as I do, all of which fall back into the bottle.
“We can always do more Kraft,” Sammie says. “It’s back too. I checked.”
I ignore her. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I say to Matt, who is helping by using a cheesecloth to decant and strain the wine—only because we need a new vessel, not because the ten-dollar pinot grigio needs to breathe. “I am better than this, I really am. What’s wrong with me?”
“Your mom died,” he says, bluntly. “Maybe it’s just that simple.”
I tap my front teeth together and then say, “Yeah.”
We eat dinner together, but no one seems to know what to say. We can’t chat like everything’s normal, but we’ve already been through it all already. All there is now is to wait and find out.
“I still say it’s Mom,” says Sammie. “She was a powerful person.”
“It’s not Babe,” I argue again, “it’s just—”
Thunder. And then immediately after, lightning strikes the beach.
I look at Matt.
“You’ve been to way too much Sunday school,” says Nora, half quoting him from last night.
No one says it, but for some reason, this feels like more confirmation. The mouths of babes.
Then the doorbell rings and I shoot up. “I’ll get it.”
I fly to the front door and open it.
Johnny Hart. In the flesh.
I step out and shut the door behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He looks nervous. Innocent. Just a guy. That’s his game.
He doesn’t have an attitude. To someone meeting him for the first time, he seems normal.
Gentle, even. With his nineties-pretty-boy hair, swimming-pool blue eyes, and diamond-cut cheekbones.
I’m sure most girls, like Sammie, wouldn’t know it’s bad until they’re in way too deep.
“I’m sorry about Babe,” he says. “She was always so nice. She was like a mother to me.”
“No, she wasn’t,” I spit, my voice escalating immediately, the fuse lit on my rage. I lower to a vicious whisper so as not to call attention to the doorway. “She was not. She was my mother. She was Sammie’s mother. And—”
“I want to talk to Sam. See she’s okay.” He presses the back of his forearm to his brow, shielding from the rain.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Now go, and never, ever come back, or I swear to god—”
“I’m sorry,” he says, backing away. “Sorry for bothering you. And, Didion?”
I’m clenching so hard I think a tooth might crack. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to you too. About everything.”
My rage feels like angry moths in my stomach. Adrenaline rises and falls. A corner of my heart softens at the words, wants to believe him and purge the bad blood. But I bully the mollified edge, and say, “Go, Johnny. Do not come back here.”
He nods and then pulls the keys out of his front pocket. I shut my eyes against the sound and realize I know the melody of them, just as I knew Babe’s.
I go inside. Shut and lock the door behind me. Turn off the hall light.
Sammie stands when she sees me. “Didion, you look— Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, my eyes catching on Austin’s, then Matt’s. They both know.
“Hey,” says Matt, redirecting. “Let’s get these dishes cleaned up. Didion cooked.”
Sammie tears her eyes away from me and says, “Right. Of course.”
I step into the downstairs powder room and yank on the chain light as I slide the door closed behind me. I plant a hand on the old wallpaper and look at my reflection. No wonder Sammie knew something was wrong. I’m bright red, but pale as a ghost.
I splash my face and press a damp washcloth to my neck and chest, under my ponytail and on the nape of my neck.
When I come out of the bathroom, Austin is right there.
“Sorry,” he says. “Birdie was standing here waiting for you. I was trying to get her to move along. I don’t just … do this.”
“Oh no.” I laugh a little. “I know.”
He stands up from petting the dog, and gives me a look that means you okay?
I nod reassuringly, then start to walk toward the kitchen to help clean up. He catches me gently by the upper arm and I stop. “What?”
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I stare up at him, feeling my resolve slip away. I recapture it and say, “Tell you what. If tomorrow is another Saturday, we can talk then.”
He smirks, and I hate him for it.
“Deal,” he says.
No one will let me help clean. I know they’re trying to be nice, but instead, I just end up feeling sent away from where everyone is. I know I could do as we used to do. Pull up one of the kitchen table chairs, put my feet on the adjacent one, and happily talk the night away.
I just don’t know how anymore.
So I tidy up the living room, then say goodnight, telling myself I’m being a grown-up, that I should take advantage of going to sleep so early.
As I lie in bed, I think about what I said to Austin. If tomorrow is another Saturday, we can talk then.
Against all my better judgment, with nowhere to hide in my own mind, I have to admit the embarrassing truth.
Not only have I started to believe in this time loop, but I’m also hoping for another Saturday. Whatever the hell that means.