Chapter 13
“Meredith? Did you hear what I said? I’ve got your schedule lined up for the week.” Molly slows her red Ford Explorer to pass through the DFW airport toll booth.
Staring out the passenger window, I nod. “Yeah. Schedule.”
Her proposed calendar for my life feels like a needle pricking at my skin.
Molly settles the car in her chosen lane and accelerates. “The animal shelter always needs people to walk the dogs, but adoptions don’t kick up until much closer to Christmas.”
Prick.
“The only other volunteer thing I have for you right now is with the church. They’re working on Octoberfest.”
Prick.
My cell, settled deep in my purse, alerts me to an incoming text. If it’s Stanley, I want to cringe. If it’s Harlan, I want to cry. Ignoring the pang in my heart, I refuse to reach for the phone.
I hold my gaze on the passing cars, hoping my sister doesn’t see the semi-permanent sheen of tears in my eyes. “We should combine efforts with these volunteer jobs to multitask,” I say. “Let’s dress the dogs in tutus and trick-or-treat at the festival booths for canned goods.”
My sister doesn’t laugh at my lame joke. “I think the church could also use some help updating information after the recent financial campaign.”
Another prick.
Seething with frustration, I can’t hold back any longer. “Can I ask you a question, Molly?”
“Francine Clyde is the point person.” She adjusts the rearview mirror. “Yesterday I left her a message asking when she wants to train you on the database system. I assume you’ll be in town now because, thank God, you didn’t follow through on your whim to purchase property in Colorado.”
Prick. Prick. Prick. The tingles on my skin intensify to pain. I reach over to squeeze her arm. “Molly.”
She glances at my hand, then back at the road. “What?”
I angle toward her. “Did I commit a crime of some sort?”
“What are you talking about?” Her incredulous tone mirrors the hair-raising lane change she accomplishes by cutting off an unsuspecting Honda to veer around a slow truck.
“You’re listing various volunteer projects as if I’m working off some kind of sentence. Al Capone wouldn’t have had this many community service hours.”
She runs her hands from the bottom of the wheel and around the sides to grip the top. “We’re supposed to keep you busy, Meredith.”
“I’m supposed to keep myself busy, Molly.”
Dealing with grief materializes like a prison sentence some days. Lately I’ve been itching to make a jail break.
The text alert sounds again.
I curl the top of my purse over as the only way I can quiet the annoying noise.
Molly huffs. “What’s wrong? I always plan this kind of thing for you.”
Banging my head against the back of the seat, I swallow my frustration. “Why are these jobs in particular a good fit for me?”
She flips her hand through the air and throws it on the wheel, making a thud. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Am I operating out of my strengths?” I ask the ceiling.
“It’s volunteer work, Meredith. It’s not rocket science.”
Instead of a prick, the hurled comment is a minor stab wound. I snap my head down and glare at her. “What if there’s something more for me in life?”
“I don’t even know what that means. We’re all just living, Meredith, doing the best we can with what we have on board.” She exits the highway and pulls to the far right lane.
Another new text comes through my phone, and my arms spasm around my purse at the sound. I sit up. My right leg bounces in nervous energy.
I’m no longer comfortable in my own skin.
Molly offers me the security of a numb life. But this past week I waded in the ocean of the living. Felt the soft coax of the waves.
I shift in my seat to cross my legs. My life feels like scratchy underwear.
Molly drives in silence through my neighborhood and slows to the curb in front of my North Dallas ranch-style home. “I’ll text you when I hear from Francine.”
I release my seat belt and climb out of the SUV. “I have a few things going on.”
She hops out of the car and moves toward the tailgate. “What does that mean?”
My approach to the back is slower than hers, and I murmur the answer to my shoes. “I need to shop for new underwear.”
She raises the back door and leans around the corner of the vehicle to catch a glimpse of me. “What?”
“I just have to take care of a few things.”
Things like do I need to let my former mother-in-law know I’m dating again?
Wait.
At the top of the list should be to figure out first if I’m dating again. Next would be breaking up with the person I may or may not be dating. Also important, fixing my stupid cell phone screen. And last, letting my therapist sort through everything flying around my head. Things like that.
We lean in and pull the gargantuan bag out together, her at one end, me at the other. Without an ounce of grace, we all but drop it on the ground.
She straightens, hands on hips.
I mirror her stance and don’t allow her assessing gaze to intimidate me.
Her face softens. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I grasp her hand.
She nods. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Meredith. First you wouldn’t let me go with you when you traipsed off to Colorado. Then you come back and you don’t want the usual volunteer jobs. Something about you is off.” She points a finger at me. “Don’t deny it.”
Stupid sister who knows me too well. But self-preservation leads me to a silent response.
She sighs. “You talked to Gwen lately?”
My hand jerks at her intrusive inquiry about my therapy, but wanting to keep the peace, I force myself not to let go of her grasp. “I’m supposed to check in with her soon.”
“You know I love you.” Her voice cracks, and she squeezes my hand.
I return her gaze and wince at the worry in her eyes.
My sister only understands one way to love, and her smothering increases when she’s anxious.
“I know you love me.” I step around my luggage to wrap my arms around her. “I’m okay, Molly. Promise. I’m just thinking through what I should be when I grow up.”
She pulls back from the hug but holds my shoulders in a firm grip. Her lips purse and twist to the side in her signature face of disapproval. I thought she mastered the expression when we were teenagers, but it matured into adulthood with the addition of a single eyebrow raise.
As she releases me, a text alert sounds again from my bag. I sort through my purse to find my keys, refusing to check the screen on my down-turned phone.
“Those texts could be from Stanley. You gonna answer them?” she calls back as she rounds her car to open the driver’s door.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Thanks for the ride, Molly.”
I stand at the curb while Molly’s SUV careens out of sight.
My skin tingles, but maybe the pricks aren’t about pain. Maybe I’ve been asleep so long, the sensation is the nerves coming back to life.