Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [43]
—I was just showing Lyn how a crown of thorns is worn.
I guess I got a little carried away.
—I’ll get the first-aid kit, she says.
—I have one in the car. I was coming to say good-bye, to thank you.
—We’re very glad you came. Lyn? she says, expecting me to agree. —You look tired, dear.
Bewildered is more like it.
—I think she should rest for a while, Allison tells Uber.
—Call you in the morning? Uber says to me.
I want to ask what kind of show we’re in. It feels like a comedy.
—I’ll probably be asleep, I say.
—Lyn is exhausted, poor thing. Time for a good long rest. We look forward to hearing from you in the late morning.
I decide not to correct her WE, happy to let Allison be the one to see Uber out. Once they’re downstairs, I dash into her room and turn the Living machine off, the lights on the panel shutting down one by one. I already feel an odd pang about sending Tommy back even though, from my vantage point, I can’t see him dissolve.
I grab one of Allison’s sleeping pills from her bathroom and go to my bedroom, get the dress off, and take a few pictures of my bald self in the mirror for posterity. I send Mark a quick text to update him, climb into my pj’s and fall asleep, and keep jerking awake and finally fall like lumber dropped into a mill, ready to be stripped of my bark and drawn down to the size of a toothpick, until I’m nothing but sleep.
CHAPTER
16
—Wake up. Wake up, dear.
I’m aware of my mother and Thad crowded on the edge of my bed, Allison rocking me from side to side. Usually I wake to the radio alarm, to reports of suicide bombers, new strains of illness, hackers playing on my cranial nerves. Allison gave up on wake-up calls years ago.
—God, what time is it?
I crack one eye to look at the clock. I have been asleep all of fifteen minutes. I pull a pillow over my head.
—I know you won’t wake up until tomorrow afternoon, she says, removing the pillow. —So we should talk about Uber.
—We should sleep. I took one of your pills. Or did I take two?
—I’m tired, Thad says. —Can I sleep on your trundle bed, Lynie?
Normally I would remind him that he’s eight now and that he’s too old to sleep in his sister’s room. But I sense this is about grieving, so I say it’s okay.
—You need to get your own pillow.
—I’m going to get my own pillow, Thad says.
When he goes off to find it, Allison springs on me.
—He asked for your hand in marriage, did you know that?
She looks like someone who has gone through an extreme medical procedure and lost many unwanted pounds too quickly.
—He already has Tommy’s hand.
—You didn’t say that.
—I didn’t suggest that I . . . suggest that I . . . I’m so tired.
—Sometimes life asks us . . . we’ll talk tomorrow. Everything will be all right. Is your head okay? she asks.
—Hurts.
—Do you want me to call the doctor?
—Sleep.
—He said you won’t marry him.
—The doctor? I ask.
When I finally open my eyes, my mother appears to be split in two, her two selves wavering about.
—Uber, dear.
—Can I shut my eyes now? Unless they’re already shut.
—Absolutely. But I want you to think about this, so you feel you have a safety hatch: you really wouldn’t have to put in more than a couple of years with him.
She begins to rub my arm.
—And we’d make sure you were heavily insured. It’s not such a bad thing being a divorcée of a famous Glad. Remember that woman we met in Chicago last summer, the one who divorced the Brazilian champ? Men fell all over themselves just to get her a bottle of water. And sweetheart, you have no idea—the endorsements you and Uber will be offered. In a couple of years everything will be straightened out. You’ll see.
—I know you’re scared, I say.
Thad is back with his pillow. I’m aware that Allison wants to say more. Instead, she makes sure that Thad takes his shoes off. He never likes to slip into the covers as I do. He likes to rest on top, ready to launch, so it will take a while for