The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [21]
“Give me that!” Nora snaps, and Hilda recoils, face red, suddenly awkward, comical looking in her pin-striped gray suit, her need to look professional, trying to fit into a man's world, trying to belong, after all those years of aprons. Oh God, how pathetic, because that's what happened, so blinded by my own self-importance that I never saw what was going on, instead was flattered by Robin's attention, touched by all her fussing, cherry pie because it was my favorite, hand-painted clay pots, her own sweetly scented soaps, when it was never about me. Never.
“I'm sorry,” Hilda gasps. “I didn't mean—”
“No, I know. I know you didn't. It's me, I'm just … tired.” Oh God, oh God, she thinks, hating herself even more.
“Then let me help!” Hilda cries, touching her shoulder.
Nora can only stare up at her. How? but can't ask. Because in order to take she would have to give. And the giving, like every intimacy, is far too much of a risk. Especially now. “I'm almost done,” she says.
She stares at the closing door, knees jammed painfully up into the desk edge, drawing deep, measured breaths, counts on each to twenty. Doesn't move. Listening for footsteps, presses humming, electricity crackling through cables, endless reams of paper being readied for print, the pulse beat of a manageable life, where problems can be solved and decisions made unhindered by malice or despair. If you do A and B, C inevitably follows. All she has left of stability.
She doesn't want to leave this desk. Doesn't want to go to Anguilla tomorrow. Doesn't want to be alone with Ken. Not now. If she stops, she will come apart. Better to keep busy, keep moving. That's how she's gotten through this week, almost every waking hour spent here. Chloe is just getting over the flu. Drew has been moody and short-tempered, but she clings to this grueling schedule, leaving by seven, not getting home until nine or ten at night. Slow down, Ken warns, before she ends up sick like Chloe and won't be able to go on the trip. But she knows he's grateful to be out from under the crush of her misery. It's pure survival. Work keeps her afloat. It's all she has, the only time in the day she doesn't hear the screaming, that rage in her head, her own mad wail.
She takes the back stairs, instead of the elevator. She doesn't dare talk to anyone right now. A smile, a pat on the back, and she'll come undone. On her right is the composing room where printers are working on tomorrow's edition, but the door is closed. Next is the brightly lit newsroom, though there are only three reporters at their desks, one flipping through a magazine, one typing, one asleep, tilted back in his chair. As she hurries past, the reporter stops typing and calls to her, but she pretends not to have heard.
“Hey, Nora!” he calls from the doorway. “I didn't know you were still here. This guy called and I said you already left. I'm sorry.”
“That's okay. I'm sure he'll call back.”
“Probably. He said it was important. I tried to get his name, but all he said was Ed.”
“God. Ed Martino. He's already changed his layout three times this week,” she calls in her rush to the door.
The disorientation of these past few weeks involves all her senses. Everything seems filmy, blurred, as if looking through water-smeared glasses. As she walks to her car she feels the breakdown starting, parts shifting, details fading. She scans the empty lot, for a moment can't recognize the name on the parking sign. NORA T. HAMMOND. Nothing to do with her. Words, letters, her weary brain struggles to process. It takes both cold, trembling hands to fit the key into the ignition.
Two more errands left. Busywork, keep the gears turning. Checks needing Father Grewley's signature and her proposal for the Medical supplement for Oliver to consider while she's gone. Neither stop is necessary, but reasons enough not to go straight home. Thinking is the killer. Even now on this short drive to St. Paul's rectory, the analysis begins, sifting through the dregs of once-mundane facts and events for more lies, more betrayals. This sickening need to