Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [68]
I shoved my suitcase into the entrance and saw the rear lights of the car dance on the walls until they disappeared. “I guess you could say that.” I didn’t turn around to watch Mr. Jacobs relock the door.
Betrayal was a rotting corpse: bloated and putrid. But that was more information than he really wanted. I kicked off my pumps and rubbed my feet against the cool terrazzo floors.
“I forgot the story my mother told me about tigers,” I said.
Mr. Jacobs scratched his head. “Well, I might need you to explain that one.”
“Tigers don’t change their stripes,” I said.
“Oh, she's right on there.” He scratched his chin, stared out the front door for a minute, and grabbed his clipboard. “You’re back for the night?”
We both understood it wasn’t really a question.
I nodded.
“You have to sign back in. Policy.”
I signed back in at 5:23 p.m.—fifty minutes after I left.
Mr. Jacobs waved me into the elevator. “You have a good night. And Mrs. Thornton …” His voice reflected the kindness I saw in his eyes. “God has a plan, I promise. Everything's going to work out.”
“It's going to be better now that I’m—” I caught myself, about to say “home.” “Now that I’m here.”
If home was a place of safety and acceptance, maybe—for now—I was home. I just had to figure out how to make the one I’d left two weeks ago feel like the one I’d just come back to.
“Stella's dress, Valentino's shoes, and Judith's purse, and I are all back. Where is everyone? Hello?” I dumped my shoes on top of my suitcase. Now that the elephant was off my chest, and I could breathe again, I headed to the refrigerator for an ice cream fix. I needed to check my Big Book for warnings about romanticizing about Blue Bell, Ben and Jerry's, and Nutty Buddies. In the meantime, I hoped Matthew remembered to restock. I found potential solace in a frozen Snickers candy bar and a Fudgesicle and headed to the rec room.
No people. No television. No music. I sat, leaned against the arm of the sofa, and stretched my legs out. In the last hour, I’d overdosed on emotions, and the hangover left me numb. But it was no different than waking up the day after drinking too much. Numb was only temporary. Like the quiet in here.
Jan stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me. Clichéd, but I’d never seen anyone come to such a complete halt without walking into a wall.
I held up the Fudgesicle. “Care to join me?”
“You have to pee first. When you come back from an overnight, we have to take a urine sample.”
“Jan, duh. If I’m here, I’m not overnight.”
“Doesn’t matter. You left. You came back. You pee.” She walked off and came back with an empty specimen jar. “Here.” She handed it to me. “Hurry up. I want to know what happened.”
I handed her my ice cream. “Lucky for you, I happen to hold the world's record for fast peeing. But don’t start timing me until I’ve ditched the pantyhose.”
A few minutes later we traded again. Off she went with her specimen jar. I resumed my position, resumed eating, and resumed waiting.
Jan returned with a new supply of magazines. She stacked them on the table before she joined me on the sofa. “Are you hungry? It's not too late for me to get a plate sent up for you.”
“Nah, I’m good, but thanks.”
“You need to take care of yourself nutritionally, too. That body you’re occupying has to last a lifetime. Would you take care of your car the way you take care of yourself?”
“Enough with the lectures,” I snapped. I finished the ice cream, and tossed the paper and stick on the table. “You want to talk unhealthy? Let's talk about relationships. Unhealthy relationships. Like my marriage. How long does an unhealthy relationship last?”
I clenched and unclenched my hands. My fingernails dug into my palms. I wanted to go somewhere. Away. Far away. How far did I have to go to get away from myself? Anger surged down my arms, up my legs, flooded my chest. I wanted it to stop rising. Alcohol used to do that for me. Now what? Now what? Where did people go with this?