Love Me If You Must

16

Friday morning showed up ahead of schedule. I hadn’t even picked out what to wear and it was already the day of my big date.

Shower. Blow dry. Get dressed. I worked through my morning routine, furious with myself for putting off what I should have done a week ago. Sure, my parlor looked pristine. But tonight, sitting across from David wearing heaven-knew-what, would I care that I’d gotten the entire room done in two short days on one working leg?

I slipped into my best jeans, the ones without paint splotches or holes. With a painful tug, a nail tip dropped to the floor.

Great. Only seven remained after the one I’d shed yesterday into a can of paint.

Now, not only did I have to track down the perfect outfit before seven o’clock, but I also had to stop in to see Tammy at the Beauty Boutique for a repair job.

First, however, I’d pick up a roll and coffee at the Whistle Stop. Two days of seclusion made me thirsty for human interaction. And while the girl behind the counter was no conversationalist, at least I could look forward to the possibility that she’d added a new nose ring to her collection or an old movie to her repertoire.

I threw on my pink crochet hat and insulated coat to ward against the blustery November wind, then limped my way toward the shop. Leaves crunched in an uneven pattern beneath my feet. Limp, step. Limp, step. The pungent smell of late autumn filled the air.

I crossed the tracks, hardly glancing up, lost in analyzing the coffee girl’s facial jewelry fixation. If she was willing to offer such a countenance to the community, her thinking dipped even below my own cloudy level. At least I kept my societal blemishes hidden. But I supposed there was a place for the coffee girls of the world. Somebody had to make the rest of us feel better. Compared to her, I had my life together.

The door jangled as it opened. Warm, java-scented air rushed past into the street, and I scurried to put the plate-glass door between me and the frosty morning.

The nose-ring attendant was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup off the stack and filled it with raspberry coffee. I added some chocolate creamer and stirred.

Mmmm.

The sweet steam loosened up my sinuses. A drip of condensation formed on the tip of my nose. I dabbed at it with a napkin from the counter as I waited to pay.

After a minute, I decided the coffee girl must not have heard me come in.

“Hello?” I called.

The sound of shuffling came from the back room.

I waited. Good service in a small town was optional.

A minute later, a young blonde with a blotchy red-and-white face made an appearance.

“Sorry about that. Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her cheeks with the back of one wrist.

“Uh, sure.” I set my cup on the counter and poked around in my coat for a few dollars. “Coffee and that sticky bun back there, please.” I pointed at a supersized caramel roll sprinkled with nuts.

She plucked a piece of waxed paper from a box and reached for the breakfast treat. I studied her profile, a tad envious of the gold and diamonds that dangled from her ears and neck. First impressions said she was around eighteen, smart in school, and from a highfalutin middle-class family. No facial jewelry allowed in that household.

Curiosity got the best of me. “I guess I was expecting someone else this morning. Are you new here?”

She swallowed, obviously holding back tears. “I’m filling in for the owner’s daughter.”

In my mind, Coffee Girl made the jump from High School Flunky to Indulged Only Child. I felt like snorting. If this were my shop, would I let my daughter wait on people with her face full of sterling silver?

I tried not to snoop, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Is she on vacation?”

The attendant’s lip quivered and a tear chugged down one cheek. “Casey died yesterday. I’m helping out ’til her mom gets things together.”

A chill swept through my body. My legs tried buckling beneath me. I grabbed the smooth wood countertop and steadied myself.

The coffee girl had a name. Casey. I’d never even introduced myself.

Every unkind thought I’d had toward the girl swirled through my mind, and I knew that she would have been ten times harder on herself.

Please don’t let it be suicide.

I blinked hard and took a deep breath. “I am so sorry. Was there an accident?”

A million ways to die flashed through my mind. Quick and painless, long and agonizing, smooth and peaceful, abrupt and shocking. None seemed appropriate for a young woman of eighteen.

But then, death had no manners.

The attendant toyed with my sticky bun on the counter. “They don’t know what happened. Her little girl tried to wake her up, but she couldn’t. They’re doing an autopsy.”

My heart lurched. Casey had a little girl? And now Casey was dead, and the child an orphan. At least the poor thing had her grandmother. They’d make it through.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, devoid of further words of comfort. I grabbed my sticky bun and coffee and hustled out the door, rushing to get away from death before it could latch on to me.

I walked home without seeing anything but my feet on concrete, then blacktop, then dying brown grass. I went inside. I wanted to push the world away. To crawl into my cot and make everything disappear. To plug my ears and block out the droning automobiles, rumbling trains, and barking dogs that proved life went on even without the dearly departed.

Instead, I leaned against the kitchen counter and ate my sticky bun and drank my coffee. A final swallow, then I tossed my cup and napkin in the trash.

I propped my elbows on the sink to take the pressure off my bad foot, and looked out the kitchen window at the catalpa tree. Its twisted, gnarled branches were like skeleton fingers reaching for me . . . Help me end the pain, Tish. The voice echoed in my mind like a remembered dream.

I jerked upright and shook my head.

Grandma was laid to rest. There was no reason to keep bringing her back to life. There was no reason to fear the dead.

Yet at the thought, a prickle crept over my skin. I turned slowly toward the basement door.