doubted it. Laura Butler was a lot of things, but tacky wasn’t one of them. Laura Butler would rather be dead than be tacky.
Still, her mother hadn’t exactly been excited about going to rehab—was anyone, ever?—and he probably was rushing to her, rushing to make sure she got checked in, to exert his will on her or maybe to fight with her some more or to do . . . God knew what.
But whatever it was he was so hot to do, it was not to find Bailey. Not really. Because she’d been just above him the whole time and he’d never bothered to look up.
She’d stayed after he’d left. Had wrapped herself up into a tighter ball and watched the dust motes swing around on the air. After a while, her mind wandered and she saw herself get up and climb onto the rocking chair, then step over the loft rail and just float there in the sun with the dust. Just twist and turn and ride the invisible breezes of life shifting around her. Weightless. Beautiful. In her daydream, her hair even turned red and floated out behind her in plaits.
She was snapped out of her daydream by the front door opening a second time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes (had she fallen asleep?). She’d lost track of the time, but from the way the shadows had shifted—the swimming dust particles were no longer in her direct line of sight—and the stiffness in her legs, she guessed it had been hours. Her knees now ached from being pulled up against her; her cheek felt hot and bruised from resting against the denim of her jeans; her book had fallen out of her lap and lay beside her now.
The door pushed open farther and her father stepped in again, but then stood to the side and waited, letting her grandmother in after him.
She couldn’t even really remember her grandmother. Their visits had been few and far between. They’d almost never driven to Kansas City to see them (her mother called it “That Godforsaken Town”), and her grandparents had only slightly more often come to St. Louis to visit. Her mother had gone to her grandfather’s funeral alone. Until this morning at the hospital, she hadn’t seen her grandmother in what seemed like forever. She looked smaller than she remembered. And older.
So what was she doing here now? Was this curiosity? Voyeurism? Some misplaced sense of needing to take care of Laura after all these years? Was that what she had waiting for her in the future—a life so messed up, her mother might finally take an interest in it?
Her grandmother stepped in and made a face, and she could see the woman making an effort to not cover her nose.
“It’s trash,” her father mumbled, leading the way into the living room and reaching over to snap on the light. “I guess she stopped paying the bill. There’s loads of it stacked in the garage too. As bad as it is in here, it smells even worse in there.”
The grandmother looked dazed, following him at a gait that didn’t seem entirely even.
“Besides, there are dishes. Piled up to my chest. Stuff caked on them for weeks. I don’t know what . . . Usually Bailey is really good at doing those,” her father added.
Usually Bailey is really good at doing everything,
she wanted to correct him.
If Bailey doesn’t do it, usually it doesn’t get done.
“I had no idea,” the grandmother said. “I wouldn’t have guessed Laura would let her house go like this.”
Trust me, Sober Laura wouldn’t,
Bailey wanted to cry.
Sober Laura would die if she knew there was somebody in this disgusting house right now. But Sober Laura left the building a long time ago. Gosh, could it have been the night that Ghost Curt suddenly discovered he wanted nothing to do with this life anymore? Why, yes, yes, I think it was.
And would that also be the night that they had the not-so-sober knock-down-drag-out about who
had
to take Bailey in this mess?
Why, yes. It was that night too.
Her eyes burned and she blinked hard, savoring the pain beneath her eyelids as they moistened her eyes.
“So let me
Still, her mother hadn’t exactly been excited about going to rehab—was anyone, ever?—and he probably was rushing to her, rushing to make sure she got checked in, to exert his will on her or maybe to fight with her some more or to do . . . God knew what.
But whatever it was he was so hot to do, it was not to find Bailey. Not really. Because she’d been just above him the whole time and he’d never bothered to look up.
She’d stayed after he’d left. Had wrapped herself up into a tighter ball and watched the dust motes swing around on the air. After a while, her mind wandered and she saw herself get up and climb onto the rocking chair, then step over the loft rail and just float there in the sun with the dust. Just twist and turn and ride the invisible breezes of life shifting around her. Weightless. Beautiful. In her daydream, her hair even turned red and floated out behind her in plaits.
She was snapped out of her daydream by the front door opening a second time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes (had she fallen asleep?). She’d lost track of the time, but from the way the shadows had shifted—the swimming dust particles were no longer in her direct line of sight—and the stiffness in her legs, she guessed it had been hours. Her knees now ached from being pulled up against her; her cheek felt hot and bruised from resting against the denim of her jeans; her book had fallen out of her lap and lay beside her now.
The door pushed open farther and her father stepped in again, but then stood to the side and waited, letting her grandmother in after him.
She couldn’t even really remember her grandmother. Their visits had been few and far between. They’d almost never driven to Kansas City to see them (her mother called it “That Godforsaken Town”), and her grandparents had only slightly more often come to St. Louis to visit. Her mother had gone to her grandfather’s funeral alone. Until this morning at the hospital, she hadn’t seen her grandmother in what seemed like forever. She looked smaller than she remembered. And older.
So what was she doing here now? Was this curiosity? Voyeurism? Some misplaced sense of needing to take care of Laura after all these years? Was that what she had waiting for her in the future—a life so messed up, her mother might finally take an interest in it?
Her grandmother stepped in and made a face, and she could see the woman making an effort to not cover her nose.
“It’s trash,” her father mumbled, leading the way into the living room and reaching over to snap on the light. “I guess she stopped paying the bill. There’s loads of it stacked in the garage too. As bad as it is in here, it smells even worse in there.”
The grandmother looked dazed, following him at a gait that didn’t seem entirely even.
“Besides, there are dishes. Piled up to my chest. Stuff caked on them for weeks. I don’t know what . . . Usually Bailey is really good at doing those,” her father added.
Usually Bailey is really good at doing everything,
she wanted to correct him.
If Bailey doesn’t do it, usually it doesn’t get done.
“I had no idea,” the grandmother said. “I wouldn’t have guessed Laura would let her house go like this.”
Trust me, Sober Laura wouldn’t,
Bailey wanted to cry.
Sober Laura would die if she knew there was somebody in this disgusting house right now. But Sober Laura left the building a long time ago. Gosh, could it have been the night that Ghost Curt suddenly discovered he wanted nothing to do with this life anymore? Why, yes, yes, I think it was.
And would that also be the night that they had the not-so-sober knock-down-drag-out about who
had
to take Bailey in this mess?
Why, yes. It was that night too.
Her eyes burned and she blinked hard, savoring the pain beneath her eyelids as they moistened her eyes.
“So let me
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