actual feelings for Mickey Rhodale.
• • •
I waited until Melinda turned off the shower to start my interrogation.
“How did you manage to get wasted when you stayed home sick from school?”
“I had a few pills left in one of my purses. The black sequined one,” she admitted, opening the shower door.
I shook my head and handed her a towel, watching to make sure she didn’t slip and fall. She’d done it before and had a small scar on her right temple. Showering while stoned wasn’t a good idea.
Melinda had the same blond hair and green eyes as me and Mom, but while the combination looked stern and patrician on Mom, and not bad but fairly ordinary on me, on Melinda it looked ethereal, like she was an elf or a fairy changeling. Whenever I caught her watching the rest of us with a faintly confused expression, as if she didn’t understand how she’d ended up in such a difficult family, it only enhanced the impression.
She dried off and started to get dressed, and I finally felt like she was steady enough to manage on her own, so I left the bathroom and headed for the chair next to her window. I had to move a pile of clean, folded laundry to the floor before I could sit on it. Melinda loved to fold laundry—sometimes she’d come into my room and fold all of mine, chattering away—but she never, ever put it away, so her room usually looked like a garage sale about to happen.
Not that a Whitfield would ever have a garage sale.
“You promised me no more pills,” I said, knowing I was wasting my breath but unable to stop myself. Melinda’s addiction was the carnival ride from hell; the rest of us whirled around and around, repeating our terrified reactions while never getting anywhere.
“What? You want me to take up meth, rural Kentucky’s drug of choice? That stuff ’s poison, baby sister. One straight shot to selling my skanky, unwashed, toothless body on a street corner.” Her voice was full of contempt, which struck me as unjustified.
Or perhaps there were class distinctions even among junkies.
“No,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “That was not a multiple-choice question: it isn’t check one for pills, two for alcohol, or three for meth. I want you to stop all of this stuff before you kill yourself.”
“I don’t know how to get through the day without something to make my brain shut down. I can’t quit thinking about Caleb,” she said, shivering in her oversized sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
I couldn’t figure out how to fix this for her, so I took refuge in practicalities. “Dry your hair, Melinda, you’re going to freeze. You’re dripping all over the place.
She toweled off her hair and then climbed into her bed and pulled a quilt around her shoulders, every slow, halting movement projecting misery and guilt, while I tried to think of what to say.
“Okay, first, it’s all right to be sad,” I began, but she violently shook her head.
“Not according to Mom. ‘You barely knew that boy. We’ve had enough of your moaning and whining about him.’” She captured Mom’s haughty impatience perfectly, and I had to fight back the urge to smile at the impersonation.
Instead, I tossed a stuffed dog that had been wedged in the corner of the chair at her.
“Since when do we ever use Mom as a barometer of emotional health? When Heather’s Angel had such a hard time foaling, she told me ‘horses die all the time, Victoria, deal with it.’”
Melinda shuddered. “She didn’t!”
“Yes, she totally did, and I was only around Buddy’s age,” I said, getting angry all over again just thinking about it. “But that’s not the point, here. You cared about Caleb, and now he’s gone. There’d be something wrong with you if you didn’t feel bad.”
“Especially since I killed him,” she said darkly.
“No. You didn’t. He decided to go. Nobody twisted his arm. You haven’t had time to figure out the drug scene around here,
• • •
I waited until Melinda turned off the shower to start my interrogation.
“How did you manage to get wasted when you stayed home sick from school?”
“I had a few pills left in one of my purses. The black sequined one,” she admitted, opening the shower door.
I shook my head and handed her a towel, watching to make sure she didn’t slip and fall. She’d done it before and had a small scar on her right temple. Showering while stoned wasn’t a good idea.
Melinda had the same blond hair and green eyes as me and Mom, but while the combination looked stern and patrician on Mom, and not bad but fairly ordinary on me, on Melinda it looked ethereal, like she was an elf or a fairy changeling. Whenever I caught her watching the rest of us with a faintly confused expression, as if she didn’t understand how she’d ended up in such a difficult family, it only enhanced the impression.
She dried off and started to get dressed, and I finally felt like she was steady enough to manage on her own, so I left the bathroom and headed for the chair next to her window. I had to move a pile of clean, folded laundry to the floor before I could sit on it. Melinda loved to fold laundry—sometimes she’d come into my room and fold all of mine, chattering away—but she never, ever put it away, so her room usually looked like a garage sale about to happen.
Not that a Whitfield would ever have a garage sale.
“You promised me no more pills,” I said, knowing I was wasting my breath but unable to stop myself. Melinda’s addiction was the carnival ride from hell; the rest of us whirled around and around, repeating our terrified reactions while never getting anywhere.
“What? You want me to take up meth, rural Kentucky’s drug of choice? That stuff ’s poison, baby sister. One straight shot to selling my skanky, unwashed, toothless body on a street corner.” Her voice was full of contempt, which struck me as unjustified.
Or perhaps there were class distinctions even among junkies.
“No,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “That was not a multiple-choice question: it isn’t check one for pills, two for alcohol, or three for meth. I want you to stop all of this stuff before you kill yourself.”
“I don’t know how to get through the day without something to make my brain shut down. I can’t quit thinking about Caleb,” she said, shivering in her oversized sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
I couldn’t figure out how to fix this for her, so I took refuge in practicalities. “Dry your hair, Melinda, you’re going to freeze. You’re dripping all over the place.
She toweled off her hair and then climbed into her bed and pulled a quilt around her shoulders, every slow, halting movement projecting misery and guilt, while I tried to think of what to say.
“Okay, first, it’s all right to be sad,” I began, but she violently shook her head.
“Not according to Mom. ‘You barely knew that boy. We’ve had enough of your moaning and whining about him.’” She captured Mom’s haughty impatience perfectly, and I had to fight back the urge to smile at the impersonation.
Instead, I tossed a stuffed dog that had been wedged in the corner of the chair at her.
“Since when do we ever use Mom as a barometer of emotional health? When Heather’s Angel had such a hard time foaling, she told me ‘horses die all the time, Victoria, deal with it.’”
Melinda shuddered. “She didn’t!”
“Yes, she totally did, and I was only around Buddy’s age,” I said, getting angry all over again just thinking about it. “But that’s not the point, here. You cared about Caleb, and now he’s gone. There’d be something wrong with you if you didn’t feel bad.”
“Especially since I killed him,” she said darkly.
“No. You didn’t. He decided to go. Nobody twisted his arm. You haven’t had time to figure out the drug scene around here,
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