Page 68 of Full Circle

Marla came by, too, giving me updates on the regulars at The Comfy Cushion. While I was surprised she stayed on now that the restaurant technically belonged to Desiree, I knew Marla didn’t want to leave her best friend’s life’s work in the hands of a jealous rival. I wished I had the heart to thank Marla for all the sacrifices she had always made for my family—for me—but I couldn’t do it. Misery was too potent as company.

Now, seven weeks after my daddy’s death and The Last Day, as my mind had come to call Wesley’s abrupt departure, Marla and Desiree both came into the bedroom, presenting a united front I had never seen before. While Marla’s face was kind and full of concern, Desiree’s was full of poison. Her makeup was still flawless and her dress still molded to her body in a way that should have been considered improper. How could I have changed so much and she so little?

“Celeste, honey,” Marla whispered carefully as she edged onto the bed beside me, “we need to do something. You’ve gotta get out of this bed.”

Unbidden, tears started sliding down my nose. I made no move to wipe them away. What did it matter anyway?

“We mean it, Celeste!” Desiree barked. She crossed her arms over her chest.

Marla frowned at her tone, but didn’t say anything to contradict her. “Honey, when’s the last time you showered?”

Two full minutes passed before Marla sighed and said, “Fine, then I guess we’ll do this the hard way.” She abruptly grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and yanked it upwards, pulling it over my head.

“HEY!” I shot out of bed, using the t-shirt to cover my chest. “It’s none of your business, Marla!”

She stood up, clashing her hands into fists that rested on her hips. It was normally the position that made me quiver because I knew it meant I was in for a real scolding. Now I couldn’t even muster up the energy to care.

“You will shower and you will eat a plate full of food or so help me, I will have you committed to the hospital!” Marla demanded.

I snorted. “You can’t do that!”

Desiree stepped up shoulder to shoulder with Marla. “But I can. You live under my roof and are in my care, and this unseemly behavior ends today.”

The entire exchange already deflated me. It was more effort than I had expended in months.

Sinking back onto the mattress, I couldn’t look at them as I admitted, “There’s no reason for me to shower. I just want to be left alone.”

“Well that’s just too damn bad,” Marla tutted. “Get in the shower and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

As if to prove her point, she went into the bathroom and turned the water on. The bathmat made a smacking sound as she threw it on the floor.

“Celeste…?” Marla’s voice suddenly went higher, cresting like it was on the verge of breaking. She came out of the bathroom holding the small garbage can from under the sink. “Have you been emptying the trash?”

I snorted again, bending down to root around in the backpack I had carelessly tossed under the bed and find clean clothes. “Of course not. Why?”

The strange octave remained. “Why aren’t there any pads or tampons in the trash?”

What?

My mind finally caught up with Marla’s, making me gasp and drop the socks I had been holding. Desiree’s eyebrows rose to meet her hairline, and she brushed past Marla to enter the bathroom, throwing open the two drawers and solitary cabinet under the sink as if she needed to see the evidence for herself.

“There aren’t any tampons in this bathroom!” she screeched. “What have you been using?”

I stared at them both in dumbstruck horror. The realization was too frightening and overwhelming to put into words. My mouth went dry as my heart pounded an unfamiliar rhythm to the panic coursing through my veins.

“Desiree,” Marla whispered, equally as astonished as me, “I’m gonna run out to the store and grab us a pregnancy test.”

Trouble came in three’s? Seemed like I had the worst triple threat of them all.

PART TWO

“Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.”

-Marianne Williamson

CHAPTER 30

TICKETS TO THE STRUGGLE BUS AIN’T CHEAP

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