A thud sounds in the kitchen, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass. We both jump to our feet.
“Miss Margaret!” Quinn’s eyes are wide and alarmed.
I race to the kitchen to find the elderly woman lying on the floor, facedown, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Shards of glass glisten near her right hand. A step stool stands in front of an open upper cabinet.
“Oh, my God!” Quinn gasps.
I kneel on the hardwood floor beside the too-still woman and check for a pulse. I can’t find one. “We need to turn her over to see if she’s breathing.”
Quinn holds Miss Margaret’s head as I carefully flip her over. Her face is white, her lips grayish blue. She looks completely lifeless.
“Call nine-one-one,” I say. “I’ll start CPR.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jessica
THE DAY AFTERI jeopardize my marriage, I wake up in my childhood bedroom in a suburb of Seattle. What is it about being back in your parents’ house that makes you feel like you’re thirteen years old again? In my case, it might be because the room is a time capsule.
I turn my gaze from the frilly dotted swiss curtains to the faux French-provincial vanity. Jeez, the room could be rented out as a vintage movie set. Everything in it, from the floral border on the wall to the matching curtains and matching sheets, is dusky blue and dusty rose—color-challenged pastels that always look dirty, grayed over like a foggy day, or both. Not the best decor choice for a cloudy climate, but I suppose it was the very height of chic in the eighties.
It doesn’t help that my mother has kept the room as a shrine to my school-age triumphs. There on the white dresser is the horseback-riding trophy I won when I was eight, as well as the trophies my piano teacher gave me for being her most prepared student. The spelling bee award I won in sixth grade hangs on the wall, next to honor roll certificates, National Honor Society plaques, and awards for junior and senior high math competitions. On the far wall are homecoming, prom, sorority, and graduation photos.
I sit up and push my hair from my eyes. My little sister, Erin, swears I deliberately tried to make her look bad by being the perfect daughter. I wasn’t perfect, of course, but I sure tried my hardest to be. I still do. Back then, it seemed to be what my parentsexpected, and I never wanted to disappoint them. Now I don’t want to disappoint myself. I’ve read this is a trait shared by many eldest children.
I’ve got another eldest-child trait that no one, my sister included, really knows about: no matter how well I do, I always secretly feel like I’m not good enough.
My gaze scans the framed photos on top of the dresser and zooms in on a shot of Zack and me at our wedding. Guilt grabs me like something from a nature documentary—hawk talons around a rabbit, maybe. I reach for my phone, hoping to see a message from Zack. Nothing.
Good morning from Seattle, I text.I am so, so sorry about everything. I love you and want to talk.
Zack is usually very prompt about replying when he’s not tied up in meetings. I get up and take a quick shower in the Jack and Jill bathroom that adjoins my room with my sister’s. By the time I’ve dried off, done my hair, and put on a little makeup, he’s sent a text:
Glad you made it there safely. Not ready to talk yet. I’ll call later.
Anxiety digs another claw into my stomach. It’s not exactly the warm fuzzies I was hoping for, but at least he responded. Maybe he’s not ready to talk because he’s busy.
Or maybe he’s still mad.
I throw on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a scarf, and a long sweater, then head downstairs in search of caffeine. My mom is in the kitchen, which is covered in fruit-themed wallpaper. My sister, Erin, is there, too. She and her husband live a few streets over with their two children, now aged eleven and fourteen.
“Good morning, Jessica,” Mom says brightly. “My, don’t you look lovely!”
I know I don’t. Between the long late flight and the fight with Zack, I didn’t sleep much last night. There’s not enough under-eye cover cream in the whole state to hide my dark circles, but Mom will always find something nice to say.
“Thanks, Mom.” I drop a kiss on her head as she hugs me.
My sister, Erin, harbors no such compunction. She also hugs me, then holds me at arm’s length, and eyes me up and down. “Actually, you look like hell.”
“Now be nice, Erin. She had a long flight and a horrible headache last night.” That was the excuse I gave Mom and Dad to avoid having to act perky and make pleasant conversation when they picked me up at the airport. Mom’s eyes are concerned. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better,” I say.
“Well, good,” Erin says, “because we’re meeting Brett Ross at Starbucks in ten minutes.”
“Who’s Brett Ross?” Mom asks.
“The Realtor Erin lined me up with,” I say. “I went to high school with him and now he’s one of the biggest real estate agents in Seattle.”
