I cry at funerals.
I cry at awards ceremonies and I cried when I met all four of my nieces and nephews the first time.
Crying has never been something I’m ashamed of, but now—now, it makes me feel that much more broken.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you went viral,” I sob on her shoulder.
She squeezes me tighter. “We barely knew each other. Oh, honey. Let it all out. You’re safe here. What can we get you? Breakfast? Do you need clothes? Heath will get the bathroom fixed up for you in the mother-in-law house so you can have as much privacy as you want, but you’re also welcome here in the main house whenever you want to be here. Day or night. Anytime.”
“This is a pick-your-own-path recovery center,” Mabel agrees beside us. “Kitchen’s always open. Explore the buildings if you want. We’ll get you a map with the property boundaries. Only rules are that we show everyone kindness and respect, don’t enter anyone’s bedroom without permission—sorry again about the mix-up with Heath, completely my fault, won’t happen again—and the grapevines are off-limits. You can look, walk through, but please don’t touch. Beyond that, do what you need to, where you need to.”
“Can I—” I start, then have to gulp hard to swallow back another sob. “Can I rinse my hair in the sink?”
“Absolutely,” Mabel says like the question isn’t weird at all. Normal people rinse their hair in the shower. “Were you on shampoo? Do you need conditioner?”
“I—yes. Conditioner would be amazing.”
“Brand preference? Can’t guarantee we have it, but we all use something different.”
“No. No preference. Thank you.”
“What we’re here for. And I’ll get you a fresh towel.”
So this is what Ginny meant when she said Mabel’s the best kind of big sister.
The kind of big sister that has been in short supply most of my life.
Both of them, actually.
Women who don’t blink when you walk into the house in a robe that’s almost too small, with soapy hair, and after punching the general contractor who also lives here.
If I were at my parents’ house in these circumstances, I’d be drowning in shame.
But right now, I feel welcomed and understood.
I swallow the urge to start crying again.
“I’ll finish up the dishes and clean it out for you.” Ginny gives me one last hard squeeze, then lets me go. “Lav, you headed to summer camp today?”
The little girl meows and shakes her head.
“She’s joining us for the day,” Mabel says.
Ginny squats down to Lavender’s level. “How delightful. Want to squirt cleaner in the sink?”
“Meow meow meow!”
Ginny points me to a bathroom off the kitchen where I do a fast change into fresh clothes—Mabel grabbed some for me from my suitcase in the closet in the mother-in-law quarters—and then I get my hair rinsed and conditioned in the kitchen sink.
When I’m done, I straighten and find a nearly nude old woman watching me from the dark wood-trimmed doorway that leads back to the hall of pictures.
I barely stifle a scream.
She grins, her face breaking into a sea of wrinkles, her saggy naked boobs perking up a little. I think she’s wearing underwear, but I’m honestly trying not to look.
She straightens the pearls around her neck, then touches her short silver hair. “People shouldn’t be such prudes. If you want one of those cinnamon rolls, better get it now.”
I’m trying very hard to keep my eyes trained on her face, but it’s impossible to not notice that one of her sagging breasts has a smattering of scar tissue where her nipple would otherwise be.
