“And I have party favors,” Joan added. From her purse she pulled a plastic bag filled with homemade pink gummies. “Congratulations to us.”
“Congratulations tous,” Trixie corrected, and gingerly extracted one of the gummies Joan offered.
And so the party began. For Edie, it felt more than just relief that Irene had not been caught. It felt like they were celebrating a marriage, but also a friendship. And freedom. And age. This party had all the feel of a swan song—four women, molded by circumstance and trauma, together again after all these years, for one last time around the block for old times’ sake. She was probably being overly sentimental, which would surprise no one, seeing as how she was drunkandhigh. (What had happened to her? She hadn’t gone near any substance foryearsand suddenly she was high every night.) But she didn’t realize just how drunk until she allowed Trojan to pull her onstage to dance with him. Oh, but Edie danced.
She danced like she was in her twenties again, with no thoughtof yesterday or tomorrow. She danced with love and joy exploding in her when Joan and Irene joined her onstage. And then Marcy with Trixie Bish. And there was Frances, her feet propped on the edge of the stage, smiling as if she was watching her children.
It was weird, ending up in this dive bar, drunk and high and old all at the same time. Wearing sensible shoes and elastic, no less! She was so far removed from the life she’d curated. So far removed from the woman she’d forced herself to become. Tonight, she was the Edith Smith she’d been in the beginning.
It was one of the best nights of Edie’s life.
It was perfect.
Thirty-one
Frances vomited first thing the next morning. She was not hungover; she’d had only one shot last night. But the pain in her head was fire.
Fortunately, none of the other revelers was stirring, so she sat on the cold bathroom floor and called Amani. After she’d said hello and asked after Amani’s day, she said, “Umm … so listen. I need more medicine. A bigger dose of the steroids.”
“Mmm,” Amani said, and even in that, she sounded disapproving. Frances could hear the clicking of computer keys on the other end. “May I ask about your symptoms?” She proceeded to rattle off a list for Frances to respond to. Headaches? Pain? Nausea? Blurred vision? Loss of hearing, sight, feeling? Fatigue? Slurred speech? Trouble speaking?
Frances had always been an over-sharer in doctors’ offices, but today, she lied about her symptoms. She feared Amani wouldn’t give her what she wanted if she were entirely truthful, because something wasn’t right. She knew it; Amani knew it. But Frances did not want a death nurse telling her to slow down, or come home, or go to an emergency room. At least not until she’d finished this last trip. “Some pain,” she said, although shewas hanging her head over the toilet because the pain was so bad. “Some nausea. But I’m sleeping okay.” She did not add that all she wanted to do was sleep.
“I’d like to see you,” Amani said. “I’m here to help, and there might be something I can give you to alleviate symptoms. But I can’t do it without an exam.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. I’m out of town. I just need a few more days,” Frances pleaded. “Then I’ll come in. I promise. You can examine me up and down the street then.”
There was silence on the other end. Too much silence. But at last, Amani spoke. “I can call in some scrips for now. But I really need to see you, Mrs. Deluca.”
“I know, I know,” Frances said. The panic she was feeling was spilling into her voice, she could hear it. “Amani … please let me have this. I’m with some old friends, and it’s the last time I’ll get to see them. I just … I just want to be present for the few days we have left.”
There was another long pause on Amani’s end. “I’ll call the scrips in, but I need an appointment on the books.”
Frances closed her eyes and swallowed down her panic. “Absolutely. Next Friday, how’s that?”
“A little further out than I am comfortable with, but okay. Nine o’clock, my office.”
“I’ll be there.” She gave Amani the number of the closest pharmacy.
When she was feeling somewhat better, Frances came out of the bathroom. Marcy was outside, waiting her turn. She yawned. “Next time I hope we get a place with at least two bathrooms.”
“Next time?” Frances snorted. “There won’t be a next time.”
“Never say never. According to Irene, that’s what you said forty-something years ago.” Marcy brushed past Frances and went into the bathroom.
Tea. She needed tea. Frances went into the kitchen and rummaged around until she found some tea bags. When Marcy cameout of the bathroom, she joined Frances. She sat at the kitchen table with her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. Her long dark hair fell over half her face as she watched Frances try to choke down some yogurt. “You don’t look so hot,” she observed.
“Thank you,” Frances said. “Always what I like to hear first thing after a night of partying. It’s been a long time since that happened.”
“How long?” Marcy asked curiously.
“I don’t know, let me think. Thirty years?” She was thinking of her fortieth birthday. Nick had surprised her with a trip to Greece. A smile spread across her face. She could picture the two of them dancing on a balcony. They’d been so young andalive.And so in love.
Also, so damn drunk. She chuckled to herself.
“I wish I’d known you then,” Marcy said. “I was watching Nana last night. You know, when she got up onstage and danced with Trojan?”
Frances laughed. “If you could call it that.” Edie had been so drunk, her melodious laughter lifting above the noise in the crowd. But her movements were out of sync with the music. Just like she used to do years ago, Edie had thrown abandon to the wind, allowing the spirit of whatever she was doing to take her.
