The Girl Who Stopped Swimming - By Joshilyn Jackson Page 0,86
one to come in, larger than life, and save Thalia. Thalia, born larger than life, had stepped up and saved herself.
“I don’t blame you,” Laurel went on. “But you’re not rescuing me from anything here. I’m not you, Thalia. I never wanted to be, and you’re blowing holes in everything I love.” Laurel looked at Thalia for a long time. Again, it was Thalia who backed up a step, Thalia’s eyes that dropped first.
“Pack,” Laurel said. “I’ll take you down to Hertz and rent you a car so you can get home.”
“We’re really done here, huh?” Thalia said. “Bet Clemmens gave you the goods?”
“Yes,” said Laurel. “We are.”
She was all the way across the room, in the doorway, when Thalia said her name. Her real name.
“Laurel?” Thalia said. “You and me, are we square?”
“No,” Laurel said as kindly as she could. “I meant we’re really done.”
She closed the door behind her almost gingerly. The guest room door was still shut, too. Behind it, her sleeping child was lost, not even a trail of bread crumbs to lead her home again. Laurel would have to go and find Shelby, but she had to find a way to David first.
David must have heard her coming, because he was pouring coffee into her favorite mug as she came down the stairs into the keeping room. She sat down on one of the bar stools and leaned her elbows on the counter. He put in milk and one Splenda, then set the cup in front of her. “Want some aspirin?” he asked.
“I took Motrin upstairs. Anyway, I don’t feel too bad,” she said. “I think I threw most of that rum up.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I think you threw most of your liver up.”
She had a sudden flash of memory. Last night David had come into the bathroom after her. She remembered a cool rag on the back of her neck, his hands holding her hair back. She flushed.
He was still in pajamas, although in deference to Bet and Thalia, he had found the top to the set and pulled it on. The bottoms had faded from dark royal blue to a muddy, pilled navy, but the top was bright, the cotton stiff, like new.
On the long counter by the sink, she saw her black vinyl camera bag. Her digital camera sat beside it, charged and ready.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
He picked it up and said, “Come and see.”
He went around the counter, and she got up and followed him. He ushered her through the keeping room to the foyer and then waved one long hand at the dining room.
There was a band of duct tape running like crime-scene ribbon across the doorway. In black Sharpie, David had written Do Not Sweep Do Not Sweep across the front of it in his spiky print. What Bet had said about him saving the chunks of things for Laurel made sudden, glorious sense.
The shattered dishes lay where she had hurled them, the shards of china and crystal glowing in spectacular circular patterns, like fireworks going off against the dark hardwood floor. A couple of the plates had broken into diffused round shapes; she could see how each had once been something whole. The crystal dust of wineglasses caught the sunlight coming through the windows, so the chaos had a hard white glow.
She reached for the camera and found David already extending it to her, trading it for her coffee cup. She ducked under the tape, stepping onto the carpet runner Thalia had unfurled. Laurel took several shots of the plate that had broken most perfectly; then she took other shots, more patterns emerging as she spun on the carpet and framed pieces with the lens. She dropped to her knees to get some close shots.
She could see one quilt already, a big one. It would be a banquet table, people sitting down to eat, but the quilt would cut off just above their shoulders. No human heads, no faces. The fruit and meat would be on the green grass, dumped down for some happy dogs. The diners would each have a cunning silver knife or a set of tile nippers. Their plates would be in shatter patterns before them, and they’d be lifting up spoonfuls of glass to their unseen mouths.
She’d have to use a lot of sturdy fabrics to support the weight of the china. Upholstery fabric, maybe, but for the detail work, she’d need glossy things, raw silk and polished cotton, and a print