guilty? “You’re welcome to sleep on my porch or take the couch opposite Katie. Do what you wish. I’m going to my room.”
And I do just that, feeling worn out and unwelcome and totally worthless.
Rule 6
Whispers in the library can still be heard.
[Jess]
I’m a little unfocused as I stand in the children’s department of the public library. Once the home of a founding family to Elk Lake City, it was willed to the town for use as a library and sits on top of a hill with a perfect view of Lake Michigan. The enclosed front porch is the fiction section, and I’d much prefer to take a seat in one of the rocking chairs than stand here next to the shelves, holding myself up.
I’ve been puzzled over the function of Mrs. Parrish’s radio—how to restore it so it makes music again. Emily mentioned its malfunction when she brought it in last Friday, and I want to make it sing once more. For Elizabeth, I tell myself. The old lady deserves to hear her big band sounds once more on that thing. But I’m stumped over the radio, just as I’m stumped over her granddaughter.
I can’t seem to get Emily off my mind despite the fact I’d told her to stay away from us. She hasn’t called about the kitchen sink nor has she been in to discuss the radio’s progress. Of course, I assume she has bigger things to worry about, like her nana’s health. I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth has Alzheimer’s. Since my mother is a nurse, I’d asked her about it.
“How would you know if someone had Alzheimer’s?”
“Usually, there are early warning signs like memory loss or misplacing items and issues in problem-solving.” My mother’s head tilted. “Why, baby?”
I’m thirty-six, and she still calls me baby.
“I think Mrs. Parrish has it.”
My mother looked at me quizzically, knowing I’m no doctor.
“Her granddaughter’s in town, taking care of her.” Is that what Emily’s doing? Is she taking care of her or taking care of things? Cleaning house with plans to move Elizabeth out?
“I heard that,” my mother said. A slow smile curls her lips as though she knows a secret. It’s a small town, and news travels fast. A new resident of sorts would be the kind of thing people took notice of, and it’s hard to miss Emily.
And Emily’s been avoiding me for days.
Well, you asked her to stay away, I remind myself. My head taps against the bookshelf at my back, and that’s when I see her slipping down to the nonfiction section on the lower level. I tell Katie I’ll be right back, knowing she’s safe enough with the librarian reading aloud for summer story hour. For some reason, I look over my shoulder, making sure no one sees me as I take the steps two at a time, but I can’t find Emily.
What the heck? The shelves are all chest height, so it’s easy enough to see anyone standing down here. I walk past one aisle and then another until my view is filled with a firm, fine ass in the air.
Hmm . . .
And then, shit. I shouldn’t be checking out the long legs extending out from her loose running shorts or the way her shirt hangs off her and reveals her stomach as the material slips forward in her odd position.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask, and Emily whips her head upward, narrowly missing the shelf. A scattering of pamphlets litters the floor, but Emily holds a book in her hand.
Can she go anywhere without making a mess?
“Jess, have you ever considered some sort of assistive communication for Katie?”
What the hell? Without waiting for an answer, she plows on.
“This could be it,” she states excitedly and looks down at the book like she’s found the answer to all the unanswerable questions. “Jess, this is it.”
My heart leaps—as well as another body part—with the enthusiastic way she says my name. The smile on her rosy cheeks also does something to me, and I’m quickly at full mast.
I need to get laid, I groan internally, knowing the woman before me has unwittingly provided several nights of fantasy.
But then I consider what she asked. Have I considered some assistive communication for my daughter?
“Jess, this could be the answer,” she repeats, holding up the book so I can read the title.
Sign Language: The Art of Communication.
What the fuck?
“No,” I blurt. “I don’t know sign language, and my daughter doesn’t need it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at