Beneath the Surface(59)

Kristin sipped from the scalding hot coffee while she listened to Sheryl’s breathing. She put down her cup, took off Sheryl’s shoes, negotiated her out of her jacket, and pushed her down until she looked like she was in a somewhat comfortable position. Kristin propped a cushion beneath her neck and draped the blanket she’d been watching television under, while waiting for Sheryl to come home, over her.

She bent down, kissed her on the cheek, braving the toxic smell of alcohol on her breath, and said, “I love you.”

Sheryl just kept on snoring.

Kristin looked at Sheryl for a few minutes before finding her phone and texting Martha: What state was Sheryl in when she left?

She erased the message before she could press send. None of this was Martha’s fault.



Sheryl woke with the familiar torrent of shame and disgust racing through her. Her body felt like she’d taken a severe beating the night before. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. A cup of steaming coffee stood right in her line of sight. She glanced upward a bit more and looked into Kristin’s face.

“I called your office,” Kristin said. “Told them you were too ill to even pick up the phone yourself and let them know you wouldn’t be in today.”

“What time is it?” Sheryl swung her legs out too quickly and a dizzy spell overtook her.

“Nine.” Kristin didn’t look too pleased.

Sheryl tried to remember if she had said anything when she’d come home last night that would have put Kristin in this mood. Then she concluded that it probably wasn’t so much about last night, but all the previous nights combined.

“Whether you want to or not, today you and I are going to talk.” Kristin used the tone of voice she reserved for very special, solemn occasions. The one that didn’t tolerate any backtalk.

Sheryl could only nod. She needed a shower and a triple dose of Ibuprofen. She made do with the coffee for now.

“This has to stop, Sheryl. I barely recognize you.” The earlier solemn note in Kristin’s voice had made way for raw concern.

“I know.” Sheryl’s voice sounded as though she had smoked an entire sleeve of cigarettes the night before. “I’m sorry.”

“I went to see your father yesterday,” Kristin said, her voice loud and clear.

Sheryl had heard what she’d said perfectly, but had trouble absorbing the statement. “You did what?”

“I called him and went to his house.” She studied her nails, then looked back up at Sheryl.

“Behind my back?” Sheryl’s pounding headache made way for panic. Kristin must have gone through her desk drawers to find the number. She must have found the bottle of vodka. Why hadn’t she stashed it somewhere more original? Behind a couple of books on the shelf.

“You’re falling apart, babe.” Nothing but worry in Kristin’s voice. “I felt I—I needed to do something, even if that included going behind your back.”

“You went through my stuff.” Sheryl tried to push herself out of the sofa, but her legs didn’t cooperate. Kristin was clever, cornering her upon waking.

“For which I apologize, but I’d seen you put away the piece of paper with his number on it. I knew where to look.”

Perhaps Kristin hadn’t found the bottle. Sheryl didn’t know why establishing this fact was so important to her, but it was. Having Kristin happen upon a hidden bottle like that would be too humiliating, too much hard evidence of what was going on—evidence of Sheryl’s failure and how she was dealing with her past.

“You should have talked to me first.” Sheryl made circular motions with her fingers around her temples.

“I know, but you made that impossible. You shut down completely after he came here.” Kristin rose from her seat and sat next to her. “I didn’t do it to hurt you, on the contrary. But I couldn’t sit on the sidelines any longer, watching you destroy yourself.”

A phone started ringing close by, its shrill sound making Sheryl jump. They both looked around.

“It’s yours,” Kristin said. She reached over to the other end of the sofa and fished it out of Sheryl’s jacket pocket.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” Sheryl waved it off.

“It’s Martha.” Kristin handed her the phone.

“I’ll talk to her later.” Sheryl dismissed the call. She tried to remember what she had told Martha last night. Had she broken down in The Flying Pig? And how on earth had she gotten home?

“I have a bone to pick with her,” Kristin said. “The state you were in last night.” There was an edge to Kristin’s tone.

They both took a breath, Sheryl’s long and deep and shuddering.