Midnight Valentine(83)

25





One of the side effects of the drug that Dr. Singer prescribed me is nausea. Severe nausea, the rolling, violent kind like seasickness, only worse because it never goes away. Paired with ringing in my ears and a disturbing sensation of dizziness, the medication renders me useless.

After six days of puking my guts out and stumbling around in a fog, I flush the rest of the pills down the toilet. I call Dr. Singer to get a different prescription and am told by his secretary that he’s gone on vacation and won’t be back for two weeks.

So much for him being available for me to talk to anytime.

Dr. Anders doesn’t have a spot open for another few days, so in the interim, my leaking mental dinghy is adrift in shark-infested waters.

I know I’m unwell. I’m dangerously obsessed with Theo, and his continued absence only makes it worse. I drive by his house at all hours, hoping he’ll be there, but he never is. I take a trip out to Melville and find the facility he checked himself into, then sit in the car and stare at the building until a security guard approaches warily, wanting to know what I’m doing.

I tell him I don’t know, because I honestly don’t.

I write email after email to Theo, none of them sent. I save them in the drafts folder, unwilling to delete them, as if somehow that might make things worse.

All the while, Coop and his workers are busy transforming the Buttercup from ugly duckling into beautiful swan, using Theo’s plans as their guide.

The master bedroom—a spectacular suite that makes me swoon, it’s so gorgeous—is finished in record-setting time. The roof and plaster repair work are coming along at a remarkable clip. Every day, I’m amazed by the progress, and if I hear a familiar footstep downstairs in the middle of the night, I know it’s only my mind playing tricks on me, because Theo never appears.

Then, on Halloween, he finally does.



* * *

“It’s a Halloween party, Megan. That means you’re supposed to wear a costume, not the clothes you wear every other day of the week!”

Suzanne has her hands propped on her hips. She’s looking me up and down with an expression of disgust. It’s Tuesday night, I’ve just arrived at her house, and we’re supposed to be on our way to Booger’s for their annual Spooktacular event, but I’m not sure Suzanne is going to let me out of her house without donning some ridiculous getup like the one she’s wearing.

“I refuse to be seen in public looking like a roll of toilet paper, Suzanne.”

Aghast, she looks down at herself. “I’m a mystical mummy!”

“Mystical? That explains all the glitter in your cleavage.”

“Seriously, I can’t let you out like that.” She waves a hand at my jeans and Bowie T-shirt, grimacing like I’m the one with the tragic fashion sense.

“Let’s tell people I’m a roadie. If you have a portable amp handy, I could carry that as a prop.”

Her eye roll is exaggerated. “Oh, right. Let me go grab my portable amp, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“It could be underneath that wig.”

The blonde bouffant wig perched on her head is as big as a ten-gallon cowboy hat and decorated with shredded bits of the same white gauze she’s wrapped around her body. The gauze is supposed to resemble the linen bandages used to dress mummies, but the overall effect is that Suzanne recently suffered an unfortunate accident at a toilet paper factory.

“Don’t you diss my wig. This thing cost a fortune!” She pats the towering wall of synthetic fiber, making it jiggle. Then her eyes go round, and she shouts, “Oh!”

With that, she runs down the hallway toward her bedroom, trailing bits of gauze in her wake.

I look at De Niro, Pacino, and Stallone, lounging on the sofa and regarding me with catlike disdain. “Don’t worry, boys. Mommy’s the normal one here.”

In moments, Suzanne reappears from her bedroom holding a wig so purple, it glows. She tosses it at me, forcing me to catch it. “Put that on.”

I curl my lip. “This color doesn’t occur in nature.”

“I’ll tell you what else doesn’t occur in nature—these shoes!” She sticks out a leg, clad in a six-inch spike-heel sandal with leather straps that crisscross the length of her calf from ankle to knee. The shoes are meant to look Egyptian, but they bear a striking resemblance to dominatrix wear. Mistress Charmin the mystical mummy.

“So wear flats,” I suggest, making her retch.

“Flats! Ha! The day I wear flats is the day I’ve given up all hope of attracting a man!”

“Speaking of men,” I say, aiming for a casual tone, “do you think Coop will be at Booger’s tonight?”