forced and stiff. “I’m glad. You’ll be having this test tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ll be in to see you as soon as I get the results.”
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
Not that I can see. Not at all.” He stood. “You were serious about that soup?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds delicious.”
“I’ll see that you get it.” He walked around the bed toward the door, then stopped and turned to Margaret. Speaking distractedly, as if his mind were elsewhere, he said, “Nice to meet you. I’d like to get together for a talk tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”
“That’ll be fine,” Margaret said.
He left smiling, but with a puzzled frown.
“Well, I wonder what that was all about,” Lynda said, rubbing her palms together absently, energetically.
“Maybe it’s something good,” Margaret said, feeling that swelling in her chest again.
“Maybe, who knows? So, anymore good movies on?”
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What’s that?”
Margaret looked out the window to see that the sky was darkening, the day ending.
“We’ll find a good movie,” Margaret said, “then we’ll hold hands some more.”
Lynda frowned at her. “What is it with you and holding — ”
“I told you. No questions. Agreed?”
Lynda sighed and shook her head, smiling. “Agreed.”
They found a movie. And then they held hands . . .
11
The next morning, Margaret took an invigorating and tinglingly hot shower in her motel room, then scrubbed herself dry with the motel’s cheap, thin towel. Standing naked before the fogged mirror over the sink, Margaret leaned forward and wiped her hand back and forth over the glass, wiping away the moisture. She glanced at her reflection . . . and then she froze. Her hand was frozen halfway to her toothbrush, her head down, her back suddenly rigid.
Margaret’s head turned slowly back to the mirror, to her reflection. She squinted at her face, leaning forward.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as she picked up her towel and swept it back and forth over the whole mirror, trying to clear it up. Bits of lint clung to the glass, but the reflection was much clearer than before.
She dropped the towel to the floor and slapped her palms onto the Formica on each side of the sink, leaning close to the mirror so she could inspect her face.
It was not her face. At least, that was how she felt initially. It might have been her face way back when . . . back when she was fat, if, of course, she hadn’t been fat. But it couldn’t possibly be her face now, could it? Today? At the age of forty-two? After regular trips to the plastic surgeon? After developing wrinkles and baggy patches before her time because of all those little operations meant to maintain her youth and beauty? She hadn’t looked this good yesterday evening in Lynda’s mirror . . . and she thought she’d looked pretty damned good then!
She began to laugh. She didn’t mean to, but the laughter came out of her independently. She was unable to control it. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
Lynda had been right.
Margaret would knock them dead at the reunion . . .
12
Margaret took three steps into Lynda’s hospital room with a paper bag clutched in her right hand before she stumbled to a clumsy halt.
Lynda’s bed was empty. It had been made neatly, as if the maid had just left . . . but it was empty.
“Oh, my God,” Margaret groaned. She rushed forward and tossed the bag onto the chair. “Lynda, oh my God!”
An ugly, phlegmy cough came from behind Mrs. Watkiss’s drape.
“She’s gone,” the old woman rasped.
Margaret went to the drape and pulled it back.
“Not dead, just gone,” Mrs. Watkiss said. “For tests, I heard ’em say. You should know better than anyone that she ain’t dead.”
Margaret stepped to the side of the bed and put her hands on the side rail.
Mrs. Watkiss was smiling up at her, and her bleary eyes looked happy.
“She’s better, ain’t she? A lot
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
Not that I can see. Not at all.” He stood. “You were serious about that soup?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds delicious.”
“I’ll see that you get it.” He walked around the bed toward the door, then stopped and turned to Margaret. Speaking distractedly, as if his mind were elsewhere, he said, “Nice to meet you. I’d like to get together for a talk tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”
“That’ll be fine,” Margaret said.
He left smiling, but with a puzzled frown.
“Well, I wonder what that was all about,” Lynda said, rubbing her palms together absently, energetically.
“Maybe it’s something good,” Margaret said, feeling that swelling in her chest again.
“Maybe, who knows? So, anymore good movies on?”
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What’s that?”
Margaret looked out the window to see that the sky was darkening, the day ending.
“We’ll find a good movie,” Margaret said, “then we’ll hold hands some more.”
Lynda frowned at her. “What is it with you and holding — ”
“I told you. No questions. Agreed?”
Lynda sighed and shook her head, smiling. “Agreed.”
They found a movie. And then they held hands . . .
11
The next morning, Margaret took an invigorating and tinglingly hot shower in her motel room, then scrubbed herself dry with the motel’s cheap, thin towel. Standing naked before the fogged mirror over the sink, Margaret leaned forward and wiped her hand back and forth over the glass, wiping away the moisture. She glanced at her reflection . . . and then she froze. Her hand was frozen halfway to her toothbrush, her head down, her back suddenly rigid.
Margaret’s head turned slowly back to the mirror, to her reflection. She squinted at her face, leaning forward.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as she picked up her towel and swept it back and forth over the whole mirror, trying to clear it up. Bits of lint clung to the glass, but the reflection was much clearer than before.
She dropped the towel to the floor and slapped her palms onto the Formica on each side of the sink, leaning close to the mirror so she could inspect her face.
It was not her face. At least, that was how she felt initially. It might have been her face way back when . . . back when she was fat, if, of course, she hadn’t been fat. But it couldn’t possibly be her face now, could it? Today? At the age of forty-two? After regular trips to the plastic surgeon? After developing wrinkles and baggy patches before her time because of all those little operations meant to maintain her youth and beauty? She hadn’t looked this good yesterday evening in Lynda’s mirror . . . and she thought she’d looked pretty damned good then!
She began to laugh. She didn’t mean to, but the laughter came out of her independently. She was unable to control it. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
Lynda had been right.
Margaret would knock them dead at the reunion . . .
12
Margaret took three steps into Lynda’s hospital room with a paper bag clutched in her right hand before she stumbled to a clumsy halt.
Lynda’s bed was empty. It had been made neatly, as if the maid had just left . . . but it was empty.
“Oh, my God,” Margaret groaned. She rushed forward and tossed the bag onto the chair. “Lynda, oh my God!”
An ugly, phlegmy cough came from behind Mrs. Watkiss’s drape.
“She’s gone,” the old woman rasped.
Margaret went to the drape and pulled it back.
“Not dead, just gone,” Mrs. Watkiss said. “For tests, I heard ’em say. You should know better than anyone that she ain’t dead.”
Margaret stepped to the side of the bed and put her hands on the side rail.
Mrs. Watkiss was smiling up at her, and her bleary eyes looked happy.
“She’s better, ain’t she? A lot
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