3:13 a.m.
I jerk awake, freezing; the warmth of splashing blood left with my consciousness. I run my hands along my body to check for the dress made of Laura I know isn’t there. In a way, I miss it. There is nothing but naked, sticky skin. I resist the urge to sit up to look for the woman with a thin wrist who tossed the bucket on me. Hidden in shadows, her face was obscured by darkness.
Sleep tries to claim me again, and I picture the wintery woods I had been in before I woke. Bits of the nightmare stay with me: a low-hanging moon, hot breath on my shoulder, eyes peeking out from tree roots—his eyes. I shudder before I forget everything.
9:01 a.m.
I was raised to believe in platitudes and obligations. Though I have tried to carve away that part over the years I’ve been away from my mother, I still feel compelled to call the few friends I have.
None of them will judge me if I don’t call on a bullshit holiday people use as one of two excuses to spend time with extended family to stave off guilt trips throughout the year, which is good because I can’t. Unlike most people, the ones I surround myself with allow themselves to devour four slices of pie without counting calories any day they want. My mother, and most of the people I grew up around, pretended we could only do that two days—ahem, two months—a year.
My boxed-up childhood laughs from its home by the door. I know what my day holds: breakfast with a couple that will make me feel lonelier, wine, unpacking memories, and a hodgepodge of food from Dave’s.
Happy Thanksgiving, Adelynn. I grimace.
Now, which sweater that I’ve already worn doesn’t smell?
9:28 a.m.
I am two minutes early, and drinks are already on the table. They ordered me water, coffee, and a tea of some kind.
“Hey!” Freesia says. She shrugs out from under Tim’s draped arm and rushes to me. Her elbows dig into my shoulders with the neck hug. “Happy Thanksgiving! How are you? I heard about last night—what a load of shit! You should have protective custody or something, not be questioned about a dead girl. And those pictures—you shouldn’t have had to see them! I wish Tim hadn’t either. He had nightmares all night—damn near punched me, thrashing so much.”
“Me too,” I get in edgewise.
“See?” she says to Tim. “I knew it would be okay to tell her.”
I squeeze her to signal the end of our embrace.
“Nightmares, huh?” I slide into the booth and hope I didn’t just invite him to tell me about all about them.
He sighs. “Yeah. It was you beating me with that beer handle thing. Only, you had fangs and—”
The menu gets my full attention. Wow, they have steak AND eggs. I bet they have waffles AND pancakes. Oh, look, there they are. I picture the different Adas I could be throughout the day depending on which food I choose.
Steak-Ada does not exist. Egg-Ada would probably have more energy. She would go for a brisk walk before addressing the hateful boxes. Pancake-Ada or Waffle-Ada may be a little more lethargic, stuffed with carbs. Maybe she would go for a drive to clear her head before diving into her childhood.
“Ada?”
“Yeah? Sorry.” How long has it been since Tim finished recounting me murdering him? Somewhere between Egg-Ada and Pancake-Ada, I suspect. “Got lost in food.”
Freesia chuckles. “Happens all the time. We were just asking what you were getting, anyhow.”
I think about the Adas. “Waffles with two scrambled eggs.”
The hovering waitress says, “Did I hear waffles and two scrambled?”
Creepy, but, “Yep. And a little milk, please.” I am not sure I have ever had creamer from a plastic container on a table, and I do not intend to start.
As I hand her my menu, Tim sees my usually, artfully hidden palm. He doesn’t shy away; he doesn’t ask questions either. If we weren’t in Silynn right now, if they lived in Bloomington and we had a chance to get to know each other past one or two exchanges, I may tell him about it.
“And for you two?”
Tim orders for them both. “She’ll have a short stack, an order of bacon, and two orders of sausage. I’ll have a waffle, an order of sausage, and two over-medium eggs. And hot sauce, please; it was missing from our table.”
“No problem, Tim. Coming right up.”
When we came in before, the waitress didn’t address Freesia by name. As if I’m a detective, I file that away in case I need it. Maybe in Silynn, I am a detective: Detective Ada of the SPD. I’m better than the police. Already, I had figured out the killer and the motive. Right?
“So,” Freesia says. “Let’s talk about this dead Jane Doe who looks like you. I hear she was visiting family too. What a time to have a doppelgänger! Is it horrible that I’m happy you weren’t there?”
I hedge, “No, I’m happy too. Maybe relieved is a better word. Then I think, Could I have fought him off? Knowing what I know, maybe I could have been prepared. But could I?” I sigh. “She was blindsided.”
Tim shakes his head. “None of this. We aren’t going down this road, ladies. No good can come of complex emotions before breakfast.” He laughs. We don’t.
“So, if we aren’t going to talk about that, then why am I here instead of wrapped up in a blanket with a morning wine?”
That Freesia laughs at. “Unlike Tim here, I still want to talk about it. Do you think it was him?”
Skip the bullshit. I knew I wouldn’t mind seeing her again. “I do.”
Another round of coffee for Tim arrives. Our waitress seems sweet on him. I want to ask about that and about how two seemingly-educated forward-thinking adults ended up in Silynn. Instead, Tim breaks our conversation about Luke short.
“I don’t think I can talk about death on an empty stomach.” But dreams of me murdering you were on the table?
“Let’s talk money then. How much do I owe you for yesterday? And how much is your fee, should I need you again? I’d like to think they’ve figured it all out by now, but who knows. They may keep me as a suspect for a while out of stubbornness. The one with the mole was a monster of a kid.”
“A monster of a man, too,” Freesia adds quickly. “I heard he’s punched cars to intimidate people. He’s not right.”
“I wish I was surprised.”
“Ada.” Tim reaches across the table with his left arm—the free one—and grabs my hand. “Freesia hasn’t liked anyone like you in a while.” Cheeks flushing, I’m shocked she didn’t smack him. “Because of that, whatever you need is on us.”
“Is this because I wear crappy sweaters? I have money. I own a coffee shop.” What am I doing? Rachael’s voice pops into my head; she tells me to stop talking, and be grateful. “I mean, thank you. I’m not used to this type of thing.”
“I can tell.” Tim’s wry smile turns wide as our food arrives.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might want it fresh.” The waitress says this with a twinkle in her eye. I believe she wants admiration for doing the minimum job requirements.
I throw her a bone. “Thank you.”
We’re of the same mindset; we eat in silence. Tim moans a few times and insists I try a bite of the sausage. Freesia offers me a pancake. I take nibbles of both and find myself having fun. I didn’t think I could enjoy any part of today.
I eat the last bite of my waffle with intense satisfaction; it was probably cooked in a seasoned waffle iron—which I find both gross and delicious. Since I moved in with my uncle, I eat slowly. He always cautioned me of getting fat if I ate too quickly. When I look back on my childhood, it was the only detrimental thing he ever did to my mental health. I watched what I ate a little too closely, ate a little too slowly, and ran a few extra times if I saw skin that looked like it could be flab.
Tim and Freesia take turns interrupting each other to fill in the blanks of their love story. I laugh and smile at the appropriate times, just as I had for the picture on my desk in my office at Cuppa. Soon, the fun is gone, and I am back to dreading the boxes at the cabin.
They finish telling me how Freesia happened into being a prostitute during a road trip, and I know it’s time for me to leave. I can’t keep the facade up any longer. If we aren’t going to discuss the dead woman—and what is there to say, really?—then I should be alone.
“I need to journal,” I blurt in the first moment of quiet.
“Oh...” Tim’s voice trails off with confusion.
Freesia, however, nods. “I totally understand. A lot’s going on in that head of yours. Maybe we can get together—just you and me—to talk about the rest of your trip.” I know she means seeing my mom and going to Lynn Pond.
“That sounds great,” I lie. “For now, though, I think I need to process. This has been great, but some stuff is settling in.” That’s what people say, right? It seems so because Tim waves the waitress down.
“Grab two slices of—” He turns to me and asks what kind of pie I like. “Blackberry pie and another waffle to-go. On my tab.”
“Can you wait that long, Ada?” the waitress asks me but stares at Tim.
I slurp the dredges of my over-steeped tea. “Sure.”