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After spending a few hours shifting restlessly that night, I gave up on sleep and decided to read the rest of Carly’s journal. I wanted to make it through her remaining entries before handing the book over to Officer Sparks. Maybe she’d included some insight into the Options operations.
I settled on Carly’s bare mattress and skipped past the first two entries to the one dated October 22, 2012.
Dr. Patrick performed a procedure called an amniocentesis today. He stuck this huge needle in my abdomen. It didn’t really hurt, but just looking at the needle made me queasy. I had to squeeze my eyes shut, which is kind of too bad because he used the ultrasound machine at the same time and it would have been my first glimpse of my little girl. He says it will take a couple weeks to get the results back, but that I shouldn’t worry.
I read about the amnio on my iPhone while I rested afterward. It’s some procedure usually done on older mothers, but they’ll also run the test if they think something might be wrong with the baby. They listed so many diseases it made me sad. Who knew babies could have so many problems already?
The website also says the test can determine the baby’s sex. That’s exciting at least, although in my heart I already know she’s a girl. I’m going to focus on that part so I don’t dwell on the rest.
I unhooked Carly’s iPhone from her charger. The amniocentesis website she had accessed had long since been deleted from its history, but I initiated my own search. One site indicated that mothers aged thirty-seven or older or those who’d previously delivered babies with conditions like Down syndrome might undergo the test. The procedure typically occurred between the sixteenth and eighteenth week of pregnancy, but could be administered as early as fourteen weeks. Performing it any earlier increased the chance of a miscarriage.
I flipped back through the journal. Carly had mentioned being ten weeks pregnant in her previous entry dated a few days earlier. That meant she had only been ten weeks along, maybe eleven, when the amniocentesis occurred.
I frowned, considering what the early application of the test could mean. Something about Carly’s baby must have alarmed Patrick. The question was what.
Carly didn’t write about the Options clinic in the next few journal entries, which mostly documented her apprehension over the amniocentesis results interspersed with excited speculations about her daughter.
On November 7, she mentioned Patrick again.
Dr. Patrick had me come down to the clinic for the results of my procedure. He says my baby is okay right now, but he’d like to keep an eye on some things. We decided I would visit the clinic on Mondays and Thursdays at one o’clock, but he reminded me to call him whenever I have questions or if I feel like something’s not right, or even if I’m just plain uncomfortable.
I asked him about the sex of the baby. He said he didn’t realize I wanted to know, so he didn’t include those results. I was bummed about that, but Dr. Patrick assures me he’ll let me know as soon as he can tell from the ultrasound. He thinks he can determine for sure in just a few more weeks.
He’s so nice I think I’m developing a little crush on him. It’s too bad he’s my doctor and they have a code or something against that. Not that I’m in any type of condition to be dating someone new!
I shuddered over the thought of Carly dating the weaselly Patrick. She’d obviously seen a different side of him than I had.
The next entry was dated December 6.
Between working at the club and my visits to Options and looking at baby stuff in stores, I’ve been neglecting my journal writing. I also sleep more than normal nowadays. I guess that’s because I’m sleeping for two now!
Dr. Patrick and I have a new routine for my visits. On Mondays he performs an ultrasound, and on Thursdays he’s going to start running another machine over my abdomen. He used it for the first time today. It tingles a bit, leaving me numb where he touches the paddle to my skin. Dr. Patrick says it generates computer images of the fetus and will help monitor the baby’s growth.
I asked him whether he saves the pictures so I can show them to my daughter when she’s older. Dr. Patrick said once he captures a good ultrasound shot, he’ll give it to me.
The entry dated December 17 followed.
Dr. Patrick performed my routine ultrasound today. He said my baby is a boy. I couldn’t believe it. Dr. Patrick says he looks healthy, which is definitely a good thing, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. Dr. Patrick is so nice, and rather than thinking I’m a terrible mother he assured me my reaction is normal. I’m so heartbroken I don’t even feel like writing any more today.
Her appointments proceeded smoothly. She recovered quickly from the discovery that she was carrying a boy. Within a couple more weeks, she was enthusing about her son as much as she had when she’d thought he was a girl. She didn’t document any medical concerns throughout the months of January and February, although she mentioned feeling nauseated and tired, which sounded like normal pregnancy symptoms.
I jumped to her first March entry, dated March 7, 2013.
I had my regular checkup at Options today. Normally my little boy kicks up a storm in preparation for these visits, but the past few days he’s been rather subdued. I’ve been taking my prenatal vitamins religiously, so he should be getting the nutrients he needs. I’ll ask Dr. Patrick what I should be eating during our next appointment.
I hope my little boy isn’t sick. I’ve always had a lingering concern about his health since the amniocentesis, but he always checks out fine so sometimes I forget how fragile he really is.
I reread the March 16 entry, her last one. Tears strained my vision by the time I finished, which was just as well. My tired eyes had started to blur Carly’s words anyway.
I closed my eyes, intending to rest them for a few minutes. The next thing I knew, I was struggling awake on top of Carly’s mattress as sunlight pushed its way between the gaps in the blinds.
Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled through the apartment back to my own room. The kitchen clock caught my attention as I passed, jolting me awake when I saw it was after eight already. Judging from his morning house call the other day, Sparks worked the day shift, and I wanted to inform him of my Options findings as soon as possible.
Energized, I located my cell phone on the dining room table and sank into a chair to make the call.
The phone rang four times before he answered with a simple, “Sparks.”
“Officer Sparks, this is Megan Kelley, Carly—Caroline—Fisher’s roommate.”
“How may I help you, Ms. Kelley?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, I learned Carly had an appointment at the Options clinic—they provided her prenatal care—the day she died, so I thought they might help me better understand the circumstances of her death.”
“And did they?”
“No. That’s part of my problem. Her doctor refused to speak to me. He kept saying he couldn’t talk about his patients.”
“Yes, I believe doctors are required to take a confidentiality oath.”
“Which I totally agree with, but don’t you think an exception should be made for somebody who died under suspicious circumstances?”
Sparks didn’t respond for a long moment. “I’m not sure what suspicious circumstances you are referring to, Ms. Kelley,” he finally said, his tone guarded. “Your roommate died from a drug overdose. Although the toxicology results will not be available for several weeks, the autopsy left no ambiguity.”
I mentally chastised myself for putting him on the defensive, although I couldn’t possibly have known he was so sensitive. “I didn’t mean to imply she didn’t overdose. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of why she overdosed. Just the fact that Carly took drugs that day is suspicious. That’s all I meant.”
“Many people have substance-abuse problems,” he said without inflection.
“But Carly didn’t,” I insisted. “In her case, she only turned to heroin after she had an abortion. The abortion is key to explaining her death.”
“Ms. Kelley, did you have a reason for calling me today?”
I gripped the phone harder. “Yes. I’d like you to look into getting Carly’s medical file. Perhaps it includes something that explains why she ended her pregnancy.”
“I’m not familiar with medical protocol, but I don’t believe doctors have the privilege of making up exceptions to confidentiality oaths as they please. Would you like your own doctor to disclose your medical history willy-nilly?”
“Of course not.” Sparks taking Patrick’s side inspired a flash of irritation. And had the word willy-nilly really been necessary? Knowing he was technically correct just fueled my annoyance. “But if I died”—I mentally added under suspicious circumstances—“I would certainly want my doctor to help shed light on what had led to my demise.”
“We’re already aware of what led to your roommate’s demise. The culprit was heroin. Our case is closed.”
Sparks sounded weary. If I didn’t recapture his interest soon, I would risk losing his attention completely.
I decided to try a different tack. “Okay, forget about Carly for a moment. There’s more to this story that I’d like to share. I went down to Options in person yesterday. I had to pretend with a friend to want to adopt a baby just to get—”
“Hold on a second. You impersonated somebody trying to adopt a baby? You went so far as to visit an actual adoption clinic?” His voice was decidedly disciplinary.
A bead of sweat developed on my forehead. I’d clearly recaptured his interest, although not in the manner I had hoped. I probably should have checked whether misrepresenting yourself as part of a lesbian couple looking to adopt fell past legal boundaries prior to placing this call.
I figured lying was often the best approach when dealing with unwanted scrutiny from the police, and this situation was no exception. “No, of course not.” I attempted a laugh as if he were being ridiculous. “But I did visit the clinic to ask about their adoption process, and I don’t think they’re a legitimate organization. For one thing, they only had a one-page application with no mention of a home visit or parent qualifications or anything other than a simple background check. And they want a bunch of money up front—five thousand dollars to be exact.”
“Okay.”
“Doesn’t that seem fishy?” I pushed.
After a moment of silence, he said, “Why were you looking into the adoption process at this clinic again?”
“To get answers about Carly,” I replied, but of course this didn’t make sense unless he’d somehow worked out that my real plan involved breaking into the Options filing system.
“Ms. Kelley, I must confess, I’m having a hard time following you.”
“Look, the bottom line is something strange is going on at this clinic. And they might know something about Carly that they refuse to share. It’s worth an investigation, don’t you think?”
“So, you believe this clinic scammed your friend when she tried to adopt her baby out?”
“Well, Carly intended to keep her baby. But the clinic handles adoptions too, and their process lacks the rigor you would expect.” I repeated the scanty adoption process, then paused so he could jot down some notes.
“Go on,” he said seconds later, after enough time had passed for him to write down one, possibly two, four-letter words.
“I also learned the Options clinic doesn’t keep files for many of their patients,” I blurted out in a desperate attempt to sway him into action. Quite likely Options stored more files somewhere else, but I didn’t mention this to Sparks. If he accepted my observation at face value, the location of the second file set would become obvious once he launched his investigation.
“And how did you learn that?” he asked.
“Well, one of the cabinet drawers was ajar, and I noticed by accident that Carly didn’t have a file. Neither do the twenty-two expectant women currently looking for an adoptive family.” I bit my tongue, realizing too late that I should have omitted the last part. Unless I admitted I’d lied about not pretending to pursue an actual adoption, I didn’t have a good explanation for knowing the number of women planning to adopt out.
But Sparks didn’t question how I’d learned of the twenty-two mothers. Instead, he asked, “You noticed all this by accident?”
“Well, yes.” I swiped my hand across my forehead, feeling like a pig who had just finished a workout routine and a spicy meal. Thank goodness I wasn’t currently in an interrogation room explaining myself to him in person.
Speaking more slowly, he asked, “Is it possible the files were not in the drawer already conveniently open?”
I ignored the nagging feeling that he’d transitioned from attempting to make some sense out of my words to humoring me. At least he hadn’t hung up the phone yet.
“I suppose that’s possible,” I conceded. Even if I excluded my terminated invasion of the storage area, I doubted Sparks would appreciate learning that I’d searched all the reception file cabinets. Nor could I convince him that I’d managed to accidentally look into four drawers, all inexplicably open.
He sighed. “Ms. Kelley, I understand you’re having a hard time dealing with your friend’s death, but looking to place the blame elsewhere doesn’t change the facts. Your friend overdosed on heroin. That alone caused her death.”
“Physically, yes, but mentally there must have been more going on. There’s a reason Carly overdosed.”
“Most people have a reason for turning to drugs,” Sparks said.
“I understand that.” His lack of concern over the motivating details behind Carly’s death had caused my stomach to knot with frustration. “In Carly’s case, I’m positive her abortion was that reason. However, why she decided to abort remains unclear, which is the part I’m asking you to look into.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
His bored tone triggered a bolt of exasperation. “Isn’t it your job to look into things like this?” I snapped.
Sparks didn’t speak. I wondered if my outburst had him evaluating the merits of coming to my apartment and arresting me for harassment. Worse, he might be signaling another officer over to begin the process of securing a search warrant for my place, or, technically, Carly’s apartment. That would make it seem as though he were following up on my demands for an investigation while really enabling him to secretly search for something he could use to punish me for pushing him on this subject.
I stiffened, my ex-boyfriend’s abandoned marijuana baggie popping into my head. Holding the phone to my ear with one hand, I crept from the dining room to the living room and pulled the bag out of the coffee-table drawer. I put the phone on mute and took the baggie into Carly’s bathroom, where I flushed the contents away.
Sparks cleared his throat. “The police have a responsibility to investigate crimes, Ms. Kelley. A crime indicates that evidence of foul play exists. When a drug overdose occurs, we do not look into the reasons why the deceased chose to abuse drugs. When a woman has an abortion, we do not look into the reasons why she chose to terminate her pregnancy.” He paused. “Neither do we investigate adoption procedures, doctors who fail to break confidentiality oaths, or how medical offices manage their patient files, however disorganized they may appear.”
Listening to Sparks summarize my request sent a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. When he phrased it that way, I couldn’t fault him for thinking I was a loon. Of course he wouldn’t see the value of looking into the operations at Options.
To the police, Carly was just another girl foolish enough to ingest too many drugs. I’d already given up the idea of offering Sparks her journal to lend insight into his nonexistent case. If I wanted answers, I would have to find them myself.
“I understand,” I said. “Thanks anyway for your time.”
I almost dropped my phone in the toilet when I disconnected the call and spotted the mute button I had never bothered to deactivate. From Sparks’ point of view, I had hung up on him. I could have called him back to explain what had happened, but I didn’t figure he would appreciate my urgent need to dispose of a baggie full of marijuana.
I stuffed the empty baggie deep into the kitchen garbage can and considered my next steps. Step one consisted of retrieving the wine bottle Mike and I had started on Wednesday. Step two involved pouring myself a generous portion of it.
Given the police’s lack of interest, contacting Adelaine struck me as the next logical step. If she knew Carly from the Options clinic and Carly hadn’t confided in her about the abortion, she should be just as interested to find out why her circumstances had spiraled so out of control. She might even have insight into the clinic’s adoption procedures.
I fetched Carly’s iPhone and transferred Adelaine’s number to my cell before triggering the connection. I kept my fingers crossed as it rang, hoping she didn’t hate me for phoning so early.
“Hello?”
“Adelaine, it’s Megan, Carly Fisher’s roommate. I called the other day about her death.”
“Right, Megan. Hi.” She sounded alert, which alleviated some of my guilt.
“You don’t happen to know Carly from the Options clinic, do you?” I omitted mention of how I’d arrived at this conclusion. She might balk at the thought of strangers having access to her medical file.
“I do. Why?”
Hope surged up my spine like a lightning bolt. “I’m trying to piece together the events leading her to overdose. The police performed an autopsy and discovered she’d had an abortion right before her death, which I believe tipped her over the edge.”
“An abortion!” Adelaine screeched. Her shell-shocked tone eliminated the possibility of Carly mentioning the procedure to her. “But Carly loved her baby.”
“I know. I think something was wrong with it. She kept a journal, and she wrote that the baby had stopped moving toward the end. Since you both went to the same pregnancy clinic, I thought maybe she told you something about her baby’s health.” I paused. “I’m hoping you can help me understand her motive.”
“I’m not sure what happened with her baby, but I want to help.”
“Great,” I breathed, some of my tension easing. “So you’ll talk to me.”
“Yes, of course I’ll talk to you.”
The resolve in her voice reignited my frustration over Sparks’ indifference. Did he really not care about the reason behind Carly’s overdose? I could understand if her social circle vouched for a history of drug abuse, but everyone who knew her shared my disbelief. The only person unconvinced was Sparks himself, who acted as if I were some lunatic for wanting answers. He’d even had me assessing the case from his point of view, and would possibly have convinced me I really was crazy after another fifteen minutes of conversation.
I unclenched my teeth and tossed Sparks out of my mind. If he wouldn’t help, I didn’t need him. “Can I meet you somewhere?” I asked Adelaine. “Or you can come over here, if you’d like.”
“I’m working today, but I have Saturday free,” she told me. “Would you mind driving to my apartment? I have a bear of a time moving around these days.”
“That works.”
She relayed her address, and we arranged to meet at two o’clock the next day.
I hung up, feeling a burst of triumph over finding someone equally motivated to unearth the details of Carly’s death. When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, I half hoped Officer Sparks had come to search my apartment with his bogus warrant. That would give me the opportunity to reassert my case and demand an investigation in person.
“Hi, dear,” Helen said after I opened the door. She held up a pill bottle, possibly the same one she’d brought by Wednesday. Her prescription bottles all looked identical with their orange translucence, white cap, and information sticker. “Sorry for disturbing you so early, but I heard you moving around already.”
“No problem.” I took the bottle from her and twisted the lid off.
She grabbed it from my hands. “You are a lifesaver.”
I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob, expecting her to turn around and head back downstairs. But instead of leaving, she just stood there, her teeth working one corner of her bottom lip. At first I feared she might be on the brink of developing Alzheimer’s and couldn’t remember how she’d ended up on my landing. But then I saw her eyes dart past me and the look of longing on her face, and I realized she was just lonely and hoping for an invitation inside.
I loosened my grip on the doorknob, deciding I could use the company myself. Anything would be better than stomping around inside the apartment, fuming about Sparks.
I swung the door wider. “Would you like to sit down for a moment?”
Her mouth formed a perfect circle as though my offer had startled her, but I’d already caught the way her face had relaxed. “Perhaps just for a moment,” she said.
She moved surprisingly fast, maybe worried I’d remember an appointment and rescind my offer. Before I could even close the door, she’d settled herself on the couch.
“You’re such a dear for helping me with my bottles,” she said. “They put those childproof caps on everything, and I hate the darn things.”
You know what I hate, I was tempted to tell her as I sat down on the opposite sofa, indifferent, pompous, police officers.
“My doctor has me on so many prescriptions that all I do is pop pills,” she said. “I can’t even keep track of what I take anymore. One of my good friends called the other day and asked what I used for my arthritis. I didn’t know how to reply. I shuffled through my medicine cabinet, but it’s packed with so many bottles I didn’t have any hope of finding the right one.” She laughed. “I finally told her that when my joints act up a good, stiff gin and tonic usually does the trick.”
“I hear that’s good for more than just arthritis,” I said, developing a hankering for a strong shot of something alcoholic myself.
Helen nodded. “Yes, I learned long ago that a drink now and then does wonders for the soul.” She bit her lip and eyed the almost-empty wine bottle on my coffee table. It was becoming a fixture there. “Everything in moderation, of course.”
I thought about grabbing the bottle and hurling it into the kitchen garbage visible from where we sat, but I’d likely miss and shatter glass everywhere. Helen would indubitably come to the conclusion I was drunk.
She refocused on me. “Do you know every single one of my pills needs to be ingested on a full stomach? And some I take several times per day. I promise you, I swallow more pills during mealtimes than food.”
From her wide eyes and the way she’d hunched closer, I figured she expected a reply. “That’s terrible,” I said.
She reclined against the couch. “Take my advice, dear. Don’t get old.”
My eyes strayed toward Carly’s bedroom. “Some fates are worse than growing old.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. After a moment of silence, she cleared her throat. “Tell me, dear, are you looking for a new roommate?”
Her reminder ignited a flare of panic. It was already March 22, and I’d been too preoccupied with Carly’s abortion and overdose to locate a renter. In ten days Ray would be expecting me to hand him a full month’s rent that I didn’t have.
I twined my fingers together. “I’ve asked around at work, but haven’t had any takers. I’ll have to place an ad in the paper pretty soon if I want to find somebody by next week.” Feeling desperate, I added, “You don’t know of anybody looking for a roommate, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said.
I straightened, hope surging through my torso. “Really, who?”
“Me.”
I blinked. “You want to move in here?” Helen had lived alone downstairs since building construction completed eight years ago, or so she’d said. That she’d now want to change residences and bunk with a thirty-six-year-old broke stripper shocked me.
“Actually, I thought you could move downstairs into my apartment.” She watched me, but I was too surprised to betray any other reaction. “I’m not getting any younger, and everything becomes increasingly harder at my age. It would help me out greatly to have someone of your generation around.”
I stilled, silently questioning what she envisioned me doing. If she simply needed me to open pill bottles before every meal, I could happily oblige. If she wanted me to escort her to the toilet and wipe her bum four times a day or lower her naked body into bathtubs of warm water for her daily sponge baths, I’d need to mull over the offer a bit more.
“I don’t need much help,” she continued, as if reading my mind. “I have trouble with some chores, like vacuuming and scooping cat litter.” She rattled the bottle in her hand. “And pill bottles. But in turn I can take full ownership of washing dishes. The warm water eases my sore joints. And your share of the rent would be discounted, of course, in exchange for all your assistance.”
My heart started thumping as though I’d spotted Ed McMahon on my doorstep waving a huge poster-board check. I wasn’t looking forward to rooming with cats, but how invasive could they be? I’d just think of my new litter duty as a customized program for scooping my way out of debt. It seemed a tiny sacrifice given the alternative of living in my Toyota after getting evicted.
“I could pay two-thirds of the rent,” Helen proposed. “Plus utilities.”
I mentally computed the savings. With an extra two hundred dollars per month, I should at least be able to contribute my full share of the rent without worrying whether I’d fall short. I might even have some funds left over to pay down my growing credit card balances. I couldn’t expect Helen to single-handedly flip me into debt-free living, but just the prospect of getting the landlord off my case cemented my interest in her offer.
Helen must have mistaken my silence as reluctance. “If you think two-thirds is unfair, I could pay three-quarters,” she said. “I’m open to negotiations. Really, anything would be less than what I pay now.”
She looked so enthusiastic over the prospect that I thought her next offer might be to split the rent 90/10. But, I told myself, she was being more than generous already. Besides, if I came across as too greedy I might send her huffing back downstairs, determined to expire alone on her dusty carpet.
I said, “I accept.”
She beamed. “Oh, wonderful. Simply having someone else around will be a treat.”
I thought of how empty this apartment felt without Carly and had to agree with her.
“I do have a small favor to ask though,” I said, holding up my index finger and thumb and placing them mere millimeters apart so she had an idea how small.
She cocked her head. “What’s that, dear?”
“Would you mind not putting me on the lease?” I asked, pressing my palms together. “I kind of owe Ray some money. I intend to give it to him, but if he learns I’m still in the complex he might demand it sooner than I can pay.” I held my breath, hoping Helen didn’t think I sounded like a deadbeat.
She nodded. “Of course, dear.”
I sagged with relief. “Great! So when can I move in?”
She dropped the pill bottle into her lap and rubbed her hands together, a gesture I interpreted as excitement rather than some arthritis physical-therapy plan. “Anytime you’d like. But I’ll need to clear a few items out of the spare bedroom first. The cats have taken to using that space as their own.”
“Why don’t you let me clean out the bedroom?” I said, remembering her joint complaints. “I don’t mind.”
Her face brightened. “You’re such a dear. That would be wonderful. You can move the cat items anywhere, really.”
I’d already decided to relocate anything related to cats as far from my bedroom as I could. If that meant putting their stuff—or them—outside, then so be it. Despite our living situation, I planned to limit my interaction with the creatures. I’d only think of them when cleaning out their litter box.
Helen stood up. “If you’d like to come downstairs, I’ll get you my spare key.”
I thought about asking her to wait while I changed out of my pajamas, but didn’t want to give her time to reconsider her generous offer. Besides, I was just popping out for a moment. I grabbed my cell phone, slipped on my shoes, and followed her to her unit.
A furry head poked around the front door as soon as Helen opened it. She stepped in front of the black cat, barring his escape. “That’s Whiskers. He likes to explore, so you have to watch for him getting outside.”
“Whiskers,” I repeated, adding his name to my list of critters to avoid.
“All in all I have three cats, all boys.” We squeezed by Whiskers and wedged ourselves inside. Helen dropped her voice an octave and added, “Apartment regulations only allow two, so the extra one will be our little secret.”
“Just like me,” I supplied, picturing the third cat and myself cowering in the closet whenever Ray ventured outside his own unit.
She laughed, then pointed to a tortoiseshell cat sitting on a living room windowsill. “That’s Corduroy.” Corduroy’s fur stood on end, and he hissed at me. “Don’t worry, that’s just his way of welcoming you.”
I doubted that, but couldn’t very well claim to know her cats better than her. I squinted at Corduroy and considered baring my teeth at him, but Helen had already disappeared into what would be my bedroom. I followed her, deciding the unpleasant beast didn’t deserve my attention anyway.
Her apartment followed the same floor plan as my own. My new bedroom would be the smaller second bedroom, where Carly’s had been upstairs.
Helen pointed above our heads. “That’s Herman.”
My heart jumped when I spotted a giant white cat sitting atop the largest cat contraption I’d ever seen. Multiple carpet-covered platforms and cushioned cubbyholes connected in a vertical configuration that nearly reached the ceiling.
“That’s his cat condo,” Helen told me. “He loves high perches.”
Herman hung his head over the side of his condo and stared at me with his unblinking yellow orbs.
Big Brother Herman, I thought. I studied the cat condo for clues on how best to maneuver it out of my room. Although it could comfortably fit alongside my bedroom furniture, I wouldn’t have some voyeuristic cat studying my mattress activities whenever I brought a boy home.
Helen spun around to face me. “Now that you’ve met my family, let me get you your key.”
I trailed her back into the living room, but halted when she continued to her own bedroom. Corduroy eyed me from the windowsill, his ears pressed back against his head.
I turned away from the patchwork devil, a growing dread building inside my gut. Before I could change my mind about rooming with animals, I dialed the landlord from my cell phone.
“Ray here.”
“Hi, Ray. It’s Megan Kelley from unit 272.” I paused, trying to recall if he’d been one of the first two hundred of Carly’s 342 contacts that I’d already plowed through. I didn’t think so. “I have some bad news.”
“What’s that?” he said, his voice hard. I knew he was anticipating some excuse as to why I had to short him on this month’s rent.
“Carly died over the weekend,” I told him.
“I’m guessing you’ve got a new roommate then,” he said without missing a beat.
“Actually, I’ll be vacating our unit at the end of the month.”
“You know I need one month’s notice,” he barked.
For death or move outs? I wondered. “I know this is sudden, but I can’t afford to pay the whole rent by myself.”
“Speaking of which, you owe me money.”
Whiskers approached, sniffing at my shoes. I thought about kicking him, but venting my financial frustrations on little Whiskers seemed mean even for someone who disliked cats.
I scratched the back of my neck. “Does the last month’s rent and security deposit we put down cover everything?”
“No.”
I had already known the answer, but still couldn’t prevent the sinking sense of disappointment. With no gambling windfalls or wealthy inheritances to mitigate Ray’s displeasure, I didn’t have anything comforting to tell him that wouldn’t be a blatant lie. I was suddenly desperate to end this call.
“Well, apply our deposits to my debt, and I’ll get you the rest as soon as I can,” I said. “Nice talk—”
“Hang on, and I’ll run the figures,” he interrupted.
My heart sank. So much for disconnecting painlessly.
“I’ll tell you what,” he added. “I’ll cut you a break and let you off without paying for April.”
“I’m not renting for April,” I reminded him. “I’m moving out at the end of this month.”
“Right, but like I said, I need one month’s notice. Since it’s March, I should charge you for April. I’m cutting you a break because Carly died.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“Okay, I’ve done the math and, deducting your last month’s rent, you owe me seven hundred dollars.”
“Did you subtract the security deposit too?” I asked.
“Can’t do that until I inspect the unit. There might be damages.”
“There aren’t.”
“Might be.”
“There aren’t,” I assured him.
“Might be.”
The itch on the back of my neck that had materialized at the start of this conversation rapidly expanded across the rest of my body. “Well, just call me with the final figure when you have it, and I’ll pay as soon as I can.”
“Leave your keys on the kitchen counter when you vacate.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, but Ray had already disconnected the call. I stared at the phone for a second before adding, “Nice doing business with you for the past four years too.”
Whiskers completed his olfactory inspection and started rubbing his face against my ankles. Corduroy watched him with unnaturally wide eyes, as though he expected the contact to send his brother bursting into flames.
Helen shuffled out of her bedroom. “I see you’re making friends with Whiskers.”
Whiskers was actually making friends with me while I fought my urge to nudge the little pest away, but I didn’t bother to correct her.
“He’s a delightful cat,” she continued, her face flushing with pleasure as she took in the perceived bonding. “I rescued him seven years ago when he was a kitten, and he’s been my faithful little companion ever since. He follows me everywhere, although you have him a bit distracted at the moment.” She cupped one palm near her mouth as if preparing to confide a secret. “Most days he even joins me on the toilet. He likes to peer over the seat when I’m attending to business.”
“He is very friendly,” I conceded, inching my foot away from Whiskers’ contaminated head.
“That he is.” She held out one hand. “Here’s your unit key.”
I took it from her. “Thank you.”
She rubbed her palms together. “I’m so pleased. It’s been so long since I’ve roomed with someone.” Her face fell. “My husband passed away in 1994. Car accident. Another driver veered right into his lane one night. I’ve lived alone since then.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, not sure what else to say.
She smiled again. “Oh, it hasn’t been all bad. I have the boys, of course.”
I pictured her not having a moment’s privacy amid the unrelenting company of these three creatures and wanted to tell her I was sorry again.
“And now you!” She nearly buzzed with excitement, or possibly the beginnings of a stroke.
A ball of unease developed in my stomach. I had been so focused on the financial upshot of this move that I’d failed to consider the social ramifications. I already suspected Helen of tracking my activities from afar. Now she might expect to witness in person the soap opera she imagined taking place upstairs. Having lived alone for so long and with her husband before that, she might not realize that roommates splitting the rent—however lopsided the percentages—still demanded a modicum of privacy.
“Um, Helen,” I said, shifting my weight between my feet. “I’m excited about this arrangement too, but maybe I should have pointed out that sometimes I might bring a . . . suitor over and—”
She interrupted with a chuckle. “Oh, Megan. I understand girls your age have an active social life. If you ever need your space, you let me know and I’ll happily retreat to my bedroom. I have a television there too, you know.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay.”
Whiskers jumped on the couch, and Helen stroked his back. “Of course, the boys might not be so obliging.”
I stared at the black ball of fur arching his back and imagined him “accidentally” sneaking outside as a faceless guy du jour made his entrance. “Oh, I think I can handle the boys.”
