Gorgeous Misery (Creeping Beautiful)

Most of the time, anyway.

I’ve got it all under control like ninety-eight percent of the time. But Wendy is more of a sixty-forty split. Back when Chek was alive I’d have put her at ninety-ten. Ninety percent in control is damn good. And maybe sixty isn’t ideal, but we’re still above water.

I keep her above water.

This is my job. And I’m calling it a job because it’s a serious responsibility, but it’s not something unpleasant. I love running interference for her forty-percent-crazy ass. I’ve been doing it since that very first birthday after Chek died.

She was only seventeen. She and I hadn’t even been friends for years. She never really got over me sending Lauren to live with Sasha, even though I’m pretty sure she understood why it had to be done.

Anyway. On her seventeenth birthday Wendy and I were sitting across the table from each other opening up her birthday card envelopes.

BIRTHDAY #17

7 YEARS AGO

“‘Dear Wendy,’” I begin. “‘The weather here in Nevada has been hot and dry as usual. So hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. I tried it out just for you. Happy birthday! Your friend, Jean.’” I chuckle a little. “She really did it.” Then I hold the picture up for Wendy so she can see the egg frying on a sunny sidewalk in Nevada.

Wendy’s eyes take their time migrating up from her letter to my picture. She squints a little, then manages a small smile. I think that’s the purpose of these cards. Just a small smile. Just a connection to the outside world. Maybe even a lifeline. Because regardless of what Jean from Nevada thinks, she and Wendy are not friends.

“Hey,” I say, because I want to check this theory. “Do they come from the same people every year?”

Wendy looks at me, momentarily confused. Then she shrugs. “How should I know?” Her eyes redirect their attention to the card in her hand.

Question answered. Sorry, Jean. Wendy Gale says you are not friends.

“‘Dear Wendy,’” I start reading the next card. “‘We got a new truck and a new puppy this past year. Leon says the dog can come inside the house when the truck can come inside the house. But I’m wearing him down. Here’s a picture of both. Happy birthday. I hope it’s a good one, Dorothy.’” Wendy reaches for this picture because it’s got a dog. She likes to take a close look at everyone’s dogs. And I look at the envelope for a moment and notice something. “Holy shit.” Then I pick up the rest. How did I never pay attention to this before? “They all have a return address.” I hold up the envelope for Wendy to see.

She’s still engrossed in the picture of the Irish setter puppy. But after a moment, she looks up. “What?”

“Return addresses. Have you ever… you know, looked any of these people up?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Ohhh…” I have to stop and smile and laugh. She’s so different from the others. So antisocial and serious. “You know, to say thank you? Or… ‘Hey, did you know I’m real?’”

Wendy makes a face. “They’re not real, Nick. It’s all fake. It’s some… service. Chek hired them to send me cards.”

I shake my head and hold up the envelope. “I don’t think so, Wen. These people are real. We should look them up. Or send them a thank you. With a pic.”

“With a pic?” She looks at me like I’m insane.

“Why not? It’s not like you’re hiding from anyone. Everyone knows where to find you, Wendy. You’ve lived in this cabin since you were five.”

She drops the picture of the dog and pushes her chair back from the table. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“OK.” I get up too. Because I’m not sure what she’ll do next and it’s never a bad idea to be alert when you’re alone with Wendy. “Wanna go out to eat?”

“Out to eat?” Another accusation of insanity in her tone.

“It’s your birthday. We should celebrate.”

She snarls at me. “Fuck you, Nick.” And then she pushes past me, goes into the bathroom, and slams the door.

I let out a long breath of air and ask myself for the millionth time, why the fuck am I here?

But I know why.

Chek is dead.

Seventeen days.

Seventeen years old.

Chek is dead and even though she won’t let me see it, she is falling apart and it’s breaking my heart.

About an hour later, Wendy comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. She doesn’t look at me. Just heads straight to the bedroom and closes the door with a quiet click.

I don’t know what to do. Leave? Stay? I don’t know what she wants, let alone what she needs.

Come on, Nick. That’s not true at all. You know exactly what she needs.

Chek.

But Chek is dead and he’s all she’s ever had.