Sniffling, she withdraws, nods, and wipes her wet cheeks with her fingers. “Yup. Do you want me to turn it on and leave you alone, or should I stay?”
I think about that for a minute. “Will it be too weird for you to listen to? Because if you think you can handle all the gory details of my delusions, I’d like you here. Moral support and whatnot.”
She says softly, “Sure, babe. I’d love to stay.” After a beat, she adds, “Are you allowed to drink alcohol? Because I brought snacks and a bottle of rosé. I figured if you wanted me around while you did your recording thing, we’d probably both need some booze.”
I beam at her. She’s such a good fucking friend. “Nope, I’m not supposed to drink. Now crack open that bottle, pour me a big ol’ glass, and settle in, because I’m gonna tell you a story that will blow. Your. Mind. By the way, you’re in it.”
“Oh God. Did I have bad hair?”
She’s always had this weird insecurity about her hair, which is thick, shiny, and glorious. For some reason, she lives in fear of it all falling out.
I smile blandly at her. “I couldn’t tell, because you shaved it all off in an act of radical feminism. You also grew out your armpit and leg hair and stopped wearing deodorant.”
When she stares balefully at me, I sigh and give up. “I only talked to you on the phone, but you sounded like you had fabulous hair. Happy?”
She claps, then hops up from the edge of the bed to retrieve the bag she came with. From it, she produces a small tape recorder, which she sets on my lap. Then she brings out a cheese plate complete with crackers and salami, a bunch of green grapes, and the bottle of rosé.
“Wow. We’re picnicking. This is awesome, Kell.”
“Twist off wine caps are a genius invention,” she says, cheerfully tossing the metal cap aside. It lands on the floor and rolls under the bed. I smile, imagining Maria on her hands and knees later, muttering German curses as she retrieves it.
Then Kelly stops short. Looking around, she says, “Oh fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t bring any straws!”
It takes me a second before I understand. Then I start laughing. “Then you’ll just have to hold my glass for me and give me little sips whenever I demand them, won’t you, nurse?”
Kelly’s expression sours. “I think you’re enjoying that idea a little too much, princess.” She pours some of the wine into two plastic cups, then sets the bottle on my bedside table.
“Cheers,” she says, tapping the cups together.
“Cheers, bitch. I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe.” Trying to quickly blink away the moisture in her eyes, she lifts one of the cups to my lips so I can drink.
It’s cold, tart, and delicious. I swallow, smacking my lips. “Yummy. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She throws her head back and downs her entire cup of wine.
Laughing, I say, “Some things never change.”
Shrugging, she pours herself another cupful. “You have to drink rosé before it gets warm. There’s nothing more depressing than room temperature pink wine.”
“Except maybe the dayroom at the Rockland Psychiatric Center.”
Kelly freezes in horror, looking at me with wide eyes.
“Oh stop,” I say wearily. “If I can’t joke about it, it’ll be way worse.”
After a moment, she sends me a tentative smile. “Does this mean I can still call you a nutjob like I used to before you were technically a nutjob?”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t. Now give me another sip of my wine and turn this recorder thingy on. Let’s get started.”
* * *
And that’show the dictation of my memoir of catatonic psychosis began.
When it was finished five weeks later, I titled it Until September.
Because fate isn’t the only one with a dark sense of humor.