Page 8 of One
She wrinkles her nose.
“Okay. My bad.” I pucker my lips in thought. “Blueberry cheesecake and peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream.”
“Now you’re talking.” Her smile is small but devious.
“Did you hear that, Berta?” This time of night, the diner is always almost deserted, so I just raise my voice.
“Yep, voices carry. So talk louder if you’re gossiping. Love some real-life Grey’s Anatomy,” the busty redheaded waitress replies, making both of us smile with her cheekiness.
“How was your day?” Meg asks, taking a sip from her teacup.
“No complaints from my clients.” I smirk. Lame joke, I know. But Meg is a sucker for them.
Her laugh is scratchy. “Lucky you. One of my kids has been rather prickly lately.”
“How come?” I give Berta a thankful smile as she leaves our cakes on the table.
“He needs…something new to focus on. I think it’s time,” she replies vaguely. The way she talks about her kids is sometimes strange. But she’s a psychiatrist, probably using unconventional educational methods on her six kids. I mean…six. I wonder if she’s a saint, or a Von Trapp family fan.
“Something to focus on. Like a hobby?” I moan around a spoonful of cobbler and ice cream.
She just hums absentmindedly. But she’s eating the cheesecake; I know it’s inconceivable to have a straight thought with that sweetness filling her mouth. We eat in silence for the first few minutes, just thoroughly enjoying our desserts.
“You look tense,” Meg suddenly utters. “I can see the stiffness in your shoulders.”
Because of how easy and comfortable our friendship is, I forget that studying other people’s mind and posture has been her job as a forensic psychiatrist for many years. She’s well-known in the medical field but doesn’t make a big deal about it.
“Hard day at work,” I sigh. “I hate when young people end up on my table. Especially if somebody else put them there.” My stomach twists tightly, making me regret every single piece of cake I’ve eaten. Another tragedy to add to my day.
“I can imagine. You have an empathetic nature that many people fail to grasp.”
I sniff drily. “Not very useful when I can’t do anything but feel like shit.”
“It’s still an extraordinary trait to find in yourself. I can assure you, Michael.” Her lips tilt up for a quick second.
It doesn’t feel like a gift. More like a curse. And anyway, what good does it do? That poor guy is dead. I just hope my autopsy report will help the detectives somehow. The killer hasn’t left any clue on the body once again, though.
“I appreciate the words.”
“Even though they didn’t accomplish anything.” Meg nods, and then breaks out into a coughing fit that jolts her body. A loud, uncontrollable burst of coughs that spurs me to leave my seat and crouch near her to gently stroke her back. She waves her hand to bat me away, but her bent body and red face tell me another story.
I glance at the napkin she has near her mouth and see a red spot forming on the white paper. She speedily squashes it into her hand and away from my eyes. After a long couple of minutes, her coughing fit finally stops. Berta brings the mug with hot water and honey and the wet towel I asked for. I use the latter to cool Meg’s forehead and red cheeks.
Her breath is ragged. There’s a small whizzing sound every time she inhales, but it’s not uncommon to have a dry, sore throat after all that coughing. Her eyes are closed, and her head is leaning against the booth. Some locks of hair have fallen out of her bun, framing her face. Even with the fatigue marring her expression, at her age, she’s still a beautiful woman.
“Would you like some hot water?” I ask her, continuing to stroke the side of her neck with the damp, cold fabric.
She nods and takes the mug and towel from my hand. She moves it on her nape and starts sipping the warm beverage.
“Are you going to tell me? Or do we pretend nothing happened until it happens again?” I say, sliding back on my side of the booth.
Meg keeps drinking. When her cup is empty, she folds the towel neatly and places it on the table. “I have lupus.” Her voice sounds raspy.
“I’m sorry.” Having a chronic disease is a bitch, for lack of a better term. Working in the morgue, I’ve seen firsthand what a long one can do to a human body. Because lupus, like many other autoimmune diseases, has no cure.
“Can I ask what your symptoms are? I can guess chest pain from the cough, and mouth sores from the blood on the napkin.”
“Of course you noticed that.” She huffs, sounding exasperated and strangely proud at the same time. But I feel relieved in part. I thought the blood was coming from her lungs.
