Page 71 of Whiteout

“Can’t Cry Cauliflower” had been another fun one. She’d oiled cauliflower florets, spiced them to within an inch of their life, and roasted them until tender and a teeny bit crispy on the edges. Then she’d eaten them like spicy popcorn on the couch while watching The Notebook and trying to release pent-up feelings.

It hadn’t worked. Not since the lunch with Melisa a week ago had she been able to so much as tear up. Now everything seemed distant and dull.

It didn’t fool her, though. Her poise was a veneer. Her stability was a time bomb. She didn’t know when the collapse was coming, but it was coming. She checked her phone again. It was 9:17 p.m., or 8:17 in Bellingham. Was that too late? She hoped not. What was her excuse for calling them? Umm. Right. Of course.

Christmas was coming, and while Melinda normally pretended to glory in the holiday with its pomp, circumstance, and indulgence, this year was different. This year she felt intimidated to the point of inaction. This year she was a head case and felt like she should spend time with her family.

Or maybe, you big chicken, you actually want to spend time with your family.

Melinda dropped her head into the couch cushion and asked the light fixture for help. Help was not forthcoming.

With a sigh, Melinda lifted her head and eyed her phone. Now or never. She dialed her mom. The phone rang twice, and then there was Katrina Sen.

“Malina?” Her Swedish-descended mother had always used her Hindi name, and Melinda secretly loved it.

“Mom?” Melinda said, throat immediately tight with tears. Oh sure, there they were.

“Baby,” her mom said. “Baby, do you need me?” Melinda’s skin flushed with an almost ancient sense of safety. How do moms know?

“I don’t know.” And then Melinda cried. She didn’t know if she needed her mother to step in, though she loved the offer, and she certainly didn’t know how much to tell her about the kidnapping. Then, after a few choked and uncertain minutes, unexpectedly, fluidly, almost entirely, it came out.

“Mom, something happened,” she began. Then hurriedly she followed with, “But I’m okay. I wasn’t for a little while, and then I was, kind of, but now I’m confused. Really confused. Can you help me?” Tears flowed now, hot and urgent down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Of course, my love,” her mother said, her voice an embrace around Melinda’s shoulders.

And so Melinda talked. She talked and told and shared. She omitted the racy details but alluded to the intimacy. She felt safe doing so. Her mother wasn’t opposed to consenting adults; she considered it a step in the process of learning about love, and had never shamed Melinda when she’d had boyfriends. Even in the midst of her overanalytical fervor, Katrina had the grace not to pick at the romantic part of Melinda’s life. Melinda was suddenly very grateful for that.

“Oh Malina,” her mother breathed. “That is one hell of a story. Are you sure you’re okay? Have you talked to anyone about this?”

Melinda knew better than to try to BS her mother. “Not really,” she said. “It’s weird, but I’ve felt pretty good talking to Melisa, that guy Paul’s girlfriend. She gets where my head is, so I can tell her any crazy thing that comes to mind.” She fiddled with the tassels on the pillow. “I don’t know what to do about this guy, Mom.”

“Do you have to do something about him?”

Such a shrink answer.

“Is it okay that I’m interested in him?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Seriously?” That was too therapisty, even for a therapist. “Isn’t it masochistic or codependent or something, to pursue something with him?” A rogue thread loosed itself from the tassel and she failed to resist the urge to tug it.

“Those are big words, sweetie, with a lot of meaning behind them.” Her mother could pacify an atom bomb. “What are you worried about? That if you follow your heart you’ll have no self-worth?”

“Well...yeah,” Melinda said. “Wouldn’t I have no self-worth if I chased the guy who kidnapped me and ignored me when I needed help?” She spun her hair into a knot. “What the hell is wrong with me that I let that kind of person get close to me? Am I that broken?”

“You don’t have to be broken to feel a connection with someone, sweetheart. I know you met under terrifying circumstances. But the beginning is simply that—the beginning. It’s how you deal with the beginning that matters. And from what you told me, Grant did the best he could to make your situation as comfortable as possible.”

“But what about everyone else? What am I going to tell Max? And Grandma?”

“That you’re dating someone that you met at the airport.”

Melinda’s laugh sounded like a sob. “But won’t Dad want to beat him up or something?”

“When have you ever known your father to want to beat up anyone?”

“Never.” Precisely why Melinda was so mad at him.

“Do you want your father to want to beat him up, Malina?”

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