Direct Strike. Lorelei Buckley

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СКАЧАТЬ spun and bashed her knuckles on the wood. Her fingers ached. She cradled her hand, exhausted and equally frustrated. Unable to stand, she slipped into the nook between the dresser and armoire. Pressing her back to the plaster, she slid down until her ass hit bottom. A slight sailboat effect made her queasy.

      Lightning cut through the darkness, allowing her to see obscure silhouettes. She closed her eyes and tilted her head against solidity, trying to remember Mitch’s voice. She spoke to him almost every night, why couldn’t she find his voice? Panic whirled in her stomach. She breathed in and out, slowly, inhaling, exhaling, a calming technique she’d learned the one time she had agreed to therapy. Hell with therapy.

      She opened her eyes and raised her chin. The deer’s neck arched toward the bed across from her cubbyhole.

      She slithered up, steadied on her feet, and faced the animal head. “What do you see?”

      Zoey stepped backward, closer to the footboard. The hem of her nightgown tickled her thighs, and the underside of her long hair, drenched in perspiration, caused a deep chill.

      The deer seemed to gaze at something important.

      “Hey, look, this isn’t the best of circumstances for either one of us. You’re staring. At what?”

      Lightning sparked and the trophy’s marbled eyes fixated on her cluttered nightstand.

      Zoey rushed to the overstocked tabletop. Sidetracked by beautiful amber bottles, she maneuvered around the lamp of bones and grabbed her favorite numbing agents, the oblong pills. She took two and recapped the bottle. And there was the phone, peeking out from under a crumpled road map. Had she remembered to charge it?

      Two bars and decent reception. Zoey festively punched the air. She pressed his contact button.

      The phone rang.

      Lightning flickered, and from somewhere behind the mountains, distant rumbles crept closer.

      The phone rang again.

      “Zoey?” Mitch’s strong voice was akin to the uncurling thunder.

      “Who else?”

      “I tried calling. You didn’t answer.”

      “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

      “You couldn’t tell me you were leaving?”

      “It was a spontaneous decision.” She’d almost called him, but decided her choices weren’t his business.

      “You made it there okay, though, no car trouble?”

      “None. Are you amazed?”

      “Yes.”

      “It is possible, Mitch. I will prevail.”

      “Are you okay?”

      “No.” She held back tears. “Damn nightmares. I haven’t slept in over a year. Three or four hours, tops. I’m exhausted.”

      “I know. I’m sorry.”

      “No, I’m sorry. You’ve gone on as if our son never existed.”

      “Knock it off, Zoey! You know that’s not true.”

      Zoey squashed the phone to her ear and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I miss him so much.”

      “I know. Me too,” he said, seeming to shed his fatigue. “Why don’t you come home?”

      “Home? What is that? We’re divorced. You walked out on me.”

      “Living in a shrine got old. It’d be easier for both of us if you stopped lying to yourself. You left me long before I gave you my key, and you took our house with you.” He paused. “And the drugs—”

      “Prescription drugs.”

      “Abused prescription drugs. Cymbalta, Zoloft, Valium, Prozac, did I skip anything? I’ve said it a thousand times. I won’t watch you destroy yourself.”

      “Pussy.”

      “What are you on?” he asked.

      “All kinds of pills, Mitch. They’re worthless. I’m still unable to function.”

      “Come back and get help.”

      “Help?” She sucked her cheeks inward, attempting to stimulate saliva. “Why are you always trying to fix me? I’m irreparable. I’m mourning. I see Milo die every night. How do you expect me to go on? I can’t concentrate. I have no purpose without him. Don’t you understand? My son was my world.”

      “I do understand, and it pisses me off. You were a wife, and a friend, a professional, an artist—you wore many nametags, and you wore them well.”

      “I would give it all up for him.”

      “You have, and where has it gotten you?”

      “No! I would trade it for him, but I can’t, so I’m waiting to see him. He’ll return. Watch. What do you do? How do you honor our deceased son?”

      “I coddle his doped-up mother on a regular basis.”

      “I don’t need your bullshit, okay? Just listen.” She reclined on her pillow. “Remember his eyes?”

      “He had my eyes.”

      “He would have been an exceptional photographer,” she said as her skin numbed.

      “Sure. He would have been good at whatever he chose to do. You need to stop the drugs, Zoey.”

      “Why do you keep talking about me? It’s about Milo, and right now I want to be here, in Milo’s home, on Milo’s land.”

      “Milo never knew that place. You’d be closer to him here. You can visit his gravesite.”

      “And what, stare at a headstone? He’s not there. Remember his mobster impersonations?”

      “‘Marinara sauce? Who do I need to rough up to get a meatball?’”

      “And pirates, he loved pirates.” Zoey smiled.

      Mitch snickered gently, and again mocked from memory. “‘Take out the garbage? Arrgh, sweet merciless heaven.’”

      Zoey sniffled. “Merciless heaven. Oh God, so true. He was a smart kid.”

      “Come back to Chicago. You have friends and family here.”

      Zoey glanced at the ceiling. “I can’t. I belong in his house with him watching over me. I feel him.”

      “You’re not making sense, Zoey. He didn’t know your uncle and neither did you. Think. What are you on?”

      “I told you, a bunch of stuff. I take whatever will destroy the film СКАЧАТЬ