She wants coffee so badly. The space between her eyes starts to hurt, which seems ridiculous. But it does. Her body needs it. She closes her eyes and thinks of the smell, the hot dribble and slurp the coffeemaker makes. Maybe she has transferred everything, every craving over to coffee. She barely eats these days. And no funny stuff. She has a glass of wine here or there, but not a joint, nothing, nothing since Luke’s accident three months ago. She promised him that, but beyond that promise, she has no desire for any of it anymore. It ruins you. She doesn’t want to be ruined.
Three months with no Luke. It is March, and she is ready for spring and summer. She needs them to come.
She stands at the kitchen counter in her flimsy T-shirt and the scrub pants her mother found for her at a thrift store.
Scrub pants. The young doctor in his scrub pants in December who put a hand on each of her shoulders and explained carefully what had happened to Luke. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” he said.
Yes, yes, she understood.
Understood that she had hoped for too much. The knowledge of this makes her numb, makes her half angry. When he died, the chances of her rising above who she was seemed over: the girl who the other girls called a skank in high school. The girl who got C’s and D’s and never thought of going to college. She always felt discounted, cheap. Yes, she was a cheap-purse, cheap-lipstick, forgettable girl. Worse when she dyed the edges of her hair pink, when she put in more than one earring and got that tattoo of her grandfather’s signature across her wrist.
Once she had shown Luke a brochure for an evening college program where you could get credit for life experiences and start to earn your bachelor’s degree. “Cool,” he’d said. “Go for it.” College was no big deal to him. He had a degree. His sister had a degree. They were from a good family. Upper middle class: a basketball hoop in the driveway, a green lawn. She imagined taking classes at night, holding a book to her chest in the apartment as she quizzed herself on art history or botany terms. She imagined furiously punching numbers into a calculator and saying something like, I’m just double-checking my stats. She imagined learning, finally, what the hell a sonnet was. Or getting further with her watercolor painting. She was relieved that Luke thought she could take on college, but at the same time, she wanted more credit for even thinking about it. Was he impressed, or didn’t he even care?
She brushes her teeth, twists her hair into a bun, and slips into a long sweater with tights. Her boots are imitation Uggs. Fuggs, Luke called them. She will buy herself a hot cup of coffee for her birthday, from the good shop down the street: Annabelle’s Brew House. She will even splurge on a pastry or croissant. She wishes she could go to a place like that every day. To stop being meager. She hates being meager. Did Luke think she was meager? This makes her heart hurt again for a moment. She knows she’s meager. Whenever she has pretended she isn’t, she feels like an imposter.
She moves things around on the TV stand and finds the apartment key. She slings her purse over her shoulder and opens the door.
“Oh, hello.”
She jumps back. She is surprised to find Mrs. Crowley standing there. Luke’s mom. A woman with high cheekbones and tinted eyeglasses. She holds a drink carrier with two cups from Dunkin’ Donuts and a large shopping bag. “I hope this isn’t a bad time, dear,” she says.
“Oh no. Not at all.” Coffee? Is this really for her? From this woman? She can’t believe Mrs. Crowley is bringing her a treat. Has anyone ever done this? And on her birthday, no less. Maybe this year will be different, she thinks. Maybe this is the start of something.
But Mrs. Crowley has always made her nervous. She feels every centimeter of not measuring up to this woman’s high standards. In the time she and Luke dated, she never ate a meal with his mom. Luke brought her home just once in December: a clean house in that perfect neighborhood, the type of street she never, ever set foot on when she was younger, with a polished dining room table and stiff curtains. Mrs. Crowley was polite but didn’t offer her anything. Didn’t ask her any questions. At the funeral, Mrs. Crowley sat close to Luke’s ex-girlfriend, a veterinarian. A goddamned veterinarian. Really?
“May I come inside?”
“Yeah, I was just going to get coffee.”
“Lucky timing.” She holds up the twin Dunkin’ Donuts cups.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Hannah says. She melts for a moment. This is a big deal. Happy birthday, she thinks. When they step inside, she feels nervous as she closes the door. Something makes her terrified of being alone with Luke’s mom. She is like the scariest teacher from high school, or a head nurse at a hospital who bosses everyone around. She speaks slowly and precisely. She emphasizes each word as though she will refuse to repeat herself later. Hannah looks at her sloppy apartment. Cheap. Unmade bed, all that clutter on the TV stand. This woman must be disgusted. I am not a veterinarian, as you can guess, she wants to say. I don’t have the clean face and honest eyes and good posture that that girl has, she wants to say. I was brought up on SpaghettiOs and Hi-C.