*

The weekend drifted by without any notice from me, maybe even some of my fall break slipped by too. I lost track of it at some point.

Despite Esther’s protests, my door was locked after the dinner Thursday night and it hasn’t been unlocked since. She flooded my phone with texts and missed calls but I refused to even look at the screen. She knows me and she knows something happened, and I know that she’s worrying her little over-protective socks off, but I’m not quite ready for share time.

Maybe I’m being selfish… But sometimes I just can’t help it.

My hair is balled up in purple birds-nest knots and my pyjamas could have been picked up straight from the floor of a mens’ locker room. I can’t see much of my room with my duvet hiked up to my nose but the muddy green carpet is invisible underneath the layer of screwed up tissue balls. There is only motivation for me to do one thing and it isn’t to brush my teeth or get myself a glass of water.

I wrap my hands around the Jess the cat keychain and stare into its eyes as if they were hers – this worn out plush cat; that has fluff pouring out of the numerous holes is my most precious possession.

I hold it and I can hear the jangle of her keys as she comes home from work. I smell it and the last hint of Chanel that soaked into the stuffing embraces me with that warm, all-encompassing comfort only a mother’s hug can give. This one lousy keychain is all I have left of her. And I cherish it. Just as I was once able to cherish her.

Even if it’s my fault that she’s gone. Even if the gun in her mouth, her finger on the trigger, the bullet in her brain… Even if it was all because of me.

*

BANG BANG BANG. The door thuds aggressively.

I snap out of my sorrow and Puddy gets knocked to the floor.

BANG BANG BANG.

 I spring fully upright, my hands grip at the sides of the bed in fear of my door being broken down. BANG BANG BANG It goes again and this time I muster up a hint of a voice. “Who’s out th-th-there?” I stutter in an oddly Scooby-doo like way.

“Girl, you’re alive?! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR ALREADY!” The back of my head hits my pillow the second Esther’s voice registers in my head.

“Oh no you don’t. You acknowledged my presence when you thought I was a murderer, you can’t ignore me now you know I’m not.”

“I’m fine Ess. But my legs are broken in like 5 different places, I can’t let you in,” I whine while still shuffling to the door.

“Legislation 5 of the Lannie agreement-“ Esther starts to recite a pact we made when I was 14 that keeps my spiral of self pity in check. “We made a blood pact!” she demands.

“No, you made a blood pact,” I correct her in a serious tone and swing open the door.

She steps in. Her grin holds a sort of smug pride but all I can fix my eyes on is her outfit. Her red and black chequered shirt is tied perfectly at the waist to accentuate her figure, her tight white tank underneath is a shade of white you only get before its first wash, and her smoky-grey ripped jeans that hug her stomach just up to the belly button are without a single blemish.

“Uggggh!” I grump back to bed and huff into my pillow in frustration at her well put together cleanliness. It sickens me.

“Have a shower Lane. Seriously. You feel lousy when you smell like a woodland creature that just bathed in a pool of a boar’s urine,” she stands over me, her stance firm and her arms crossed commandingly.

“Ess,” I grumble into the pillow that I’m hugging to my chest, “Can’t you hire one of your hit man friends? I want Brian Myer dead.”

“Hey, if that’s what you need I’ll go smash his head in with his Grandfather’s walking stick. But you gotta pull yourself up.”

She walks over to the bed and puts her hand out to stroke my head as she sits down in front of me. I stare at her over the top of my pillow with mopey eyes. After tilting her head in a return stare, she forces the pillow from my grip against my tug of war protest.

Esther throws the pillow across the room and swishes her hand towards the floor at the side of the bed, “Get down.” I roll my eyes to the side as I drop down in front of her. She leans over to slide the comb off of my bed side table and starts to gently untangle the clumps of my bunched up hair. “You know every time you leave it, it gets like this.”

I sigh in a mixed tone of both exasperation and gratitude.

After tackling the tumble weeds on my head, Esther continues to direct me through my road to recovery.

*

For three hours Esther ordered me around my room to polish me and it, until we were both squeaky clean and beaming. I did manage to muster up a proper thank you and I even parted ways with my favourite silky black shirt because that’s the one I got from Original, (the clothing store we both love) and they only sell one copy of each item.

She wanted to stay longer but at 6PM, her job called and she was out the door. 6 PM. At least I know the time now. But I also know the day, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s been one week since the dinner and I’m scheduled for another “date” on Friday. That’s one day to mentally prepare for a one-on-one dinner date with the guy I despise.

I guess I can forget catching up with the Realm of Barrack.