Dead Ever After

things I wanted to say. More than almost anything else in the world, I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him how much he meant to me. But as I took a half step in his direction, Eric moved back and shut the office door.
    I froze for a moment, trying to absorb the shock and hurt, and keep my face from crumpling. Pam glided toward me and put one hand on my shoulder to spin me around and guide me away from the door. After it clanged shut behind us, she said into my ear, “Don’t come here again. It’s too dangerous. There’s too much going on, too many visitors.” And then she raised her voice and said, “And don’t come back until he calls you!” She gave me a little shove that propelled me into the side of my car. And then she zipped back inside and closed the door with that quick vampiric movement that always seemed like magic, or a really good video game.
    So I went home, brooding over Pam’s warning and Eric’s words and demeanor. I thought about crying but didn’t have the energy. I was too tired of being sad to make myself even sadder. Obviously, there was a lot of upheaval at Fangtasia and a lot of things hanging in the balance. There was nothing I could do about it except stay out of the way in the hope that I’d live through the change in regime, whatever that turned out to be. It was like waiting for the Titanic to sink.
    Another morning went by, another day I passed holding my emotional breath, waiting for something to happen . . . something conclusive, or terrible.
    I didn’t feel as though I were waiting for the other shoe to drop; I felt as though I were waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. If I hadn’t met with such a crushing reception when I went to Fangtasia, I might have tried to shake things up on my own, but I was discouraged, to put it in the mildest possible way. I took a very long, hot walk through the woods to put a basket of tomatoes on the Prescotts’ back porch. I mowed my meadowlike lawn. I found I always felt better when I was outside: more whole, somehow. (And that was good, because there was a shitload of yard work to do.) But I brought my cell phone with me every step I took.
    I waited for Sam to call me. But he didn’t. Neither did Bernie.
    I thought Bill might come over to let me know what was going on. He didn’t.
    And so ended another day of noncommunication.
    The next day, when I got up, I had a message of sorts from Eric. He had texted me —texted me !—and not even personally, but through Pam. She relayed a stiff message, informing me that he’d talk to me later in the week. I had cherished a hope that perhaps Pam herself would show up to bawl me out or to enlighten me about how Eric was faring . . . but no.
    As I sat on the front porch with a glass of iced tea, I examined myself to see if my heart was broken. I was so emotionally exhausted, I couldn’t tell. As I saw it, maybe melodramatically, Eric and I were struggling with the chains of the love that had bound us together, and it didn’t seem we could either break free of those chains or resume them.
    I had a dozen questions and conjectures, and I dreaded the answers to all of them. Finally, I got out the weed whacker, my least favorite yard tool.
    My gran used to say, “You pays your money, and you takes your choice.” I didn’t know where the saying had originated, but now I understood what it meant.
    “Of course,” I said out loud, because the radio was playing and I couldn’t hear myself think over it, “if you make a decision, you have to abide by the consequences.” I hadn’t even made a conscious decision to use the cluviel dor to save Sam; I’d acted instinctively when I saw him die.
    Finally, I’d reached my saturation limit on this retroactive second-guessing. I threw down the weed whacker and screamed out loud. Screw all this brooding.
    I was sick of thinking about it.
    So I was delighted, after I’d put away all the yard tools and showered, to hear a car crunching up my gravel driveway. I recognized Tara’s minivan. As she drove past the kitchen window, I peered out to see if the twins were strapped into their car seats, but the windows were tinted too dark. (Seeing Tara in a minivan was still a shock, but during Tara’s pregnancy she and JB had vowed to be model parents, and part of that picture was a minivan.) Tara’s shoulders were rigid as she walked to the door, but at least she was coming to the back door as friends should. She didn’t fool with knocking. She