Juliet Immortal

work, but you could’ve worked in a kitchen or something! Ah! This just … drives me crazy.” She closes her eyes, sucks in a long, slow breath and lets it out, apparently unaware that there are antidiscrimination laws in modern America. Too bad there aren’t any laws against discrimination in the home. “You know what? It isn’tworth another fight. You’re about to graduate and you can find a job next year. Maybe something part-time at the college.”
    Assuming Ariel overcomes the certainty that she’s too hideous to be seen in public, and the general awkwardness and self-loathing that make most people her age consider her a social disease. At this point, that’s a big assumption. I have to turn Melanie into an ally instead of another obstacle to overcome.
    But not tonight. I’m exhausted and hungry, and Nurse is waiting for me.
    “It’s fine,” Melanie continues. “I’ll give you my phone, and I’ll get an iPhone. I can get a good discount, and everyone else has one. I’m the only person at the hospital who isn’t checking their email every ten seconds.” She laughs, a strained sound that seems uncomfortable in her mouth. “So … don’t worry about the phone. I’ll leave mine on the counter for you in the morning.”
    “Thanks.” At least she’s trying. It’s … a start. “I’m going to get something to eat. Do you want anything?”
    Her upper lip curls, as if the thought of food is vaguely repellent. “No, I had a sandwich.”
    I turn to the refrigerator and tug open the door, searching for something to ease the ache in my stomach. Ariel doesn’t have strong memories of food. She eats to live, doesn’t live to eat. Good thing too, or the contents of the refrigerator—a few Chinese takeout containers, lunch meat, a jar of shriveled black olives, a hunk of orange cheese, three bottles of wine, and an old container of cottage cheese that’s expired—would be enough to inspire a second suicide attempt.
    Yuck
. So much for taking comfort in food.
    I reach for the cheese and the olives, then think better ofthe olives and put them back. I have high standards when it comes to olives. My family grew them on our estate and pressed olive oil so fine I can still recall the smell of it spreading on a warm plate.
    The memory makes my shoulders sag.
    “Honey, are you sure you’re okay?”
    “I’m fine.” I let the door drift closed and turn to find Melanie exactly where I left her, stranded in the middle of the kitchen, staring at me with a curious expression.
    “You just seem … not yourself.”
    I freeze, considering my behavior since I came inside. Ariel and Melanie argue all the time, but Ariel usually loses her temper and runs for cover before things get as intense as they did tonight.
    Maybe I’ve started off too strong.
    I shrug. “It’s been a rough night.”
    “I know. I’m just … I want you to …” She sighs and fists her robe once more. “I’ve never been good at this, but you know what I mean.”
    No, she hasn’t, and I guess I do. She means that she cares, no matter how bad she is at showing it. But Ariel wouldn’t know. Ariel would see this interaction as yet another time she’s failed to be what Melanie wants her to be, another reason to get angry or give up and quit trying.
    Still, that doesn’t keep me from feeling bad for this woman. She isn’t an awful person, or even the worst mother in the world. At least she waited up to make sure her daughter got home safely. My own mother couldn’t have cared less, so long as I didn’t attract scandal and stayed out of her sight.
    “It’s okay, Mom,” I say, adding the words I suspect both of the women in this family need to hear more often. “I love you.”
    Her lips part before a smile slowly brightens her face. “I love you too.” She reaches out and pulls me close, crushing our thin frames together for a moment that is equal parts awkward and wondrous. There is love in this hug, no matter how clumsy.
    Maybe there’s hope for this family. The realization helps me breathe a little easier … once Melanie releases her death grip. We pull apart and stand staring at each other—her hands fluttering back to her waist, mine clutching a hunk of rapidly warming cheese—until Melanie breaks the silence with a nervous laugh.
    “Okay, I’ll let you get to bed,” she says. “I’m working the late shift tomorrow, so I’m going to sleep in. Is Gemma giving you a ride to school? Or do you need to