Page 50 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Forty-Two

Mariah stirred at some point in the dark, dehydrated and exhausted, but the intense food poisoning had passed through her.

Moving like a very old woman, she made her way into the splendiferous bathroom, turned on the tap to the bathtub.

It was deep, shaped by a copper tub surrounded by tile work in shades of blue, dark to light.

The fixtures were brass. On the sink was a bottle of rose water, and she added a generous amount, then stripped her sweaty clothes off and sunk into the luxuriousness with a bottle of water at her side.

Thank God.

She could imagine her mother sitting on the edge of the tub, pouring in more rose water. A good bath cures everything, she always said. A good bath, a solid walk, good food, always. The right spice, the right tea, a proper meal. Those were the cornerstones of Rachel’s life.

“I miss you so much,” she said aloud.

No one answered. A wave of hard grief slammed into her, unrelentingly present, as if it was a monster that could chew her up and swallow her whole. For a long moment, she contemplated sinking lower and lower and lower in the water until she disappeared. In a way, it would be so much easier.

But, oh my God, her mother would be pissed!

She sat up slightly and forced herself to drink a few more big gulps of water, waiting to see if they stayed down.

It’s just the food poisoning, a voice said in her mind. A voice that, yes, did sound like Rachel. It’s depressing to feel that sick, like you’re going to die, but you just want to die and don’t.

“But when am I going to start feeling better?” she asked the empty room. “How long can I live like this?”

Until it’s better.

She sunk to her nose and blew out bubbles of frustration. In the water, her body looked lean and unharmed, and she had a sudden memory of what it felt like to move around the world in a healthy body. She’d taken so much for granted!

And really, she was lucky. But lucky didn’t really help with what was next.

How did a person fill a life when the main things she lived for were gone?

It wasn’t like she had some plan B. It had always been skiing, her mom and Aunt Jill, and the things that would come out of her Olympic performances—sponsorships, pro skiing, maybe even her own product line of some sort. Her mom was always thinking up ideas.

What would her mom tell her now?

The question sent a breath of soft green peace through her angsty wanderings. What would her mother suggest?