Page 63 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Fifty-Four

The bookstore was in some neighborhood far from the temple, and Mariah wondered why they were even bothering.

It was hot . Even in her loose clothes, she felt sweat trickling down her back and between her breasts, making the cloth stick to her legs and arms. How did people stand it in the summertime?

They didn’t always, she thought. “Didn’t a bunch of people die of the heat here last summer?” she complained as they waited for a train.

Henry said, “It was a hundred and ten degrees.” He showed her his phone with the temperature. “It’s eighty-six today.”

“Hot,” she said with a scowl. “How long do you think it will take to get to the bookstore?”

“Not that long. Here’s the train now.”

The train was slightly less awful, with air conditioning diluted by many bodies, but at least she could breathe a little.

She smelled something herby and a deeper note of something spicy that made her think of Marrakech.

Which made her think of her mother the last time they’d gone together, buying so much soap that they’d had to stuff bars in every corner of their bags and luggage.

Her backpack had smelled of the medina for months afterward.

The lunch had made her think of her mom.

Mariah had grown up on lentils. They were a cornerstone of their lunches; the way someone else might eat a peanut butter sandwich or a salad, Rachel cooked lentils—red, yellow, green, French, whatever.

And the lentils at the temple had been flavored the same way, ginger and cumin and almost too much chili.

The meal had warmed her belly in a way she’d forgotten.

Oh, Mom, something in her cried. I miss you!

Henry leaned over to speak into Veronica’s ear, probably close only so that she could hear him over the noise of the train, but he pressed his free hand into her neck, and Mariah saw his thumb stroke her neck. Veronica listened, smiling, then looked up and grinned at him.

Why was everyone else having a better time on this trip than she was?

And while she was on the subject, what had she ever done to deserve such a terrible thing falling into her life?

Not everybody in the grocery store died or even got shot (and she could imagine how that must have been, going home after all the questions, shaky and scared and still no milk in the house, and now somebody else would have to buy it, because no way they were going into another grocery store today).

Why did Mariah? Why did her mom? Why didn’t Mariah die? It would have been so much easier.

Her heart double thumped, extra hard, at that. Did she want to die?

No. Honestly, not at all. She just wanted to stop feeling this pain, this agony of missing her mom and her other life, all the time, every second of every day.

She felt swamped by it, as if she wore pain like a cloak she couldn’t put down.

It interfered with her breathing, with her ability to see the world or other people or the future. How could she function like this?

How long would it last?

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against her hand where it gripped a pole. A burning ache rose in her throat, burned in her eyes. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

“This is our stop,” Henry said, his hand on her back to make sure she exited ahead of him.

Veronica looked back to make sure Mariah was okay, holding a hand out as if she were five and might trip.

“I’m fine,” she said, and then really did trip on something, careening forward until she caught herself with her cane.

The motion wrenched her ankle and the sore place that still showed up in her leg, and it infuriated her.

Both of them reached for her in alarm, and she shook them off, draping her scarf over her head and shoulders again, then heading for the exit.

Henry caught the back of her shirt. “This way,” he said, pointing.

She shifted direction, trying to keep her head up, but was she ever going to be good at anything ever again?

Not that she really thought she should know how to navigate a metro station she didn’t know, but it just felt lately like there was nothing.

Maybe it had been a mistake to spend her entire youth focused on the slopes.

They emerged from the station, and it was quieter here, with a lot of trees.

There were fewer people on the street, and the buildings were more modern, with generous balconies filled with plants and trees.

The shopping was of the type to support a residential area, a food market, restaurants, even a mall.

She felt herself take a breath of relief.

The crowds and heat had been tangling her nerves.

“I’m not sure we’re in the right spot,” Veronica said, checking her phone. “Maybe a few more blocks”—she pointed to the right—“that way?”

“Turn the phone around,” Henry said. “Other way.”

“Oh, yeah. Got it.”

The mall entry was just ahead, and Mariah was curious about it. “Let’s check out the mall?”

“Can we do it on the way back?” Henry asked. “I’d like to get this bit done.”

“Okay.” Just then, a woman walked toward them wearing big dark sunglasses, her hair tied back in a low ponytail, a straw hat shading her face.

A jolt of electricity knocked through Mariah’s center, and she halted, forcing herself to look closer.

The green blouse, with little dots, simple white pants.

Rachel.

She didn’t look their way, just opened the door to the mall and went in. Mariah bolted after her, dragging her back leg, and pushed through the doors into a hallway. “Mom!” she cried, but the woman kept walking.

Mariah couldn’t run. It was a physical impossibility, but she hobble-walked as fast as she could, trying to keep the green blouse in sight. A sense of terrible, terrible dread rose in her chest, filled her throat. “Mom!” she cried. “Be careful!”

A shower of bullets destroyed the ordinary scene. People didn’t scream, they just ran as fast as they could, ducking, holding their hands over their heads. Mariah dropped to her knees amid the avocados rolling on the floor, and saw the green blouse shredding, disappearing.

She howled.