The Syndrome

And it spooked her a little, because the house was in the middle of the block, which meant that it was also in the middle of the alley. She was always careful to take a good look before she turned into it. If there were guys drinking, as there sometimes were, she’d go to the front door, and ring for Mrs. Spears—who would let her in through the inside basement door. She hated to do it, though. Half the time, her landlady was asleep.

But there wasn’t anyone in the alley tonight. At least, she didn’t see anyone. Indeed, the only movement at all was a cat walking daintily along the edge of a backyard fence. Entering through the door to the garage, she crossed the tiny yard at the rear of the house, and unlocked the door to her own apartment.

It was an ugly, brown door—a “utility door”—that Mrs. Spears had tried to “brighten” with a country wreath. Adrie

In truth, nothing could have brightened The Bomb Shelter (as her pals at Georgetown had called it). But it was cheap and clean, and what was even more to the point, it was hers and hers alone. So she was grateful to have it, even if it was a bit musty.

And dark. And not very big.

Arriving home, she threw her coat and attaché case on the couch, then sighed when she saw the brown carrier bag standing in the corner with Nikki’s ashes inside it. At least I could unpack it, she thought. She removed the little wooden crate from the bag, and took the urn out of it, and then couldn’t decide where to put it. She finally placed it on the bookcase next to the door. Then she kicked off her shoes, and went into the kitchen, where her loneliness and sense of loss was given yet another boost by the sight of Jack’s bowl, empty on the floor beside the refrigerator.

Jack had only been with her for a short while, but even so, she missed him. Though he was better off with Ramon, she had been better off with him—because he made her laugh, and took her mind off things.

Things like… what to do with Nikki’s ashes? She had to have a ceremony of some kind. Something private—just her and her sister—something with the wind and the water.

But not tonight.

Going into her bedroom, she put on her pjs, and picked out something to wear the next day. Then she climbed into bed between the covers and, using the remote, flicked on the TV. Nothing. Nada. And yet, she couldn’t sleep. She was still wired from the three cups of French Roast she’d drunk while working on the prep notes and the after-di

So she picked up a book from the table beside her bed. Martin Amis’s Night Train. It was a short book, but she’d been reading it for weeks. Maybe she could finish it tonight. But, no. It was all about suicide:

A cop, who was an old friend of the family, was looking for the secret reason for a woman’s suicide. And as it turned out, there was no secret reason. The fact was, despite her wonderful job and loving family, the woman just didn’t find life worth living. Was that so terrible?

So what about Nikki? What was her motive? Was she driven to kill herself by the unhappiness and guilt fostered by her psychotherapist’s Satanic abuse scenario? Or did she somehow understand that she wasn’t herself, and never would be again—that Europe had broken her deep inside? Or was it something else that had caused her to tip the heater into the tub? Was it something to do with that ridiculous gun she kept? Where had it come from? Did she even know how to use it? Adrie

Like what? Adrie

She picked up Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It seemed a lot safer than Night Train, and it was begi

But she couldn’t get Nikki out of her mind. The thing was… Bonilla was right. She didn’t really know much about her sister. She didn’t know what had moved her. She was—had been—a mystery.

If only the last chapters in their relationship hadn’t been so grim. Even on the night she died, Adrie

By then, the di

But she was wrong. Never, for a second, did Adrie

Were these the same people who were supposed to have run around with candles and hoods, making snuff films? It would have been laughable, if it wasn’t so horrible.

And yet, because of Nikki, she had examined these memories as a prosecutor might, calling every suggestive episode into question. When Marlena said, “Let me kiss it and make it better… “ Was that… something else? And when Deck bounced her on his knee and sang, “This is the way the ladies ride, Nim Nim Nim… “ Was that… just a game?

Yes, she thought, it was. It was just a game. No matter how deeply she scrutinized these episodes, they remained i

She turned back to her book, punching up the pillows behind her. But the Ya-Yas couldn’t hold her attention. So she put a bookmark between the pages, clapped the book closed, and flicked off the light. Sisterhood, she thought as a car rumbled down the alley, headlights sliding up the wall and across the ceiling.

Maybe it’s time to forget about Duran. Let the police handle it. The civil suit is probably a waste of time. Whoever Duran is—whoever he really is—he isn’t going to stick around. There isn’t anything in it for him, except exposure. He’s probably packing even now.

Packing…

Adrie