Only Uni (19 page)

Marnie stalked to her room. She slammed the door so hard that the walls shuddered and a picture dropped to the carpet. Trish stood in the empty living room, staring at the closed door. It was almost as if the conversation had never happened. Her mouth opened and closed but she couldn’t get anything to come out. She’d only be talking to herself again anyway.

Trish tottered into her bedroom and collapsed on the edge of her futon mattress. She’d been on edge and irate all week, what with a whining call from Marnie every day and then more problems to discover when she came home. Her feverish, heightened emotions sucked the energy out of her until she fell exhausted into bed each night. When she wasn’t blazing mad, her anxiety swung into depression.

Her nose tingled and her eyes started to swell. She sniffed. The sound triggered a tightening in her chest, and she pressed her fist over her breastbone, as if she could keep her heart from pounding harder.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

My power is made perfect in weakness.

The sobs and wails came heaving out of her. She had forgotten rule number three, to persevere and rely on God. She had forgotten her God. But He hadn’t forgotten her.

Oh Lord, I totally failed on rule number three. I should have come to you first for wisdom and guidance. I should have prayed before ever agreeing to room with Marnie. But even after she moved in, I should have asked you for help.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It seemed her life was always like that.

I know this is a little late, but please give me wisdom about what to do now.

She still had to get her point across. She couldn’t lie about the cat. She had to do the right thing, regardless of what Marnie thought Christians should do. It had
nothing
to do with the fact that out of all the cats in the world, this one was the feline version of Godzilla.

She would wait until Marnie had calmed down — tomorrow? Trish wasn’t being a coward, she really wasn’t — then give Marnie the ultimatum: She would have a week to get rid of the cat or move out. If she stayed, Trish would tackle the smoking after that.

She plucked a few tissues and blew her nose. Now that she had prayed, her head had cleared of cobwebs, and her stomach no longer quivered. She felt as if a hand rested over her heart, stilling her emotions.

Everything would turn out okay. She breathed a sigh of relief.

And then she sneezed.

The next morning, Marnie sat watching Saturday morning cartoons when Trish stumbled out of her bedroom toward the kitchen. She cast a groggy glance at the figure on the couch as she honed in on the coffeemaker.

She started the coffee, leaned her tummy against the counter, and closed her eyes, listening to the gurgle and burping of the appliance. She sucked in the aroma as it dripped into the carafe.

What was she supposed to do today? Something about Marnie. But Marnie was already awake. Trish sighed. She’d be coherent and halfway human in about thirty seconds.

She poured herself a cup and sipped.
Okay, brain, start moving.
Something about the cat . . .

Oh.
Trish inhaled and straightened for a moment before slumping back into a limp noodle posture that would have made her mother cluck. That’s right, she needed to speak to Marnie. Well, no sense putting it off. “I need to talk to you — ”

The telephone jingled. Trish had the handset at her ear before the second ring. “Hallo?”

“Marnie,
tienes que llamar a Mamá. Ella está preocupada por ti . . .
”

Trish walked to the couch and held the cordless phone to her. “It’s for you.”

Marnie barked into the phone, “
Mamá, tienes que dejar de llama-rme. Te estás poniendo pesada . . .

Trish had inhaled two more cups of coffee by the time Marnie hung up. Ah, she felt positively feisty now. “We need to talk — ”

The razor-sharp buzz of the doorbell sliced through the room. Trish froze.

Marnie blinked at her for a moment. Then comprehension dawned, widening her liquid eyes and pulling her mouth into an
O
the size of a corn tortilla.

Marnie bolted for her open bedroom door, then slammed it shut. Behind her.

Trish gasped. The nerve! Abandoned by the very cause of the problem.

Bzzzz
cut into her thoughts. She broke her head from the coffee fumes to sniff around the room. She dove for the bathroom, snatched up the can of air freshener, then raced around dousing the apartment, hopping over bowls and pizza boxes.

“Who is it?” Trish winced at her frenzied tone while she jerked open the tiny windows flanking the living room’s picture window.
Oh, please, don’t let it be the landlord . . .

“It’s Mrs. Navarre, Trish. I signed for a package for your apartment yesterday.”

She crumpled in sheer relief, smearing herself over the arm of the couch.
Oh, thank you, God . . .

“Trish? You still there?”

The click of a door preceded Marnie’s cautious head peeking out. “You going to answer that?”

Trish’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t find her voice, and “urk”-ing sounds came out of her throat. She gave Marnie a long, incredulous glare while she stalked to the door and yanked it open.

Mrs. Navarre jumped at her violent action but smiled as she offered the brown parcel addressed to Marnie.

“Thanks.” Thank goodness for every single one of Mrs. Navarre’s eighty years, and her failing sense of smell. The old woman nodded and walked away.

Trish kicked the door closed. She tossed the package on the counter, then advanced on Marnie, who stood by the couch. “We need — ”

Yowl!

Trish catapulted down and almost cracked her head on the edge of the coffee table when she fell to her hands and knees. Marnie gave a muffled shriek and lunged for the floor behind her.

“You tried to kill my cat!” She picked up the mongrel, who spat a baleful
I will enact my revenge, you stupid human!
hiss at Trish before it affected a victim posture and screamed bloody murder.

Trish should have jumped up at the sight of the injured animal . . . but she didn’t. She got to her feet slowly, then sighed. “Let me see.”

Marnie squeezed the cat and twisted away, her breath coming in quick heaves. “You’re trying to hurt him.”

“I tripped. Over a cat who was supposed to be in your bedroom. Now let me see him.”

Her acidic tone cured Marnie’s hysterics. She held out the feline. Trish ran her hands over his fur in a body check. “Nothing’s broken. I think he’s okay.”

“You stepped on his paw. Shouldn’t you wrap it or something?”

“It’s
your
cat — ”

“
You
injured him.”

She needed to pick her battles. After all, she still needed to talk to her.

Trish turned away so Marnie wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. She dug an old T-shirt rag out of her closet, then returned to wrap the flailing limb. The cat recoiled at the sight of the large white swath and scrambled to get away.

Hmph. He wasn’t
that
injured.

Trish grabbed the cat and wrestled it into submission so she could wrap the paw. Marnie crooned saccharine Spanish phrases and annoyed it by rubbing its tail.

Here was her chance. “Marnie — ”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to move out. I’ll leave in two weeks.”Marnie then launched into more Spanish to comfort her pet.

Trish’s jaw fell and her chin bonked the cat on the head. After a moment, she realized how idiotic she must look — mouth open, squirming cat in her arms, a bulky T-shirt bandaged around its waving front leg. “Uh . . . okay.”

Marnie seized the cat, flounced into her bedroom, and banged the door shut.

Trish dropped onto the couch. Marnie’s pronouncement had startled her, but relief flooded through her like water softening a stiff loo-fah. Her hands dangled from the arms of the couch, and she stretched her legs out, feeling her bunched muscles uncoil.
Thank you, God, everything worked out fine.
Except . . . what was that brown, slimy, hairy stain under the coffee table?

Oh, great.

The cat had hacked up a furball.

SIXTEEN

T
rish got a bad feeling about teaching when Mrs. Choi, the Sunday school coordinator, met her at the door and suctioned herself onto her arm, reminding her of the time when she had licked a frozen lamppost at the tender age of seven.

“I’m so glad you volunteered to help us, dear.” Violet-and-fuscia colored eyelids blinked rapidly as Mrs. Choi led Trish into the foyer of the church. Another huge basket of flowers on the center table made Trish sneeze violently.

Mrs. Choi kept smiling and tried to surreptitiously wipe the spray from her pink jacket collar. Trish’s
Danger, Will Robinson!
alarm triggered.

However, Mrs. Choi had a strong grip, so she couldn’t pull away and run screaming from the building even if there was a seventy-five-percent-off sale at Bebe.

“Um . . . what age?” Trish dragged her feet even as Mrs. Choi yanked her down a hallway leading from the foyer.

“The best ages for new teachers, fours and fives.” Mrs. Choi’s mocha-plum lips stretched wide to reveal coffee-stained teeth flecked with lipstick. She opened a bright yellow door to a cacophony of childish voices, undercut by an older woman’s aggrieved staccato.

“Here’s our other teacher, Griselle Oh.”

“Oh?” It couldn’t be.

It was. A younger version of Mrs. Oh stood in front of her, with a strange blue hat — no, that was a splotch of blue paint on her head. She turned to Trish with the sweetest smile this side of the Yangtze River, waving a blue-dyed hand.

The bottom dropped out of Trish’s stomach.

Run away! Run away!

Mrs. Choi threw her to the wolves. “There you go, dear. Griselle will tell you what to do. Ta-ta!” She slammed the door shut as a few munchkins tried to make a run for freedom.

“Miss Oh, Susie spilled the glue.” A miniature Poison Ivy from
Batman and Robin
tugged at Griselle’s creased and stained slacks.

Griselle gave her a smile as if she were Miss Toddler America rather than the tattletale she was. “Now, what did we say about talking about things rather than helping with them?” Her dulcet tones belonged to Glinda the Good Witch, not a human being. “Why don’t you help her clean it up?”

Trish blinked. She definitely wasn’t up on Nurturing 101 like this chick. Griselle needed help? To do what, polish her halo?

Surrounded by children and standing next to Griselle, Trish had never felt so stained, and not by anything colorful like the hopefully water-based blue paint on the younger woman’s hands and head.

Griselle turned to her, all sweetness and light, making her want to sink through the floor. “Welcome! I’m so glad you’re here. I could really use the help and you’re perfect.” Her smile would have convinced Tony Soprano to give up the family business.

“I’ve never — ”

“That’s okay, that’s fine.” She straightened her tucked-in long-sleeved shirt — buttoned up to her chin, naturally — leaving a faint blue streak on the chambray. Her dark eyes widened in concern. “Oh no, Matthew is eating crayons again. Why don’t you help Susie clean up the glue?” She shooed Trish toward the back of the large rainbow-colored room to a low, small-person table where a dark-haired girl smeared glue all over the surface in a massive white finger-painting project. Some of it had already begun to dry, and rivulets stood out against the cheap Formica.

“Susie, glue is for . . . uh . . . gluing.” Trish nabbed the plastic tub before the girl could dip in for another reload.

She stared at Trish with wide brown eyes framed with thick, curling lashes. Then her eyes scrunched as she beamed at Trish, poofing out her dewy cheeks, made even more irresistible by the glue dabbing her nose. Trish could almost kiss her, except, well, the glue would probably stick her mouth permanently to Susie’s face.

Susie went back to layering glue on the table. “Mommy says I can have a new pet.”

“Um . . . that’s nice. Let’s play bulldozer, okay?” Trish brandished the glue container. “You’re the bulldozer. You have to push all the glue into the container — ”