Tales of the Derry Plague by Anselmo, Ray (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

everything sounded better if you said it in French. Awn-wheeee. It felt kind of fun, like something you’d yell while riding a roller coaster. So much nicer than “bored out of my freaking skull.” But it was still the same feeling. And she needed to do something about it, to get out of the rut before she discovered she couldn’t.

But what?

She pondered that as she resumed going house-to-house up Admiral Drive. And the distraction was helpful, since the third house, 34 Admiral, was the party of five’s. She’d been dreading this, going through her friends’ belongings as if they were strangers. She’d especially been wary of going into Vivi Fifi’s room, where Vivi took her life.

Kelly hadn’t known Vivi suffered from depression – heck, she didn’t know if Vivi had suffered from depression. Maybe she’d just been overwhelmed by the sudden sweeping blow of her friends dying around her. Either way, she might’ve survived if she hadn’t taken those pills. They could’ve met up that first Monday, commiserated, cried on each other’s shoulders, teamed up to tackle creating a life out of this mess. They would’ve had each other to talk to, to bounce ideas off of, to help …

Kelly realized she was pounding her fist on the door jamb of number 34, angry beyond reason. “Blast it, Vivi, why didn’t you just tough it out? I would’ve been here for you! I …” I would’ve had someone besides myself. That was what really ground her gears – okay, maybe Vivi had already contracted it and would’ve croaked a day or two later. But LaSheba’s journal said she was still up and around, not showing any symptoms.

Vivian Pfeifer might still be around today if she hadn’t gobbled fifty-some Vicodin in her despair, or her grief. Which meant Kelly wouldn’t be alone now. Maybe that was selfish. Yeah, it was selfish. But would anyone, even God, blame her for that. “It is not good for man to be alone” – she knew that wasn’t just about Adam and Eve, or marriage. Everybody needed somebody, even bipolar loners like her.

“No use wishing for a different past,” she grumbled. That was one of the first things she’d learned in therapy – you couldn’t change what had happened, or fix it, only learn and grow from it or leave it behind. She had to leave Vivi Fifi and her fateful decision behind too. Even as she was going through the girl’s house.

There was a lot to document at 34 Admiral, what with five adult women living there. Clothes in four different sizes – Sarah and Michanne were the same size, and often swapped outfits. A lot of knickknacks. Not too much crud in the fridge, and most of it in plastic or foil, as they all just cooked for themselves unless Leslie was on one of her periodic baking jags. The sink was half full of dirty dishes, which meant someone had missed their turn with the chores. Probably because they’d fallen ill.

This was depressing, and not just because she’d known the people who lived here. She’d worked with three of them, supervised them, watched them grow as young women, mentally prepared for the days they’d get a job elsewhere or get married. She could see twenty years later getting Christmas cards from them or seeing posts on Facebook of them with their kids or on vacations or …

They were young women, happy and vibrant, with their whole lives ahead of them, a contrast to Sayler Beach’s main population of retirees and aging hippies. And now those lives had been snuffed out like a quintet of candles. One week here, the next week gone.

Of course she shed some tears. It was only natural.

She picked up a framed picture from a shelf by the TV. It was of the five of them, their arms around each other’s shoulders, dressed up and ready to head to a party in San Rafael or a night on the town in San Francisco. Sarah ducking and smiling shyly, like she was being dragooned into it – though Kelly knew she was quietly the biggest instigator of the bunch. Michanne with her perfect coffee-and-cream skin and hourglass figure, for which the others often called her “Beyonce.” Leslie, stocky and butch-looking but the most boy-crazy of the lot. The Queen LaSheba, the acknowledged leader, dark and buxom with her natural bursting out like spring around her head.

And on the far left, grinning like the Cheshire cat, Vivi. Her pale skin, sharp-featured face and curly red hair made her look like a Gaelic Michelle Wolf. She would be laughing the loudest wherever they went, probably drinking the most too, and would be awake long after the others (even Sarah or Michanne, who alternated as the designated driver) had conked out. The life of the party.

Kelly sighed, her shoulders slumping, and took the picture with her when she left. Something to remember them by, even if remembering did bring her low.

She kept going, stopping for lunch and another lamotrigine before she got even lower. But keeping busy, as usual, helped bolster her spirits. One house, then another. Write down the basics, clean out the garbage, pack up the salvageable food, check to see if there was anything she wanted to take with her for her own use (there usually wasn’t). Haul the trash and food to the store and put them in their appropriate spots.

An inconvenience – after today’s collection, she was out of room in the Bog of Eternal Stench. She’d need to let it compact some and find a new dumping ground. Thankfully, she knew the Spinnaker Inn had its own, smaller dumpster. And she’d snapped up one other thing from the party of five’s house: Sarah’s bolt cutters, which she’d used for a couple of more invasive protests. The next time she had to get rid of refuse, it would be the easiest thing to