Melissa stared up at her living room walls and frowned. Everything was pristine. Sterile. Colorless. White on white with accents of charcoal gray.
Reina and her mother had curled up on this couch. Had shed
dirt and slush from the Boston streets on the carpet./Of course there was nothing to mar the perfect nap of the white rug beneath the glass coffee table. But Melissa remembered both.
Reina. Thorne. Stirling. Martin. They were real. The little dog Poplar was real. Melissa was the one who felt imaginary.
Her half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table, the red glowing like a live coal. She reached for it, paused, and grabbed her phone instead. Before she could reconsider, she hit Ellie's number on speed dial.
What time was it in California? Hell, Melissa didn't even know what time it was here. So much for being oriented to time, place, or person.
"Hey Mel. You're late."
Relief flooded through her hearing Ellie's warm voice. For a long moment, she'd worried that her friend wasn't real either. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"Where are you? Wake me? It's eight thirty. And I'm starving."
Melissa frowned as her brain processed their disjointed conversation. Late. Eight-thirty. Starving. Her stomach rumbled. Dinner. She was supposed to meet Ellie at the new Italian place that opened up in Harvard Square. Wait. What was Ellie doing in Boston? She lived in the Bay area. Melissa gripped the soft white blanket as if it was the only thing keeping her anchored. Of course Ellie lived in Cambridge. She was a professor of religious studies at MIT. Melissa remembered how happy she'd been when Ellie moved back to Boston after living three timezones over for all those years. How much she had leaned on her friend during the long, slow decline of her parents' health last year.
"Earth to Mel...You okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. You sound...confused."
Melissa flushed. She knew Ellie was about to say drunk. That she sounded drunk. A series of long, frank, and uncomfortable conversations with her best friend had led to Melissa finally admitting she had a drinking problem. Not one that impaired her as a physician, but that didn't mean it wouldn't. She hadn't had an alcoholic drink for seventeen months.
Except there was a glass of red wine sitting on the coffee table.
"Ellie? I think I need help." She swallowed hard, staring at the wine glass.
"Where are you?"
She glanced around feeling like she was lost. "Home."
"Stay where you are. I'm coming over."
Melissa dropped the phone and pulled the blanket close to her chin. Something was very wrong.
