In the Blink of an Eye

Chapter Eighteen: The Show Must Go On

"Mom, I was trying to talk to you," Edythe says, gently putting her hand upon my wrist as she comes into the kitchen. "I've been clean for seven months and three weeks, and you've only let me leave the house for those AA meetings. They're so depressing," she says, shaking her head, heading over to the refrigerator and getting out Greek yogurt and blueberries, before shutting the door behind her. She then fetches the jar of honey from the pantry and a bowl and a spoon before taking it to the kitchen bar. "Mom?"

I sigh, turning off the water; my hands were so chapped from doing so many dishes over the past three months. I tried to keep busy around the house throughout the summer, as I was put on a mandatory vacation. I'd been adamant that Violette and Nate did not give up their honeymoon, so Melanie had taken over the squad on a temporary basis, and got some other detectives to fill in the blanks. "Yeah, I know that, sweetheart," I say, drying my hands as I turn around to face her. "It's just a difficult time right now. The morgue is due to release your father's body at the end of the week and then the funeral arrangements will be planned..."

"Tell me why they couldn't have just done that whole autopsy thing right away, please," she says, her mouth fully.

"The best of the best were still knee-deep in the whole investigation regarding the Boston Marathon bombings," I reply patiently, knowing full well that we'd gone over this initially.

"He's going to die," Edythe predicted.

I blinked, shocked at her flat tone. Ever since rehab and her addiction being made common knowledge, gone forever was my happy-go-lucky daughter. Instead there was a serious young woman in her place, who had finished her senior year of high school by mail over the summer. Now, at only fifteen years and eight months, she stated that she wanted to wait until her next birthday before beginning college classes. I was fine with this, as she was researching which colleges she would be potentially matched with program-wise, applying for scholarships, writing various essays, and really considering a career-path for herself.

"So, sweetheart, how's the college hunt coming?" I ask, pouring myself a cup of tea and ruffling Livi's hair as Helena brought them into the kitchen and placed them in their highchairs.

"Fine," she replies. She dips her spoon back into the yogurt, taking a slow bite as she mulls over her next words very carefully. "I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go and what I want to do and stuff."

"And stuff?" I ask, feeling quite like a teacher I had my second year of high school, who absolutely hated it when the kids in our class would say "and stuff" as a means of getting information across. "What kind of stuff?" I say, bending down and kissing Donnie's head as I wait for her response.

"Yeah, really buckling down," Edythe goes on. "I'm trying to think at what would be the best possible option for me... I suppose a therapist of some kind would be good, given my own demons may help me sympathize with my client..."

"Uh-huh," I reply.

"...and John Buchanan was so inspiring," she goes on, staring off into space for a moment as she continues musing. "A lawyer in New York..."

"Also a good career choice," I encourage her, "and you have the kind of grades a law school would want..."

"But I really think..." She shakes her head, almost as if she'd already convinced herself that it was a bad idea. "Forget it. It's stupid."

"Nothing is stupid," I tell her firmly. "Come on. Tell me."

She scrapes the bottom of her bowl, getting out the last bite of yogurt before getting to her feet. She rinses out her bowl and puts that and its spoon into the dishwasher before letting out a little sigh and turns back to me. She is wearing her favorite orange sweater with her favorite pair of high-waisted skinny jeans and a pair of chestnut-colored Uggs she'd insisted that I buy her over the summer. Her orange sweater is one of those scoop-neck things that folds over onto itself, thus exposing the camisole she has beneath it—it is very much like an outfit that I would have worn at her age.