You Make Things Better
By Faye Worthington
Bishop and Coyne are dead. They’ve been for over a year now. I’m sure Alice still thinks about them and the accident on Brushton Road. I’m sure her sadness will never go away. Not in four years. Not in fourteen years. Not in twenty-four years. Never. Life doesn’t work this way and we both realize it. We’re not stupid women. Never have been. Sometimes you can roll around in the garden of plenty and enjoy yourself. Other times the rolling causes tiny pricks that break open your skin and form long, narrow, bloody gashes that won’t stop flowing. It’s always about blood with women. Isn’t it? Of course it is.
Alice is usually happy, though. At peace somehow, but still unsettled. I can see her deterred spirit in the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes an
