Hedy watched her. Emery watched his sister's face and saw, to his surprise, that it was not hard. Hedy had seen a great deal in eighteen years on a labor floor. She had once told him that the hardest thing about the job wasn't the blood, it was standing in a room with somebody on the worst day of their life and not deciding who they were from it.
"Get your stuff," Hedy said to Noelle. Her voice was not gentle and it was not cruel. "A bag. Your meds. Your phone charger. Your work clothes, if you think you're going to need them, and I don't. I'll take you to Marjorie's."
Noelle straightened up. She looked at Emery. "Can I say goodbye to her?"
He thought about it. He thought about it longer than he wanted to, with both of them watching him, and he hated that he had to.
"Not tonight," he said. "I'm sorry. I'll tell her you wanted to. I'll tell her you said you're sorry and you love her and you're getting help. Tomorrow, maybe, on the phone, if she wants. Not tonight."
Noelle nodded. She did not argue. She got up from the table, carefully, holding the back of the chair, and he saw how much she'd had, now that she was standing, the small correction in her balance, the way she watched her own feet. She went upstairs. He heard her in their bedroom, the closet, the zipper of a bag. He heard her stop outside Linnea's door, in the hall. He held his breath. He heard her stand there a long time. Then he heard her go on down the hall to the bathroom for her toothbrush, and come back past the door without stopping, and come down the stairs.
At the back door she turned around. Hedy was already outside with the car running in the alley.
"The bottles," Noelle said. "There's another one in the laundry room. Behind the detergent, on the shelf. And one in my car, under the passenger seat. That's all of them. I think that's all of them."
"Okay."
"Pour them out. Don't put them in the recycling, she'll see them. Take them to work."