I hope Amber knew how lucky she was to have a parent who actually gave a shit.
Delphine exhales, heading for a closet in the corner. “You know, I kept some of her old clothes. And you are about her size. She was my little twig. Not a lot of meat on her bones. Girl could eat like there was no tomorrow but nothing would stick. I bet you could fit into some of these.” She pulls a thin sweater and a pair of narrow, straight-leg jeans from their hangers and holds them up. “I don’t know how ‘in’ these are these days, but you’re welcome to wear anything you find in here.”
“Thank you.” I swallow the lump in my throat that forms in response to the idea of wearing a dead person’s clothes. But I’m not in a position to be choosy—only grateful.
“Why don’t I finish showing you around?” She places the clothes back on their hangers and shuts the closet, giving the door a good shove with her hips to get it to latch. “This thing likes to get an attitude sometimes.” She waves her hand and heads to the hall. “Anyway, here’s the bathroom.” She reaches inside and flicks on a light. “Just make yourself at home.”
Delphine points to a hall closet.
“Vacuum and cleaning supplies are in there,” she says. “Towels and extra bedsheets, too.”
Delphine strolls back to the kitchen, plucking a handwritten list from beneath a gemstone-turned-magnet on the fridge.
“Think I’ll have you make a grocery run today.” She hands me the torn sheet of paper. “There’s a mart three blocks from here, walking distance. Why don’t you get cleaned up and then meet me downstairs? I’ll have to get you some cash from the register.”
I fold the paper in half. “Sounds like a plan.”
Aligning her shoulders with mine, she cups my face between her warm hands, the way she did in her shop earlier. I flinch once more, heart whooshing in my ears. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to being touched again.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, her voice a broken whisper as her eyes well. “Everything’s going to work out just fine for you. Know that.”
I’m not sure anyone could know something like that.
The future isn’t carved in stone—it isn’t even written in pencil on the back of a napkin.
But once again, I don’t want to offend this gracious woman.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” she says on her way out. “Please, angel, make yourself at home.”
With that, she’s gone.
Eyeing the open bathroom door, I waste little time peeling out of my clothes, grabbing a towel from the linen closet, and filling Delphine’s acrylic tub-shower combo with water so hot it turns my fingers pink when I test it—yet another thing I’ll never take for granted again.
The Monster used to force me to sponge bathe with ice-cold water—intentionally filling my bucket with ice cubes and laughing as my teeth rattled and my body was consumed with violent shivers.
I was a lab rat to him. An experiment in how much a human could take without breaking. The light in his eyes as he poked and prodded at me reminded me of a teenage boy I once knew a lifetime ago who got in trouble for torturing neighborhood cats. There was a sick curiosity inside him amplified by an inability to feel. People like that do their bidding in the dark, behind closed doors, to living souls incapable of fighting back.
It’s why they never get caught.
I locate a jar of lavender and ginseng bath salts beneath the sink and sprinkle in a small handful because I don’t think Delphine would mind, as generous as she is. Then I lower myself in, careful inch by careful inch, until sweat beads across my forehead and my body grows used to the intense temperature. I could stay in here for hours. Draining the water every so often and topping it back off. But I won’t. I need to grab groceries for Delphine. I need to be a woman of my word because lord knows there aren’t enough of us in this world.
Helping myself to a bottle of peppermint shampoo, I wash my hair not once, but twice, relishing the minty tingles that cover my scalp. And then I squeeze a palmful of sandalwood conditioner into my hand and let it sit on my damp mane for five minutes. As my thirsty hair drinks it in, I browse the assortment of body washes in the stainless steel caddy by the tub. I settle on an orange-peel-and-agave option the color of bottled sunshine.
When I’m done, I dry with a thin bath sheet that wraps around my body twice, and I smell like a candy shop. Sickeningly sweet. Headache-inducing. But I’d consider it an overwhelming improvement on the perpetual sweat, earth, and industrial hand soap fragrance I’ve come to know.
I run one of Delphine’s wooden combs through my hair, which is satisfyingly slick and smooth, not a snarl or tangle to be had for the first time in forever. I comb it once more, this time with my eyes shut, enjoying it. Because it’s the little things.
Crumpling my dirty clothes in my arms, I carry them to my room, drop them on the bed, and move to the closet to select one of Amber’s old outfits. Delphine made a comment about not being sure if these clothes are still “in,” but that’s the least of my concerns. I wouldn’t know what’s “in” if it hit me in the face. Before The Monster took me, I never paid attention to trends. And trends aren’t exactly a thing when you’re living in the wild.
I select a pair of jeans with an expensive-looking label and a name I can’t pronounce. Then I layer a threadbare Nirvana T-shirt under a striped Gap sweater and give myself a once-over in the mirror, ensuring my nonexistent pancake breasts are covered. Bras and underwear are definitely on the list, along with shoes and a government ID and all the other items I need to start my life over.
But until then . . .
Heading downstairs to the shop, I find Delphine in the back room, finishing up a reading for some elderly lady clutching a sepia-toned photo of a man in uniform. When they’re finished, Delphine collects $100 in cash from the smiling, teary-eyed woman and walks her to the door.
“Here. I’ll give this to you.” She hands me the cash, which is about half of what I made on my best panhandling day a few months back, before a schizophrenic man with dead, unfocused eyes stole my lucrative spot. “This should cover groceries and any toiletries you need. The grocer is just three blocks north. Oh, and I forgot to put it on the list, but if you could grab a drug-testing kit from the pharmacy section, that’d be great, angel . . .”
She steeples her hands, eyes soft but lips flat.
“Of course.” I slide the cash into my back pocket and hit the sidewalk, grateful for the sun overpowering the gray clouds today because I barely need a jacket. And it’s a good thing, given the fact that I don’t own one.
Ten minutes later, I spot the grocery store parking lot and pick up my pace. But in the midst of crossing the street, I’m nearly taken out by an olive-green BMW SUV that blows through a stop sign and careens into a spot conveniently close to the main doors. A second later, a bun-wearing, lithe woman with a bowling ball for a belly emerges, straightening her square, black sunglasses and securing an oversized tote on her left shoulder.
It takes me only a second to realize it’s my husband’s current wife.
The BMW chirps as she run-walks toward the building and disappears past the automatic doors.