Dear Wife(26)

“I was meditating.”

“Seriously?” It’s not at all what I was expecting. She doesn’t seem like the type—too fidgety, too va-va-voom to be that grounded. “In the middle of the night?”

“Why not? Meditation relieves stress, increases concentration, clears your mind and calms your nerves.” She closes her eyes, holds her hands in the air, palms to the sky, in a classic meditation pose. I notice a tattoo that pokes out from the collar of her white tank top, winding down the skin of one arm. The other is covered in bracelets, leather and bright, colorful beads. “Ommmmmm.” Her eyes pop open, her gaze finding mine. “I’ll teach you sometime. Honestly, I’m glad to have another one of us here. Another female, I mean. We’re the only ones, if you don’t count Miss Sally. I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but this place is boiling over with testosterone.”

Her rapid-fire change of subjects is dizzying to my sleep-deprived brain, and I sink onto a chair at the table. I consider which part of her monologue to latch on to—the meditation, the proffer of friendship, the gender imbalance in this place—but she’s already moved on.

“I take it you’re new to town,” she says.

“Just got here, actually. How long have you lived here?”

“Atlanta or Morgan House?”

I shrug. “Both, I guess.”

“I’m a Grady baby, born and raised.” She leans a hip against the counter, taking in my frown. “Oh, sorry. Grady’s the hospital downtown, where they take all the gunshot patients and moms too strung out to know they’re pushing out a baby. I spent six weeks in one of those heated bubbles, sweating the crack and Lord knows what else out of my system. By the time I was clean, my mom was long gone. They handed me over to foster care.”

Her story has a few holes. Her accent, for one. Even if her foster parents were Latino, even if she grew up speaking Spanish at home, would her accent really be that strong? And why would someone born and raised in this city end up here, in a boardinghouse that caters to transients? Still, no way I’m planning to ask. The less she tells me about her life, the less she’ll expect me to tell her about mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “The foster system is tough.”

She shrugs, a what-can-you-do gesture. “The worst part is not being wanted by anyone. That really messes with your head, you know? It can make you feel worthless if you let it.” She pulls a bear-shaped bottle from the cabinet by the fridge and waves it next to her face. “Honey?”

I nod, even though I don’t usually take my tea sweet. My stomach is sharp with hunger, and honey will help.

She squirts a generous blob in each mug, reaches in a drawer for two spoons. “I’m Martina, by the way.”

A first name, nothing else. I follow her lead. “I’m Beth.”

“Nice to meet you, Beth.” She grins at me over her shoulder. “How you liking it here at Morgan House?”

“I haven’t really been here long enough to know, and you’re the only other person I’ve met besides Miss Sally.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “She scares me a little.”

Martina turns, swiping a hand through the air, her bracelets jangling. “Oh, don’t you worry about Miss Sally. As long as you’re cool, she’s cool. Ditto for most of the people staying here. They might need more than a three-minute shower, but they keep to themselves, mostly, and they won’t grab your ass or try to steal your shit, because they know Miss Sally would eat them for supper. Keep your head down and don’t ruffle any feathers, and you’ll do fine. How long will you be staying?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how quickly I can get a job.”

The kettle clicks off, the water gurgling in a rolling boil, and she pours it into the mugs. “The place I work for is always looking for some new help. Nothing fancy, just mopping floors and scrubbing sinks, but still. The work is steady and it pays enough to afford the rent here.”

Your voice bubbles up in my head, as clearly as if you were sitting at the table across from me. No such thing as a free lunch. Somebody offers you something, you best be thinking about what they want in return, because they always want something. I study Martina’s back as she dunks the tea bags up and down, up and down, and I wonder what she wants from me. The money strapped to my belly, most likely.

She glances over a shoulder. “Don’t like cleaning toilets, huh?”

I push your words aside and flip the script. Tell myself this isn’t about what this girl wants from me but what I want from her. The thing is, I already know that becoming Beth Murphy, really becoming her, is a pain in the ass, and maybe an impossible one. I need a Georgia driver’s license, and for that I need documents that seem as elusive to me as sprouting fairy wings or finding a flying unicorn. A birth certificate, a social security card and not one but two documents proving residency, something like a utility or credit card bill. Miss Sally doesn’t seem like the type who could be persuaded into slapping my name onto a rental agreement for a couple of crisp bills; I’m pretty sure she’d toss me onto the street if I even asked. And what about the other documents? The utility bills, the birth certificate and social security card? My Photoshop skills are nowhere near good enough, and I’m pretty sure forging a government-issued document is a felony.