Tangerine(30)

I slept little that night. In novels, the heroines always tossed and turned, exclaiming that they were unable to remain still and pass the night in a peaceful sleep. I did not toss and turn. Instead, I remained entirely still, rigid, I thought, as if the preservation of my life depended upon the immobility of my body. After several hours of this, I began to sweat from the exertion. Passing in and out of sleep quickly enough that I could no longer tell how much time had passed, my body bathed in dampness, I could pass a hand across my chest and feel the wetness clinging to my palm. The terror abated only at the first bit of sun peeking through the curtains. Instead of waiting for the day to start, I swept aside the sheets, as if this movement would somehow hasten the arrival of dawn. I had had enough of night. And yet still I lingered, unsure where to go and what to do without Lucy’s presence to guide me, to help mark the time. She was always the first to rise, and I waited until she had retreated to the toilet to do the same. Without her, I stalled, lying, waiting.

Sleep-deprived from my night alone, I drifted off, despite my intention to stay awake. Instead my eyelids began to droop, my breathing becoming slow and heavy. I could feel myself falling asleep and yet I could do nothing at all to resist its soft, insistent call.

I awoke, heart pounding.

At first, I wasn’t sure what had woken me, but then I became aware of her presence. I watched, my eyes still half-closed in pretense of sleep, as she lifted her blouse over her head, so that she stood in just her bra and underwear, a garter belt, rather than a girdle, holding up her stockings. My aunt had insisted I purchase the latter, despite my protests. You may be naturally thin now, she had said, but just wait until you’re married and have had a few babies—you’ll be happy for it then. I realized that I had never seen Lucy this unclothed before. It seemed strange that after years of living together, I had yet to see her without clothes, though I knew I had done much the same to avoid such a situation—changing when she was out of the room, or rushing to the bathroom to hastily throw on my outfit for the day. I was struck by the sheer whiteness of her skin. She was pale, I knew that already from her complexion, but there was something different seeing it stretched out along the rest of her body. She seemed to glow, so that I was convinced that even if it was completely dark in the room, I would still be able to find her.

I was suddenly conscious of just how naked she was. Both her bra and underwear were white, though not the same shade, and typical of the fashion—plain, with a simple trim of lace on the top, which fitted just below her navel. Her bra also had few adornments, just a single white flower between her breasts. My eyes rested there for a moment, wondering at her generous proportions, ones that seemed ample compared to my own, and how she managed to hide them underneath her clothing. I tore my gaze away and back to her face. “Lucy,” I said, sitting up, the word sounding like a whisper, too soft for what I had intended. “Lucy, where is it?” I asked, working to make my voice strong, sturdy.

Lucy looked over at me and frowned. “What?”

I let out a deep breath. “The bracelet.”

“What bracelet?” she asked, shaking her head.

“My mother’s bracelet,” I pressed.

She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere. I haven’t seen it since you last wore it. About a week ago?”

The words that I meant to speak, that I had prepared and memorized over the hours since we had last parted, evaporated then, disappearing into a vaporous trail before I could make them concrete. I struggled to understand what was happening. It was as if the past day, our past conversation, had not happened at all, as if—I stopped, shuddered—as if I had only imagined it. I looked up at my roommate, searching for something—anything—that could be considered as proof, evidence, of what she had done, of what she was still doing. There was nothing. She looked sincere, had sounded sincere, as if she truly didn’t understand what it was that I was talking about, as if she were genuinely worried for me.

I don’t believe you.

I was surprised by the vehemence behind my thoughts and worried, for one moment, that I had spoken them aloud. I shook my head. I held firm, resolute, reminding myself that I knew the truth. She had taken the bracelet, angry at me for Tom, for not spending as much time with her. But then—the idea was too strange, too unsettling. I wondered why I had even thought of it in the first place.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” I finally said. They were the only words that I could think of as my brain stuttered and failed to keep up with what was happening, the only truth I could arrive at. I didn’t know.

Lucy frowned. “Don’t worry, Alice.” She gave a brief smile. “We’ll look for it together, I promise.”

She enveloped me then, a more intimate gesture than the others we had previously shared, and not simply because she was standing in her underwear. For it wasn’t my roommate who was exposed, who was laid bare—it was me, and all of my shortcomings, the fragility of my mind silently splayed between us. I did not like to think of it, of that period after my parents’ death—but now it seemed to burst forth between us, undeniable, so that there was no other choice but to take it out and look at it once more.

I remained frozen, still unsure in that moment what to believe. But then, eventually, my arms left my side and I grasped her tightly—too tightly, I knew, but I was suddenly afraid to let her go, this person who knew each and every one of my secrets and had never judged me.