The Lies I Told(49)

I moved to my desk drawer and opened it. The file Richards had given me remained as it was. So why was the air charged with a strangeness that was unsettling? Had Brit returned?

A cool breeze rustled over my skin, causing me to turn to the window facing the river. It was ajar. Open only a few inches, but I knew for a fact I’d not opened it. Maybe in the late spring or fall, but today had been too cold, even for the radiator heat.

Gripping the handle, I pulled the window closed and searched around the sill and floor. Nothing was out of place. Maintenance rarely came through, and when they did, they left a note on my front door. They could’ve forgotten.

My purse still on my shoulder and keys in hand, I walked slowly into my bedroom, where I discovered my neatly made bed. A chill inched up my spine. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d made my bed. It’d never seemed practical, considering it would be undone by nighttime. I hadn’t made it this morning.

Making the bed would have been a Brit move. And maybe she left the window open to let in fresh air. I could imagine her just popping by, doing her mommy thing, and then going on her merry way.

I’d tolerated my sister’s comings and goings since the accident. I’d needed the help for the first few weeks. And it had been moderately okay, but now I didn’t need her. And she was crossing a line.

When I was fourteen, Brit often came in Clare’s and my room to search drawers, under beds, and inside closets. She’d said it was what Mom would’ve done. She was just looking out for us and making sure we didn’t get in real trouble. I’d resented it then, and we’d had terrible fights that often led to another bout of whatever plagued me when I was stressed. The night Clare died we’d fought over her snooping.

I fished my phone from my pocket, dialing Brit’s number.

The phone rang three times and went to voice mail. As I readied to quiz Brit, I thought questions about trespassing (because that was what it was) would trigger unwelcome attention. She’d get defensive. Act hurt. And I wasn’t up for that kind of drama tonight.

As I stared at the made bed, I said, “It’s me. Call me when you can.”

I slid the phone in my pocket and walked to the bed.

Carefully, I skimmed my fingers over the smooth comforter. The nerves in my back tightened. I’d once woken on a neatly made bed in a dorm room at Brit’s college. I’d risen, looked back at the bed. My mind muddled by drink, I didn’t remember how I’d gotten there, or what had happened the prior night. I’d felt dirty. Imagined hands roaming my body.

I now curled my fingers into a fist and stepped back from my bed. My skin tingled, and I turned as if I expected someone to be standing behind me.

I was alone, of course. Still . . .

I backed out of the room and moved into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I stared at the collection of seltzer cans. The beast howled. If I closed my eyes, I could conjure the malty flavor of the beer I’d had at Alan’s. I’d not gone on a binge or bender. A few sips and I was done. Maybe I’d changed. Maybe I could handle it.

Glancing over my shoulder at the bed, I wondered whether a beer or two would really be that bad.

Crossing to the bed, I grabbed the blankets and yanked them all off the mattress. Tossing them all on the floor, I plucked out the sheets, balled them up, and carried them to the small washer and dryer that barely accommodated the set. The blanket and comforter would require a trip to the Laundromat, something I wasn’t willing to do tonight.

Pouring in extra soap, I switched the dial to hot water, closed the lid, and pressed the “Start” button. The lid locked, water rushed inside the machine, swirling around dirty memories I didn’t want to remember.





28


MARISA

Thursday, March 17, 2022

8:00 a.m.

I sat in the waiting room for Dr. Brenda Webster, the neurosurgeon who’d operated on me after the accident. Today was my sixty-day follow-up, give or take a few days. I always chose the earliest appointment, hoping to avoid the crowds of people like me recovering from a brain injury. Some fared far worse than I had, and seeing them reminded me of how close I’d come to losing it all.

It had been easy to wake early. My couch was not the most comfortable, but for some reason, even after I’d pulled the warm sheets from the dryer, I had been unable to sleep in my bed.

I glanced at a two-month-old copy of Newsweek, barely scanning the headlines as I flipped the worn pages that had likely never really been read. No one came here for current or old news.

“Marisa Stockton.” The heavyset nurse was dressed in scrubs. She was in her late forties and wore dark-rimmed glasses.

I set down the magazine, shouldered my purse, and rose. “That’s me.”

The nurse smelled faintly of clean soap and antiseptic. “Follow me.”

I trailed behind her, not daring to glance toward the open exam rooms. When we reached my room, I gratefully ducked inside and sat on the exam table. The nurse took my temperature and blood pressure, then checked my pulse and vision. “Have you been drinking?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to.”

A brow arched. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Smoking?”

“No.”

“Daily exercise?”

“My work is pretty active. I’ve always counted it as exercise.”