The Overnight Guest(69)

“You need to take a drink,” Wylie said softly and carefully tipped the bottle to the woman’s lips spilling water into her mouth.

Wylie stared down at the woman’s battered face. One mistrustful brown eye looked back at her. Wylie looked down at her own hand, where a matching horseshoe-shaped scar, though less pronounced, marred her palm.



35


At night the girl dreamed she was drowning, of her nose and mouth and lungs being filled with dank, dark water. She’d wake up gasping for air. Her mother would hold her close and tell her that it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t.

The basement was so cold that the space heater couldn’t keep up. She ate her soup, she colored her pictures, and she watched television with the sound on low.

She never knew what to expect when her father came down the steps. Sometimes he had a roll of duct tape in his hand; sometimes he brought cupcakes with pink fluffy frosting or pizza in a box.

But even on the days he brought treats and touched the girl’s hair and told her she was pretty, he was quicker to slap and push and pinch.

It was worse for her mother.

One morning the girl woke to find that her mother wasn’t next to her in the bed. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room. It was empty. She crawled from the bed and pushed on the bathroom door. It was empty too. There wasn’t a closet door or furniture to hide behind.

Despair poured over her. She was all alone. Her mother had left her.

She heard the shuffle of feet overhead. Her father was coming. He would want to know what happened to her mother. What would she say to him? The door creaked open and the girl scurried back to the bed, pressed her soft, worn blanket to her cheek, and slid her thumb in her mouth.

The footsteps came closer and the girl’s heart beat so loud she was sure her father could hear it.

“Sweetie,” came her mother’s voice. “It’s time to get up.”

The girl was bursting with questions. Where had she gone? What did she do? Why had she gone up the stairs?

Her mother just pressed a finger to her lips and said, “Shhh. Remember our little secret.” She had brought down a plastic bag filled with all kinds of things. There was an apple, a few dollar bills, and a pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels that jangled together in the bottom of the bag.

Her mother handed her the apple and then tied the plastic bag handles together and hid it at the bottom of the garbage can. The girl gnawed on the apple while her mother paced around the room.

The day crept by slowly. Her mother was preoccupied. Nervous. The girl asked what was wrong, but her mother just smiled and said everything was just fine. A sliver of worry pricked her chest, and she ran to the cupboard to see how much food they had left. She sighed with relief. There was plenty.

“Do you think he will come tonight?” the girl asked.

“I don’t know,” her mother said, staring up at the door. “I hope not.”

Her father did come that night and he was in a foul mood. He told the girl to go to the bathroom, and she did so reluctantly. She knew it was going to be bad. She picked a book from the shelf and closed the bathroom door behind her. She couldn’t see what was going on, but she could hear everything. The bed squeaked violently and her mother cried out with such pain the girl had to cover her ears until it was over.

For the next three days, the girl awoke to find her mother gone, but she always returned, each time with an item to add to the bag hidden at the bottom of the garbage—a pair of sharp scissors, an electric razor, two bottles of water, two keys.

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to come back?” the girl asked.

Her mother shook her head. “He’s always leaving at six. He goes into town for coffee and a donut,” she said. “He’s always back by eight. I love you,” her mother murmured out of the blue. The girl smiled, but an uneasiness settled in her chest because the way she said the words sounded a lot like goodbye.

Later, the girl’s mother shook her from her sleep. “Wake up,” she said. The girl rose to her elbow and looked blearily back at her.

“What time is it?” the girl asked.

“Just get up and do what I say—we have to hurry,” her mother said, pulling a red sweatshirt over her head. “Get dressed and go to the bathroom.”

The girl did as she was told. The room was dark except for the flickering light from the television. A weather anchor was taking about sleet and snow and gusts of wind. She went to the bathroom and pulled on her jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of tennis shoes.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Is he coming?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. Now listen, we’re going to do something scary, but you need to trust me. Do you trust me?”

The little girl nodded. Her mother went to the garbage can and pulled out the plastic bag. She untied the handles, reached inside, and brought out the pair of scissors and the electric razor. The girl looked at her in confusion. There was nothing scary about a pair of scissors, though these were much sharper and the blades longer than the pair she had in her art box.

“Come here, sweetie,” her mother said. “I’m going to cut your hair.”

“Why?” the girl asked.

“Do you trust me?” her mother asked again, staring directly into her eyes.

“Yes,” the girl said in a small voice.