Unmissing(11)
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.
Delphine might call this divine intervention.
But I call it a lucky break.
Grocery list in hand, I follow.
CHAPTER FIVE
MERRITT
Geriatric pregnancy. Some people get songs stuck in their heads. But today I’m being tormented by a stupid phrase. My regular OB was out, and filling in for her was some ninety-year-old retired physician with giant hearing aids and a white polyester lab coat that had to have been from the seventies. He jammed his cold, gloved fingers inside me, muttered a number I couldn’t quite hear, then snapped the gloves off and threw them toward the trash. They fell off the side of the stainless steel bin, but he didn’t notice. The nurse took care of them, of course, offering me an apologetic glance as I attempted to sit up from the reclined examination table with zero help.
The doctor seemed fixated on my age, amused almost. As if treating a forty-one-year-old pregnant woman were akin to observing an endangered animal in the wild. I’m sure when he was in the throes of his career, most women were popping out babies a year or two after high school, but times have changed.