Don't Look for Me(9)

He hands me the lantern and goes back outside. Alice takes off her mask. It’s a white medical mask, the kind you can buy at the drug store. I’ve used them before when painting a room, though that was years ago, when John and I were just starting out. When we used to do things ourselves because we had more time than money.

The thought of my husband steals my breath as the feeling rushes in. I still love him. Even if he has stopped loving me.

Alice has bright blue eyes and soft blond hair and skin like snow. It never sees the sun. Still, she is not gaunt. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. And all of these colors—the blue and yellow and white and red, they are stunning. The colors of youth. The colors of a little girl. It fills my heart, then empties through the hole I made five years ago.

I carry the lantern and follow closely behind her through a living room and past a door to a kitchen on the right. Then down a hallway where we stop. She opens a closet which holds towels and blankets and sheets. Normal things. Normal.

She pulls out a worn white bath towel and hands it to me. I take it with one hand and wipe my face dry.

“Come on!” she says cheerfully.

I look down the hallway but don’t get my bearings. There are doors which are all closed.

I want to be dry. I want to be warm. I want the man to return so I can use the phone and call my family. These things all feel close now and so I want them with greater urgency.

We enter the first room on the left. It has a bed and a dresser and an oval mirror which hangs on the wall. The bed is neatly made with a quilt and two pillows. It has a private bathroom which I can see through an open door. The one window has been boarded with plywood. For the storm, I tell myself. Like the diner back in town.

“This is the guest room. You can sleep here tonight,” Alice says. “I sleep right next door.”

I smile at her. She smiles back. But I have no intention of sleeping in this house.

John will come for me—even in the storm. Even if he doesn’t love me.

“Can I wait with you?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. The house is dark. I understand. But then we both hear footsteps moving about. Stopping, shifting, moving again. A new light comes down the hall and suddenly the man is there in the doorway.

“Go get ready for bed,” he says to Alice. He holds two lanterns and he gives one to her. She obeys, leaving us alone.

Then he speaks to me.

“I turned on the generator. It’ll run the heat. Use the lantern to get around tonight. There are some clothes in the dresser. You can wear those if you want.”

I stare at the man now, the towel pressed to my face all the way up to my eyes.

“I need to make that call—I’m sure my husband will find a way to get me home.”

Even as I ask, I already know the answer. I know because he hasn’t offered me a phone and that is strange. Not Molly strange, I think. Truly strange.

And then the answer comes.

“The thing is—we don’t get cell reception out here and the landlines are down. I just checked the phone in the kitchen.”

I nod and manage a polite smile. I don’t know why I do this. A habit from living where I live, in a culture of emotional suppression.

“Can we try, at least? Maybe a different part of the house, or outside? Or I can borrow the truck and call from the road, farther down?” And then I continue, rambling now. “Because my husband and daughter are going to be very worried. I was supposed to be home over an hour ago and I left my car on the side of the road. I’m sure people are already wondering whose it is. I imagine the police will be looking for me and I would feel terrible using up their resources like that.”

I ramble and stare at his face, searching for acknowledgment or surprise or anything resembling a human response. But he just watches me, watches my lips move, and smiles sympathetically.

“We can go in the morning—as soon as the sun is up,” he says when I stop talking. He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I know it’s strange to be in someone else’s house. I would feel the same. But we’re not in the suburbs here. You could have gotten hurt out there—that wind would have knocked you right off your feet. And the cold—it’s going down below thirty degrees tonight.”

He looks at me. I look at him, frozen until he takes his hand off my shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks.

Again, I nod politely, as I wonder why he mentioned the suburbs. How does he know where I live?

He leaves me alone then. I stare at the space where he stood and I let his words sink in. I let the words find reason inside my unreasonable head.

I am the very embodiment of suburbia. Surely he just put pieces together. He must see people like me driving through here every day, on their way to the schools, stopping to get gas.

And there is a dangerous storm outside. Wind. Rain. Cold. Roads are likely blocked. Lines are down—power, phone. Everything on a wire is dead. And there’s no cell phone reception. All of those are facts that I either know to be true or are likely true.

Stop being so Molly! I command myself.

I close the door to the bedroom. I look in the dresser and find clothing. Women’s clothing. I find pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. They are dry. And they smell of laundry detergent.

They are freshly washed. And I wonder if this means they are freshly worn.

Where is their owner?