Love, Hate & Other Filters(57)

I run into the cottage and shut the door. No lock. Dripping across the warped wooden slats, I search the small back utility room for something to jam against the door. The old boards that Phil apparently uses for firewood aren’t long enough to wedge between the doorknob and the floor. I scan the room; my eyes fall on the recliner. It’s the heaviest thing in the cottage. I put my shoulder to the footrest of the chair and heave, grunting as I push the chair toward the door. With only a few feet to go, I look up and pause.

Bathroom. Damn it.

I pull a few tissues out of my backpack and step outside. In a matter of minutes, it will be completely dark, and once I secure the chair against the door, I can’t imagine walking back out to pee, and I’m not about to go the Laura Ingalls Wilder nighttime bedpan route. So I go around to the back of the cottage, though no one is there to spy on me. I pull down my bikini bottoms and squat, forcing myself to sing, so I can relax enough to go. I allow myself a chuckle at this absurdity. Already missing the wonders of modern plumbing, I walk back to the cottage.

Before I lodge the chair against the door, I pull the lever at the side to set it at full recline. The chair will be my desk, lock, bed, and entertainment center for the night, so I want to make it as comfortable as faux cracked leather allows. Using only my good arm is awkward, but I stack firewood on the sills of the two windows that are missing their panes. With my rustic security system in place, I change out of my wet bikini, dry off, and pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants.

The cottage is dark, but I find my way to the flashlight Phil keeps on the mantle. I hunt for the lantern and matches I spotted in the back room. The lantern is actually battery operated. I’m going to alternate between the lantern and the flashlight to conserve power. I light the candles above the mantle. If Phil were here, flickering candles and dancing shadows might be romantic, but I struggle to picture this place as anything but menacing.

Though the evening is balmy, I shiver, overtaken by a slight chill. I throw on a hoodie over my tee and unroll the sleeping bag Phil keeps in the corner. I unleash dust and a mustiness scents the air, but my thread count options are limited, so I unzip the sleeping bag, spread it over the chair, and then inflate the camping pillow. Using the mirror from my half-empty compact, I remove my contacts and push my glasses onto my face. Stepping into the middle of the room and looking around, I’m pleased with my handiwork.

My arm stings, my shoulder aches, the bone bruise on my thigh is now an ugly purple-black, and I’m hungry. I take a painkiller with a tiny swig of water and scarf one of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while standing in front of the fireplace watching the candlelight flicker against the glass of the votive holders. I figure the candles have an hour or two of life left. Yawning, I head to the recliner, placing the lantern at my feet and pulling the sleeping bag around me.

Drawing my legs to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees and begin to cry. A montage flickers in the darkening room. Brian. Phil. The dream-crushing rules of my parents. Kids in senior hall, leaning together, whispering. The pitying stares. I take off my glasses, wipe my palms across my eyes, and let them close, grateful the painkillers will dull all the aches with sleep.



The golden morning light enters the cottage through the crevices in the piles of wood I’d stacked on the window ledges. I rub my eyes and move my head from one shoulder to the other, stretching my stiff neck. The lantern faded out in the middle of the night. Using my right hand, I pivot the recliner away from the door in time for me to run out behind the cottage to pee. This time, I don’t need to sing to distract myself, but I know an extended stay at the cottage will be impossible from the plumbing standpoint alone. I’m tempted to call home. But, my phone is dead. Apparently chargers are useless without actual electricity.

For breakfast, I devour the other PB&J from my backpack along with a can of peaches from Phil’s stash. I switch into shorts and a T-shirt and sit in the recliner, thinking. The good daughter in me knows I should head home. Maybe I still have a chance to slip back home, unnoticed. But I don’t want to.

Guilt digs its claws into me, but if I go home, confessing my lie before figuring out some astonishingly clever next steps, I’ll be under total house arrest until I turn eighteen in June. And the great American emancipation of eighteen offers few alternatives for me. There’s no way around it; I’m totally dependent on my parents for college tuition. Even if I work full-time all summer and with the money I’ve already saved, I won’t have enough to live on in New York for three months, let alone pay for school. I can’t go home. Not yet. Not without a plan. But right now, I need more supplies. Like food. Especially potato chips. Because nothing tastes better with stress than salt.

There’s an old garage station and mini-mart a mile farther down Route 72. My parents never go there. It’s 9 A.M. I’m too afraid of wiping out on my bike with the groceries. If I walk, I can be there and back in an hour, and then I can stay put in the cottage. Once my parents realize they’ve been duped, there will no doubt be an all-out search. They’ll probably call the police. I fled yesterday because I didn’t want to think anymore. In retrospect, further thought might’ve been helpful.

The one-pump station feels ominous. It looks like the gas station in The Birds. I’m even eyeing the old man in the red plaid shirt at the counter with suspicion. If I see a canary in a cage, I’m running.

I scurry up and down the aisles, piling things into a red plastic basket. I dump my supplies onto the counter: travel-sized toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a big bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, a can of Coke, a liter of water, two Snickers bars, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, strawberry jam, Twinkies, gum, batteries, an apple, and a plastic rain poncho. The man slowly rings up each item on an antique cash register and then places it in a paper bag. I tap my foot impatiently while I peer out the plate-glass windows, scanning the sky for seagulls.