Page 58 of Dark Ugly Places

Nicola

I roll over, prying myself off the sticky, damp sheets. There’s a whiff of sour body odor, makeup, and hairspray. Downstairs, the sounds of voices and Scotch’s high-pitched bark stir me, but my head is like blurred video, static and unfocused. One thought, though, is very clear in my mind: Martha was here again last night.

My head thumps wildly. Eyes focusing, I zero in on a small glass of water and two pain pills that the bitch must have left out for me. Downstairs, a familiar voice rises, and it takes me a minute to place it. For a weird split second, I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality where Martha has doubled my body and come out to terrorize me, but I know that’s impossible and that she’s away now. I’m here. I’m in control.

I stumble out of bed, left side weak and dragging slightly. It’s an effort to pull on some clothes that smell reasonably clean. My head aches. I need to get my pills. Today. I remember the slip of paper Dr. Constance gave me—the number to call for medication—and search everywhere, but it’s gone. Immediately, I know: Martha threw it away.

I take the stairs gently, the nerves in my leg raw, my spine aching. Whatever Martha is doing, she’s forgetting that I’VE BEEN HIT BY A CAR.

Can you hear that, eh, Martha? WE WERE HIT BY A CAR, YOU IGNORANT COW, SO TAKE IT EASY!

I think this as loudly as I can as I go down the stairs one at a time until I hit the landing, where Scotch greets me with a brush of his head against my legs. A pang of guilt gnaws at me as I remember how long it’s been since I’ve paid him much attention. I stoop and stroke his back, and he thanks me with a wag of his tail. Emmy’s taking care of him. Another pang of guilt seizes me. Who is taking care of Emmy?

I’m on the landing collecting myself when it quickly comes back to me like a rushing breeze carrying debris and dirt. Martha taking over. Martha meeting Emmy. Martha taking my medication. Martha doling out pain pills, one at a time. Martha pushing me inside the restaurant so I could see him up close. So I could know for sure.

Good. Now you’re awake again, Martha taunts from within.

I hear the voice downstairs again and finally place it, out of context. I thought I wouldn’t see her again. In fact, I was sure of it. Now, here she is in my kitchen instead of the Whitmore, looking oddly at ease, as though it were her kitchen and not mine. Nubia.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks me up and down. “Woman, you look like shit. And nice to see you, too. Thank you very much.” I notice her new uniform, her freshly manicured nails, and her haircut.

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

Nubia turns to Emmy, who lowers her gaze a little. I sense something is deeply wrong. “Aww, I guess your mom isn’t happy to see me. Just because they fired your ass doesn’t mean I don’t love you!” She points to the counter. “Look, I made breakfast and everything. There’s Eggos, hash browns, and sausages. And that is huevos rancheros. Eat up, princess, and then, my God, you need to take a shower because you stink, chiquitita.”

I sit at the barstool where Emmy is making me a plate of food. My eyes must be huge and wild. “You cooked all of this?”

“Bingo, mama. Not the Eggos, though. Those came from a box. But still. Eat. It’s getting cold.”

I start cutting into the food and shake my head in disbelief. “So, what are you doing here, exactly?”

“I called Nubia,” Emmy says, her cheeks full of food. “After last night. I was a little worried about you.”

Nubia looks at me, her eyes serious. “Emmy says you had some kind of a breakdown.”

I almost spit out my food. “What?” I cough. “She said what?”

Last night is a fog. My eyes close, trying to recall, but everything is hazy. The questions. The sudden rage. Martha.

“She said you started acting really weird, calling yourself Martha?”

“No. That isn’t right,” I say. “Probably a side effect of my medication. You know it causes mood disturbances.”

“This didn’t seem like a mood disturbance,” Emmy says.

“Well, it’s over now, and it won’t happen again.”

Nubia shakes her head. “I don’t want to say it.”

“Say it, Nubia.”

“I really prefer not to, Nic, okay?” She crosses herself and whispers something in Spanish.

Emmy sighs, exasperated. “I was worried you were going to do something crazy, okay?”

“Jesus Christ. Have you both lost your minds? I’m fine. It was just a bad moment. That’s all. Christ!”