Page 60 of Dark Ugly Places

“Really? She sounded like she really wanted the job in her letter.”

“Her letter?” What letter?

Let me speak. We need this.

Nausea. My stomach rolls like a ship over an ocean wave, and my hands grasp the edge of the sofa, dirty and frayed from Scotch sitting on one side. In an instant, my eyes seem to take in multiple details at once: the stale rental unit’s cheap carpet, the dusty furniture, paint peeling on the far wall by the kitchen.

“Are you sure there’s no possible way I could get a hold of her, like a cell phone number or something?”

“No.” My neck prickles hot and cold. There’s a flicker of her inside me, then closer, nearer, up under my skin like a splinter. Her voice is hot inside my ear: Don’t you dare blow this for us.

“I really need to hire someone soon. It’s urgent.” Her voice is faded, but I recognize something in it. A sort of loosely veiled desperation.

“She can’t talk to you right now.”

“Well, if you could give her my details, perhaps she can call me back? My name is Bambi.”

My blood curdles with her words: It’s her. Remember?

I can’t stop my body shaking. A thick, cold sweat forms under my arms, around my breasts, and over my brow. I drop the phone onto our stained carpet, the room spinning.

“Hello? Are you still there? Hello?”

I feel Martha inside me, powerful and deliberate. She reaches down and collects the phone. Let me, Nicola.

“No! Stop!” My own voice is small, an echo inside my head. I’m in a cavern of myself while Martha is out there. Her voice wraps around my vocal cords. She speaks like I used to once, or like I imagine myself in a dream—some other, better, stronger version of me. I’m sinking within now, drowning in quicksand. All around me, the world disappears. The blackness consumes me, and I start to fade away.

25

Martha

Nicola should be thanking her lucky stars right about now, or thanking me, more like it. Instead, she’s silently cursing me, even as I drive her away and pick up the phone. I’m sorry, Nicola. Right now, you are making this very, very difficult for the both of us.

I hold the phone to my ear, and I position my voice, our voice, where it needs to be. In my register, not Nic’s people-pleasing high-pitched tone.

“Mrs. Redfern?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Sorry about all of that. This is Martha speaking.”

“Martha! Oh great.” A pause, maybe mistrusting me.

“That was my sister you were talking to before,” I interject. “She isn’t well and gets confused sometimes.”

“Oh … I. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. So you got my letter?”

Papers shuffle in the background as I hear her switch the phone to speaker. “Yes. I’d like you to come in for an interview.”

“Great. I can be there anytime.”

“How about tomorrow? Can you be here at eleven?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You’re welcome.” A pause.