Page 77 of Dark Ugly Places

We sprint toward the car before he can stop us, working as one. Upstairs, my little sister, Janice, wakes, even though she usually sleeps through these moments. But I see her staring out the window at us from the window of the car. I asked her to go back for Janice. Don’t be a fool, she tells me. If you go back inside, you won’t make it out again.

And I know she’s right. So I show her how to start the engine, and together, we reverse out of the drive, barely a head above the steering wheel. The front door opens, and my father runs out, the pistol he keeps under his bed in his hand. “Can you make him use it one day?” I ask her. But she doesn’t answer. I know it is because she’s thinking. My father runs after us as we speed away into the night, the darkness swallowing us up, Martha and me.

31

Bambi

The first few days, Martha kept to herself, moving quietly about the house, taking care of chores and errands, and working out of their perfectly decorated Tiffany-teal-blue office at the back of the house that faces the pool. Bambi enjoys her quiet company, the calm nature of the house when she is in it, even the strange way she somehow always knows which room she’s in and what she needs, like a human weathervane to Bambi’s shifting storms.

In the evenings, when the traffic along Sunset and Santa Monica would be at its height, cars honking, music tumbling car windows, Martha enlists Lucita’s help in preparing the house for dinner and insists on Lucita’s cooking being a certain thing that Bambi craves. Casseroles and baked potatoes. Pot pies and pasta with vegetables. Soups with rich broth and noodles. The dishes remind her that she likes food more than she allows herself to think about. She and Martha initiate a habit of having dinner together in the dining room, which, normally, Bambi only reserves for special occasions. Over a lit candle and a slightly open window, they eat together, mostly in silence. Bambi pretends to read a magazine while quietly observing Martha preparing to-do lists or clacking away on the laptop next to her dinner plate. This continues until one night, Martha asks her about her leg. The wound hasn’t healed, and Bambi has taken to covering it and re-covering it daily.

“How did it happen, Mrs. Redfern?”

Bambi stops mid bite. Her cheeks flush a little red. How to answer? “It was a silly accident,” she finally says. “I slipped in the bathroom.”

“You’re going to need antibiotics,” Martha offers.

Bambi looks up from her meal, perplexed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mrs. Redfern. It’s been weeks, and it isn’t healing well. I think you should see a doctor.”

Bambi cringes, a note of dread in her gut. “I don’t want to.”

“If your leg gets infected, you could get really sick,” Martha insists. She takes another bite and stares at her while she eats, waiting. A light breeze drifts in from the open window, and Bambi shivers.

“If you arrange it, I’ll go.”

Martha magics an appointment the very next day. They wait in the doctor’s office, the ice pack Martha brought from home searing into her thigh. Elevator music plays over a loop of commercials about lip filler and Botox on the flat-screen TV. Bambi stares into the room’s privacy wall, a scenic tropical fish tank. The water laps repetitively against the glass as the fish circle round and round in the confined, narrow space. She goes to tap the glass, then pulls back her finger, the edge of her nail ragged.

Martha hands in her forms after Bambi signs them. When her name is called, she glances briefly at Martha, who nods reassuringly, then follows the nurse into a brightly lit consultation room. A pair of ceiling-height windows looks out over Westwood’s busy streets and medical buildings.

The room hums with electricity while outside, footsteps click up and down the long hallway. After a few moments, there’s a brisk knock at the door, and the doctor appears in a long white coat, his hair slicked back, an oversized wristwatch that looks expensive peeking out of one sleeve. “Mrs. Redfern.” He nods curtly. “Now it says here it’s your thigh?”

She nods and lifts the fabric of her skirt up enough to reveal the wound. “Yes, here.”

The doctor plucks a pair of gloves from a shoebox in the wall. “Mmm, that looks like a nasty cut.” He sits on a small, beige stool and wheels closer to her. His cold, gloved hands carefully lift the bandage and prod the skin. Bambi winces at his touch.

At last, he pushes away and starts removing his gloves. “Well, you’re lucky it wasn’t close to a major artery. How did this happen?”

“We had an accident in the kitchen,” Bambi says quickly. She starts to say more but stops. His eyes search her.

“You need a few stitches. Sit tight. I’ll numb you up and then get this closed up for you.” His eyes lift to hers and then shift uncomfortably to his clipboard. Bambi notices his cheeks flushing. “I would imagine, given your profession, you are concerned about scarring?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In that case, I would recommend some dermatological treatment once the wound is healed.” His eyes float up to hers again. Bambi feels her stomach warm.

“I can arrange that for you, if you wish?”

“Yes, thank you,” she manages. The doctor begins typing on the computer, clicking away. After a moment, he scrolls through her file and stops.

“Your emergency contact is Mr. Jason Redfern. Is that still correct?”

Her throat tightens. The doctor turns and looks at her, his eyes studying her. Bambi feels naked, as if everything about her life is suddenly transparent. She has the impulse to bolt from the room and go find Martha, but she cannot move. “No,” she answers. “I need to change that.”

“Absolutely,” the doctor says, nodding. “And who would you like to add instead?”

“Martha. Martha Holiday.”