Page 92 of Taking Turns

I opt for a pair of jeans and a festive red cable-knit sweater and then sit down on the floor to look over the boxes of shoes one of the guys must have purchased for me, looking to see if any have snow boots in them.

I pull out the larger boxes first. The first three are fancy boots. Not what I’m looking for. But the next ones are brand-new shearlings, like the ones I left here that very first night.

I lie back on the floor and smile at how fucking clueless I was.

That’s when I notice the attic door in the ceiling and a short pull cord, wrapped around a metal hook.

“What the fuck?”

I get up and go looking for a step stool that I saw in the foyer closet last week, and then stand on the top step and pull the cord.

I have to get down off the stool as I pull, because it’s one of those ladder things that extends to the floor. I move the stool out of the way, extend it to its full length, and then stare up into the black hole of an attic.

I’ve never been afraid of the dark, so I climb up.

There’s a small circular window up there and sunlight is streaming in, making a long stripe of yellow in the blackness. I crawl over to it and realize there’s a soft furry rug on the floor beneath my knees.

Outside I can see the Capitol building, the gold dome reflecting the sun like a beacon of hope in the snow.

I turn around and sit on my butt to take it all in.

It’s a… hideaway? Fort? I laugh as I try to find the right word. It’s a secret room.

And it’s filled with things.

On the far wall is a small Christmas tree.

I crawl around until I find a small lamp and flick the switch. Then I realize what this place really is.

Rochelle’s secret life.

She’s got a million pillows lining the walls. About a dozen small vintage carry-on suitcases stacked up in one corner. Blankets, and books, and trinkets that she so obviously loved and didn’t want to share with the men who controlled her life downstairs.

Wow.

I scramble over to the Christmas tree - it’s only about three feet tall. I find the switch for the lights and click it on. God, it’s so pretty. The whole thing is decorated with vintage cardboard images, hanging on to branches with small loops of twine, and gold garland that has definitely seen better days. There are old-fashioned glass bulbs that are too big and handmade felt ornaments that look older than I am.

Every wall is decorated with dandelions. Not the flowers. The seed heads.

I lie back on the fluffy pink rug and notice the ceiling has been decorated too. Only this time, along with the dandelion pictures, there are words written in what I can only assume is Rochelle’s hand.

I’ll fly away.

The entire gospel song—one I sang so many times growing up it makes my heart ache to think about it. The same one Rochelle was singing that day I met her down at Buskerfest. The lyrics have been scrawled in a pretty feminine handwriting over my head. More seed heads have been painted, pictures of them tacked and taped all over, so that the entire ceiling is a work of genius haphazard folk art.

It’s so… her.

So perfect with all its imperfections.

I sit up before that song gets stuck in my head and redirect my attention to the carry-on suitcases near the tree. They have the word ‘Christmas’ written on their lids in thick black marker.

I find everything I need for my tree downstairs in them. She must’ve really liked Christmas if she has this much stuff.

But then I remember—Quin took her to buy a big tree every year too. So she must've kept all this stuff—all her personal things—up here. Out of the way. Or maybe she just wanted to keep it private. Keep Bric and Smith separate from what she had with Quin in some small way.

For a second I figure I’ll just use her stuff and forget about Walgreens.

But then I shake my head. No. Not her stuff. If she was hiding it, she was doing it for a reason. It’s not mine. It’s not part of my world.