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Don’t get comfortable anywhere,
she reminded herself. Not yet. You’re not even close to being comfortable.
She went down to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and saw a loaf of bread on the countertop. She opened it, took one piece, and ate it. The loaf would still look the same to anyone who didn’t have obsessive compulsive disorder. The house was tidy, but not manically organized. As long as she didn’t do anything stupid, she felt like this was all going to go fine.
She went back upstairs and opened the closet. There was an array of purses, totes, and beach bags on the top shelf. She carefully pulled out one of the larger tote bags. Navy. Nondescript. This lady had plenty of stuff. She wouldn’t immediately notice one tote bag missing.
Abby took off her shoes and socks, and found a fresh pair of clean white socks to put on. She added a spare clean pair to the bag. Next she found the woman’s underwear drawer and took out a couple of pairs from the back. She pulled off her shorts and undies and put on one of the woman’s fresh pairs, too relieved about being out of her own nasty knickers to be grossed out. She opened another drawer. Bras. The woman was bigger than Abby so she skipped this step. T-shirts next. Abby took one from the bottom of the pile, a plain black one, and put it on. She added a gray one with a small sports logo to the tote. They both smelled kind of musty, like they’d been at the back of the drawer forever. The woman would never miss them.
There were endless shorts. Abby took two pairs and put them in the tote. She found a pair of frumpy jeans that were a little too big and put them on. It was very hot out, but wearing them made her feel older and incognito. Her long legs had always drawn too much attention, and would now more than ever, since they were covered in mosquito bites.
Next she grabbed a gray baseball cap off the woman’s closet shelf and a pair of cheap looking, brown sunglasses from a basket on a dresser that was filled with jewelry and more sunglasses.
With all the new, clean clothes and her small collection of dirty clothes, the bag was filling up quickly. Abby looked at the bottom of her shoes. Despite her time on the run, they were pretty clean since it was so dry outside. She double checked the area where she’d come in the window and looked out at the roof, making sure there weren’t prints anywhere. It all looked clear, so she put her shoes back on in case she had to go in a hurry.
Satisfied that she had as much clothing as she could safely take, Abby headed to the bathroom. She used the toilet and then washed her face with a wet wad of toilet paper that she then flushed away. Next she rummaged through the bathroom cupboards and found a few toothbrushes still in plastic wrappers with the name of a dentist printed on them. She opened one, put the wrapper in the tote, and brushed her teeth. She took a couple of tampons from a box of tampons, and sprinkled a few aspirin and ibuprofen tablets into the inner pocket of the tote. She grabbed a couple of ponytail holders from a dish on the vanity top and threw them in the tote bag. Then she saw something that presented quite a dilemma: A box of hair dye. Radiant Chestnut. One lone, missable-if-gone box of hair dye.
Abby hemmed and hawed. She could probably dye her hair very safely here. It was like her own personal bunker until the end of the workday. Or she could at least take the dye with her. Or she could leave it exactly where it was.
She decided to leave it there and think about it for a few minutes while she gathered other stuff.
She took another look at the bedroom, and decided it looked exactly as she had found it. Ditto for the bathroom.
She went downstairs, and started collecting food. No one would miss one slice of processed cheese, two bottles of water from a fridge full of bottles of water, one apple, one granola bar, one snack size bag of chips. She put all her findings in the bag. She began opening drawers until she found the junk drawer. She took out a pair of scissors (the only one in there, but didn’t people frequently misplace things like scissors?), a book of matches since they were scattered throughout the drawer, and the oldest, junkiest flashlight in the drawer, after checking that it did in fact work.
She went out into the living room and slid a book off the shelf, a Nicholas Sparks paperback, and rearranged the remaining books to hide the gap that had been created. A person could sit almost anyplace and read a book, especially one like that, and people would figure they were up to no harm.
Abby couldn’t stop thinking about the hair dye. It reminded her of that story about God and the boats and the helicopter. She’d heard that story at least ten times at church when she was a kid. Risky or not, she went back upstairs to have another look at the box of hair dye. Maybe this was her helicopter from God.
She was standing there holding the box in her hand, thinking, when she heard a car door slam down below.
Her first inclination was to freeze, and for a second she couldn’t move as she listened to the sound of footsteps coming up the porch and then heard the sound of a key turning in a lock down below her. Then she kicked into gear. She shoved the box of dye back in its place, grabbed the tote she had fortunately brought back upstairs with her, and ran on her tiptoes into the bedroom. She planned to escape through the window, but realized that opening it and crawling across the porch roof would make too much noise and be too risky. Instead she crouched down and rolled under the bed. Since there was no bed skirt, her eyes were level with the top of the stairs. It was basically like she was lying on the floor in plain view. She rolled back out and crawled over to the closet, the floor creaking in perfect time to the sound of the downstairs toilet flushing. Inside the closet, she crept to the back corner and reached forward to pull the door almost all the way shut like she’d found it. She was standing on shoes, hidden by some long dresses and coats, wedged against the very depths of the space where the ceiling slanted down, crouching to fit.
Seconds later the stairs began to creak, step by step, closer and closer. Abby stood frozen, trying to even her breathing. She inched even farther into the slanted, claustrophobic depths of her hiding space. And then the closet door opened and hangers started coming out as someone undressed and hung clothes back up. The strong scent of perfume wafted in. Abby breathed an internal sigh of relief that she hadn’t stolen the ripe banana she’d seen in the kitchen. Its aroma would have overpowered the closet. This made her realize she likely smelled just as strong. She held herself as tight and still as possible, trying to be small, trying to be as inoffensive and invisible as humanly possible. There was more jangling of hangers; it was all happening inches from her. She pressed her lips together, barely able to stand it. Then the woman closed the closet door, all the way shut, clicking it into place.
Abby exhaled very, very slowly. The desire to stretch, or jump around, or scream, tickling every cell in her body. She wiggled her finger tips to combat the claustrophobia. She tried to wiggle her toes a little, but they were firmly cushioned in place, trapped by the fresh new pair of stolen socks and her own tightly laced running shoes. Sweat was tickling its way down her temples, the drip on the left side in a slow race against the drip on the right.
Trying to distract herself, she thought about the hair dye that she hadn’t taken. She had missed her chance.
Missed my chance, missed my chance she repeated, over and over in her head. She shifted and her bag made a little noise as it scraped against the wall. She froze, expecting the door to fly open and a cold barrel of a gun to poke her in the face, but nothing happened.
Despite all her good reasons for being there, Abby decided that hiding in a closet was really creepy, particularly to the homeowner. If the lady discovered her it would probably traumatize her for the rest of her life.
There were noises outside the closet door again and she bit her lip. She was about ready to call out and turn herself in, to give up on everything, when she heard the beeping of a phone call being placed.
“Hi… I’m home for the day… Yeah, already… Nothing… Not at all… Gonna take a little nap... Yeah… You wanna surprise me? I’ll be here waiting… Exactly… Yeah… He won’t be back all day… Backdoor’s open… Not that backdoor…” The woman
giggled. “Okay. See you in a few.”
All day. Abby had heard the woman say all day. She could barely balance or breathe. She couldn’t make it all day. And what about her bag of money and IDs, hidden steps from the backdoor? Hopefully Mr. Rendezvous was so excited about dropping by that he wouldn’t notice a plastic bag shoved in some shrubbery.
The bed creaked, and then the floorboards. Then Abby heard water running in the bathroom. She shifted her weight a little and raised the tote bag strap to her shoulder, considering whether to make a run for it. Before she could do anything, she heard footsteps again and then some drawers opening and closing. Finally the woman seemed to have settled into bed. She clicked on the television and the room was filled with the sound of fake, exaggerated moans and groans and generic porno music. Abby breathed in deeply and adjusted her cramped body a bit.
Moments later she heard someone coming up the stairs. She waited for the sound of plastic crinkling and some jerk saying, “Hey, I found this bag in your bushes,” but instead she heard a woman’s voice: “Hi, Neighbor.” It was squawky and sounded like someone much older. Was this the affair person or some huge mistake? Abby gripped the tote bag in anticipation.
“Hi to you,” said the woman. “What are you waiting for? Get your ass over here.”
At least it wasn’t Charlie, Abby told herself. She’d begun to think everyone in the world who was fucking someone was fucking Charlie.
