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By the time I make it back to the room, twenty minutes have passed. Expecting the woman to be finished, I’m surprised to hear the shower still going when I step inside the room. I set the items down on the table and pull out my phone. Two missed calls and one text message. All from Tavers. I swear the fucking man is worse than a parent at times.
I skip over the missed calls and bring up his text message.
10:16 a.m. Tavers: At your house, where you’re supposed to be. Where are you?
I fire off a reply.
10:23 a.m. Me: Not my fucking keeper. I’m out. Talk later.
I pocket the phone, not willing to wait for his reply. The shower turns off, and as I wait for the woman to come out, I take the rest of the stuff out of the bags and set it on the table, tossing the bag once I’m done.
The bathroom door opens and steam boils out seconds before the woman herself does. I stop myself from staring, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but the shower has done her a world of good. She’s pretty, even more so now that her skin is dirt and grime-free. The scars may cover a good portion of her skin, but it doesn’t hide her beauty. Her hair is still matted, but now looks clean. Hopefully it can be salvaged.
She stands in the doorway, looking unsure, so I take to my feet and gesture to the chair across from me.
“I got you some coffee and a bagel from the cafeteria. The trays they give you here are shit, but the cafeteria food is slightly better.”
She walks slowly to the chair and gingerly takes a seat. The gown she’s wearing looks much more appealing than the piece of shit one she was wearing earlier. I slide the coffee and bagel across to her.
“Do you feel better now that you’ve taken a shower?” I ask.
She shrugs, looks down at the bagel, and then picks it up and takes a small bite. She takes her time as she eats, and I watch her do so, taking in her features. The parts of her not covered in scars appear smooth and fresh-looking. Her eye is still swollen, and several of the fresher wounds are scabbed over. As far as I can tell, they don’t seem to be infected. If I had to guess by looks alone, I’d place her in her mid-twenties. Her manners, however, give a different story. On the one hand, she acts almost childish with how she seems so unsure of certain things, things that a mid-twenty-year-old would know about. On the other, she seems very old for her age as if she’s had more experience with life than most fifty-year-olds. She’s very perplexing, and the more I’m around her, the more I want to figure out her story.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “I was thinking…” She looks up from her food. “Since you can’t remember your name, is there something you want to be called?” When she looks at me blankly, I elaborate. “A name. You can pick whatever name you want until we figure out your real name.”
Her eyes drift away from me as she thinks over my question. A minute later, she brings them back to me.
“I don’t know of any names,” she says with a frown.
I sit forward in my seat, resting my elbows on the table and clasping my hands together.
“That’s okay.” It only takes me a minute to come up with my own name. “How about Doe?” The name is perfect for her. Although she may have gone through something terrible, and from what the doctor said yesterday, that includes sexual abuse, she still appears innocent, just like a baby deer.
I worry she may think the name derogatory, to liken her to an animal, but her eyes light with mild interest at my suggestion. “Yes. I like it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I smile. “Then Doe it is.”
She doesn’t smile back, but I can still tell by her eyes that she likes the name. In an attempt to draw her out and gain her trust, I pick up the brush.
“Would you like me to help brush your hair?” She looks startled by my question, dropping the last bit of bagel on the napkin. I try to ease her worry. “I just figured since your hair is so long and tangled, it’ll be easier if someone helps.”
Her eyes become frightful, darting to me, to the door, and down at the brush before settling back on me again. I watch as she forcefully pushes back whatever fear she has and gives a tight nod.
“Just don’t touch me,” she warns.
“Lift your hair over the chair. That’ll put the chair between my hands and your back.” She does so then sits stiffly.
I get up, grabbing the detangler, and walk to her side of the table, making sure to keep in her line of sight until I’m forced to leave it to step behind her. Her thick hair falls to the seat part of the chair, and I reach down to grab the ends.
“I’m going to spray it with detangler,” I let her know.
I spray her hair several times, making sure to get the full length. Gently, I separate a small section and start at the bottom with the brush, remembering Mom doing the same thing anytime my sister’s hair became unmanageable.
Her hair is a complete mess, and it’s going to take a long time to get through it, but with each section I get through, it leaves it feeling soft.
