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Five
Sabella
* * *
I wake up with an itchy scalp. I tell myself it’s because I didn’t wash my hair with shampoo last night, but as the morning wears on, even after I wash my hair properly, the itching gets worse.
Fishing the mirror from my make-up bag, I balance it on the bathroom windowsill in the light. When I part my hair down the middle with my comb, I utter a yelp.
No.
No way.
Shuddering, I drop the comb.
I have lice.
Son of a bitch.
I glance at the dirty mattress, my makeshift bed already made.
The knowledge that Angelo knowingly exposed me to such a pest burns with mortification in my stomach. I can only hope Heidi will return before tonight as she promised. That’s to say if Angelo lets her. She brought enough food for a week. There’s no rush for her to come back.
Panic tightens my stomach as I go through the house in the daylight and confirm that it’s empty. There are no cleaning products, not even a mop or a bucket I can use. The house is beautiful, the finishings modern and luxurious, but it’s filthy. Someone swept the floors and wiped down the counters, and that’s the extent of the cleaning effort that was made.
I go to the window in the bedroom that faces the back of the house. In the dark, I didn’t see much on that side. When I peer through the glass, I suck in a breath. The house balances on the edge of a cliff. The rock is yellow like the color of the stone bricks of the house, the sun giving it a golden tint. A small white beach hugs a turquoise ocean below. The view is breathtaking. I appreciate the sight until the persistent itching makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
After ripping the bedding off the mattress, I throw everything outside on the veranda. I need to boil the pillow and the sheets or wash them in very hot water, but there are no pots in the kitchen, and I don’t find a washing machine in the scullery. The place was obviously lived in, but all signs of habitation were removed, including the furniture and appliances.
I feel revolting when I have a breakfast of crackers and peanut butter in the kitchen, standing by the counter. The sun streams through the window, warming the room. My breath makes vapor against the glass as I lean closer for a better look. The day is cold, but the sky is clear.
In the daylight, the village at the bottom of the valley is an untidy arrangement of houses with ochre roofs around a river. They blend almost completely into the landscape, the roofs the same color as the soil. It’s more difficult to spot the village during the day. If I didn’t notice the lights last night, I wouldn’t have known to look for it.
The coat Angelo gave me in Marseille is at the bottom of the bag in which Heidi brought the linen. I pull it on and wind a scarf around my neck before stepping outside. The destruction of the yard is even more disturbing in the bright sunlight.
“Hello?” I call, my voice echoing in the valley. “Is anyone there?”
No answer.
Why did I even try? No one is around. I saw for myself how far this house is from the main dwelling. I’m alone here. In front of me, the gravel road is a thin line that runs into the distance before disappearing over the hill. The landscape is rocky and wild. Mountains loom far beyond the village, snow capping their peaks.
Like inside, the veranda was swept, but dried mud and something smelling like manure cling to the terracotta tiles. It looks as if someone used the veranda as an animal shed. I walk to the end. The veranda wraps around the house, allowing outdoor views from all sides. At the back where a door leads to the kitchen, I pause for a better look at the view.
Is there a path going down to the beach? I’d like to explore that, but I don’t want to miss Heidi if she returns. I need to ask her for a special shampoo and cleaning products. It doesn’t help that I don’t have a phone. Without a line of communication with the outside world, my isolation is complete. Is that part of my punishment? Or is Angelo just making sure I can’t share information with the police who arrested me?
I pace around for the rest of the morning, watching the road. By noon, the itching is so bad I’m going out of my mind. I broke the skin on my scalp with my nails from all my scratching. I can’t stay here in the feeble hope that Heidi will save me.
Making up my mind, I go back inside and put on my thickest jeans and another pair of socks to cushion my soles before tying my sneakers. Armed with sandwiches and a bottle of water, I go out the back, staying well out of sight of the road just in case, and set out toward the village. It’s my only option, much closer than the main house.
The walk is difficult. I have to maneuver over rocks and around bushes as there isn’t a road or a path. On a flat road, the walk would’ve taken me one and a half hours. If I jogged, even less. At home, I often jogged from Great Brak River to the neighboring towns along the beach, easily covering ten kilometers in less than an hour.
The thought jostles me. Great Brak River isn’t home any longer. That life feels not only miles away but also ages ago. Brushing the unsettling notion away, I force myself to focus on nothing but my steps. I only concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
I don’t reach the village until two strenuous hours later. My relief is so great I forget about my aching soles as I stumble down the first road.
It’s quiet. What day of the week is it? My sense of time got muddled between the wedding and Angelo bringing me here.
I do a quick calculation. It’s Tuesday. People must be at work and children at school.
