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Downstairs, I search through the utility drawer in the kitchen and find sticky tape and a cosmetic bag containing sewing supplies.
I remove the white thread and small scissors and cut an inch-long piece of tape. I stick it across the bottom of the front door, forming a bridge between it and the doorframe. If anyone opens the door while I’m gone, I’ll know.
It was a trick my grandmother taught me when I was a kid. Although back then, it was because we were pretending to be spies and having secret missions in her house. Now, it’s a makeshift security system.
I do the same trick to all the windows.
Once I’m finished, I return the tape to the drawer and cut off a two-inch piece of thread. I grab my purse and keys from the kitchen table. The purse is one of the items Florence gave me, along with a few items of clothing from Target. The black faux-leather bag is big and practical and perfect. It doesn’t scream,Pay attention to me.
I go out the kitchen door and lock it. I crouch and fit the thread in the narrow gap between the door and the frame. It’s enough for me to notice if the door’s been opened while I’m away.
I enter the garage using the side door. The late afternoon sunlight streams through the windows and cobwebs fill the dimly lit space. Before I met my husband, spiders terrified me. Granny tried to convince me they wanted to be our friends and served a great purpose in life. She wondered how I could be scared of anything that created artwork that sparkled in the morning dew like diamonds.
I’ve since learned that scarier monsters exist. The eight-legged creatures don’t bother me. It’s the two-legged ones I fear.
I flick on the light. The sorry light bulb doesn’t do much to wash out the shadows, but it does let me take inventory of the garage. The building is large enough for a single car but is currently used for storage. A cabinet stands next to the far wall. An assortment of tools—wrenches, hammers, saws, screwdrivers—are fastened to the wall above it.
I walk past the lawn mower, rakes, shovels, and an old workbench. I open the cabinet. It’s empty other than a metal toolbox, clay pots, and several gardening tools. None of the tools appear to be new, but they do look well cared for.
I close the door and straighten. Iris’s old bike is parked against the main garage door. I walk over and inspect the frame. I don’t know much about bikes, but this one resembles an older model, designed for cycling around town, shopping, or visiting friends.
The red paint has faded, spots of rust mar the frame, and the tires are flat. I pull open the drawer of the nightstand next to the bike and discover more tools. I close the drawer and open the door underneath it. A small hand pump sits on the top shelf. Perfect.
I inflate both tires. They should hopefully hold out while I bike to the store, but I will need to get some new inner tubes soon. Who knows how old these ones are? The tires also need replacing, the treads well-worn, almost smooth.
I pedal toward the grocery store, the wind blowing through my hair. And for a moment, the quaintness of the street, the trees lining it and the small cozy houses, lulls me into feeling safe. Even the newer homes have retained that quaint small-town feel I imagined on the bus ride to Maple Ridge.
But the feeling quickly shifts to one that’s more familiar, the one ingrained in me. I’m on high alert, cataloguing anything that could hide a potential threat or be one. A tree. A tall bush. A parked car. A man walking along the sidewalk. My heart is racing, but not in the way it did when I was a kid. Back then, I’d felt free and alive pedaling alongside my best friend.
I am free and alive.No matter what my husband and the inmates and prison guards did to me in the past, they can’t hurt me anymore.
But even though I can remind myself of that a billion times, I still have a hard time believing it.
I lock the bike in front of the store and go in through the sliding doors. I pick up a basket and pause, all the smells fighting for dominance—the citrusy fruits, the fresh herbs, the just-out-of-the-oven bread. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping without my husband. He always came with me. Always made sure I couldn’t escape.
During those final years, he made sure I had no phone, no car, no money, no dignity.
I might not have a phone or a car even now, but thanks to Granny’s will, I at least have savings.
I put a tomato in my basket. And a banana. And then three more bananas. Why not? It’s been forever since I last cooked for just me. Forever since I cooked whatIwanted to eat.
Food had been fuel for my husband’s body. The body he spent long hours honing in the gym. His body was his temple, the weapon he used against me. And only healthy food was permitted in our home.
I grab a box of sugary cereal and a package of gingersnap cookies with chocolate on the bottom. The kind Granny used to give me when I was a kid.
On the way to the self-serve checkout, I select a small bouquet of spring flowers. The symbol of hope and new beginnings. If I could, I’d fill my house with them. They’re so pretty, a rainbow of uplifting colors. I pay for everything and load it all into the basket on the front of Iris’s bike.
A woman walks up to me, wearing a thick jacket that’s better suited for the cool spring temperature than my sweater. She smiles, the curve of her mouth warm and friendly. “Hi. Can you tell me how to get to Picnic and Treats Café?”
I shake my head, working toward finding my voice again. “I’m-I’m sorry. I’m new in town.”
Air rushes from her like a leaky bike tire. “That’s what I get for not charging my phone this morning. I can’t even google it. I don’t suppose you can google it for me?” Her smile turns hopeful.
“Sorry. I forgot my phone.” I lift my shoulders in a quick shrug, not wanting to explain why I don’t have one. It’s not as if anyone will be contacting me. Granny’s dead, and all my premarriage friends disappeared from my life soon after my wedding.
I climb on my bike and pedal away before anyone else asks me a question I can’t—or don’t want to—answer.
At home, I put the bike in the garage and walk through the wooden gate in the hedge surrounding the backyard. The leaf buds have yet to appear on the branches, and the hedge’s lack of foliage leaves me feeling exposed.
