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I check the status of the thread I tucked in between the back door and the jamb. It hasn’t been disturbed. I unlock the door and go into the house. A hollow silence eerily greets me. I should be thrilled it’s so quiet. Even the quiet in prison was punctured with the occasional noise. Coughing. Snoring. Whispering. Yelling.
Now the silence reminds me of how alone I am.
I put the food away and remove a vase from under the sink. I turn on the water. Nothing comes out. I turn it off and try again. This time the water explodes from the faucet. Icy droplets hit me in the face, soak through my top, and I let out a startled giggle-shriek.
I attempt to turn the water off, but now that it’s discovered freedom, it isn’t interested in being contained. Water continues to spray everywhere.Well, fuckers.
I try jiggling the faucet off. That eventually seems to work. The water slows down with a little more jiggling and then stops.Hmm.
I slowly twist the faucet in the other direction, but not all the way this time. The water comes out in a steady narrow stream. I fill the vase and place it on the counter. It takes me a few attempts, but I manage to turn off the water, jiggling the faucet as I twist it.
I put the flowers in the vase. They don’t do much to fill the silence or to make me feel less lonely, but none of that diminishes their beauty.
I search the living room and stumble across an old record player built into the top of what I thought was a wooden cabinet. I press the power button. Nothing.
I hunt for the power cord and find it on the floor behind the cabinet. I push it into the electric socket. “All right, Iris. Please tell me this works.” I press the button once more. The red light turns on.Well, that’s a start.
I flip through her record collection, but they’re mostly early Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Bing Crosby. Couldn’t she have at least listened to Elvis Presley, the Beatles, or The Rolling Stones?
Or maybe Anne took those albums.
Granny and I loved watchingWhite Christmastogether, so I put on a Bing Crosby record. Music blasts through the speaker, rattling the windows. I quickly turn down the volume. No need to piss off my neighbors.
My gaze shifts from the record player to the stack of magazines. As much as I appreciate the lifetime of reading material, the majority of them need to go.
I remove a Ziploc bag with a magazine inside.Vogue, September 1, 1943. The headline reads: “Take a Job! Release a Man to Fight!” Despite the protective covering, the magazine isn’t in pristine condition.
I sit on the couch, flip through the magazine, and read the article about narrow skirts and the editorials. I return the magazine to the bag and put it on the floor, creating a new pile.
An hour later, I’ve gone through four other magazines, but none of them gave me insight as to why they made it to the important-to-Iris pile. Their contents are as varied as the dates on the covers.
I switch the album to Billie Holiday and eat the small baguette, fruit, and cheese I bought for dinner. Compared to the food I’ve been eating for the past five years, it’s a meal akin to a royal banquet.
The sky is turning pale blue, and the thinning clouds promise a spectacular sunset. Anne told me how to get to the nearby lake. If I’m lucky, no one else will be there.
I pedal along the street. The air is colder now, and it nips at my skin through my sweater.
A woman walking her dog glances at me. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact. Praying she doesn’t see through my cheap disguise of blond hair coloring and nondescript clothing.
I’m safe. The media doesn’t know where to find me. No one knows I’m here, other than Florence, and maybe my brother-in-law, Craig, and his wife.
At the lake, I leave the bike in the empty stand and walk down the embankment to the water. No one else is here, but unlike at the house, I don’t feel so alone. I don’t actually know what I feel. Until recently, I’d bubble-wrapped myself in numbness. It was easier that way.
I remove my sneakers and socks, drop them onto the sand, and walk to the water. Dry granules push between my toes.
The surface of the lake is nearly smooth, the breeze creating small waves. So different from the ocean. The ocean is never calm. It’s dangerous, always changing. Challenging. It let me know who was the boss. Brought me gifts. Sea glass and shells. Swept me off my feet. Left me unsteady.
Left me floundering.
I close my eyes and wiggle my toes. Memories leak in. Of a toddler crouched near the water, pointing at a half-buried shell in the sand. I’d kneeled next to her, and my fingers dug at the prize. The cold tide rushed up the beach, taking us by surprise.
And my daughter—my reason for living, for surviving my real-life monster, my dangerous ocean—giggled and smiled and splashed the water.
My daughter…who I’ll never see again.
4
TROY
