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My eyes snap open, and I blink furiously against my surroundings. A tight pressure builds in my chest. Someone is inside my rib cage shoveling coal into the cavity of a steam train. I pull in air, but it feels thick and dry. I can’t breathe. My hands scramble against the sheet clinging to my body, its damp clutches like sticky hands clawing at me. I need it off me. I need air.
I can’t recall the details of the nightmare that swamped me, and this almost frightens me more. The terror of not knowing what had its hands wrapped around my throat. I rake my fingers down my neck as if its invisible hands might still be there, but all I feel is my skin, cold and damp.
The bedding feels damp, and I’m thrown back into my childhood bedroom.
I flop down on my bed after a rough day at school, my bedroom is my only sanctuary from Carl’s presence, or so I thought. I place my head on the pillow hoping the softness will swallow me. My eyes close, and the day begins to ease as I melt into the familiar comfort. But then my nose twitches. There is the lingering smell of the cookie dough candle I burned yesterday, but there is something else under the sweet bakery scent. Like a dog, I begin to sniff my bed. The more I search, the stronger the smell gets. I’m on my knees, holding back my long hair as I work the scene.
I pull the bed covers back, and the ammonia smell hits me full in the face. I leap off the bed as if it is on fire, my pulse racing, my body rigid. I press my hand over my mouth to keep in whatever is trying to get out.
There is no mistaking the smell. I live with two men, now three. The large, circular stain spreads from the center of the sheet, and the yellow tinge glows against the white background. My mind zig-zags with images of him coming into my room and urinating on my bed. When had he done it? How had he managed to do this without being seen? I don’t ask myself why. The answer to that is obvious—because he could.
I strip the bedding down and fling it in the wash, but the mattress is soaked. I quickly google how to get stains out of a mattress and am flooded with a barrage of chemistry lessons involving mixing potions of many different household items. I think of George brewing his Marvelous Medicine as I prepare a concoction that will hopefully rid my mattress of his stench. But the mix leaves it sodden. Not even a hot water bottle can dry the mess. The lingering smell reminds me of a wet dog mixed with a portable toilet.My mattress is ruined.
I think I might be able to clean it all without my mom noticing, but I should have known better. I can’t tell her. No way. This isn’t an option because of Grandad. His failing health is becoming more apparent. His recent move into a nursing home highlights that his dementia has reached a point where he isn’t safe in the house on his own anymore. He’s lost his independence and is slowly losing his mind. It is killing my mom to watch her father deteriorate. He’s been the head of our household for such a long time, and now the power balance is shifting. Mom and Dad aren’t ready for it. Do I want to add to her problems by being a tattletale on the foster kid? I think about my mom watching her father die from the inside out. Compared to that, Carl is small fry.
She asked me during dinner.
“Did I see your bedding in the wash, Chloe?”
The table falls silent. Frank stares at me. My dad chews on his lasagna, and Mom’s fork pauses at her mouth. Carl sits at the other end of the table.
“Yeah, I… spilled a can of Coke, that’s all.” I swiftly turn back to my plate and furiously rake my fork through my lasagna, looking for a way out of the conversation.
“Well, that will teach you to drink in your room. Did you get it on anything else?”
“No.”
Carl glares at me with a smirk on his face. My skin crawls under his stare. What would she say? The idea floats in my head for a millisecond, the words almost out of my mouth. “Mom, the foster kid pulled back my duvet and pissed on my bed. What do you make of that? Still want to keep him?”
So, I never tell her. I don’t tell anyone. Fear does that to you. It strips you of your voice and renders you silent in the darkness, where you remain alone.
I roll over and see Gianni beside me, propped up against a large pile of pillows. I’m not alone now. His eyes are closed. His chest moves up and down, his calm breathing seeming alien to me. I push myself up, my eyes fixed upon him.
“Chloe.” His eyes open, and he sees it in my face, the look he knows so well. He knew this would happen because it’s happened to him.
“I’m here,” he whispers, reaching for my hand. “There’s no need to be afraid.” He pulls me into him, placing my head on his chest. I feel him now, feel his breathing, the rise and fall. He takes my other hand and places it on his chest, flattening my hand against his skin. He holds it there and tells me to breathe with him. The panic dispels as my breathing slows to match his. The fear is going, the queasiness retreating as I lay enclosed within his arms.
The smell of him overpowers me as my body settles into his rhythm. Like a lion tamer, he has subdued me. This intimacy is something new. I push myself up from his chest and gaze into his eyes. He blinks before pushing my hair away from my face.
“Your hair,” he says, his voice melting away the panic. “It’s different.” He twirls my hair around his fingers. It has been left to its own devices after he washed it in the bath. Large thick curls now decorate my shoulders, reminding me of when I was younger before my straighteners were unleashed.
I place my hand over his and move his palm to the side of my face. I close my eyes and inhale. I want him inside me, flowing with my blood, running through my body.
“Chloe,” Gianni whispers. I move closer, my head inches from his as I run my hand down the side of his face. I gently press my lips against his. They are warm and soft, but he doesn’t respond. I move back slightly.
“Chloe, I can’t.” His voice is laced with sincerity, his face haunted with pain. I want to believe he doesn’t want to take advantage of me tonight, not after what I’ve gone through, but it isn’t this. It is something more.
“I need to feel something other than this nothingness.” I want to justify the kiss.
He must see it. He knows the feelings swelling within me, the emptiness that comes with watching a life slip away before your eyes. The ease with which a living, breathing person can suddenly be no more, with such simplicity and calmness that the reality of it is too much to comprehend. “I need to know this isn’t how it’s going to be.”
His face is gaunt, a haunted look upon him that I’ve not seen before, or maybe I haven’t recognized it for what it is. For a second, he appears frozen, his eyes upon my face as we stare at one another.
“I know what you want, Chloe, what you need, but I can’t give it to you.” I want to grab him and yell at him that this isn’t fair. How can he do this to me? But there’s a sadness on his face that makes me want to cry. Is this something he has no control over? Has he not been close to anyone since his wife died? Has he forgotten what it is like?
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“It’s complicated.” I sit back on my heels, my shoulders dropping. He leans over to me, pushing my hair from my face. “I want to, Chloe, I want to more than anything, but I can’t. There’s something…” His words stop like a broken-down car, and I want to push him, but he seems so fragile I’m scared he’ll break.
