I got into the tub and filled it with water as hot as I could stand, and I still didn't feel warm all the way through.
The woman who owned the place was named Mariah, and she'd had all sorts of safety equipment installed in the bathroom for her elderly father. The building wasn't a regular apartment building, but a strata-titled condominium low-rise. The condo was in Mariah's name, and the rules didn't allow her to rent out the unit, but her elderly father had gone to a care home, and she couldn't sell the unit because it was tied up in a legal battle to do with some big construction thing that had to be done in a year or two. She could, however, have a family member stay there, so I paid her cash as her “sister,” and she'd forged some documents.
Stupid rules.
Rules are supposed to make things better for people, to bring a little fairness to life. Bell and I were quiet tenants—a hell of a lot better than some of the kids who regularly had parties in condos their parents owned. They threw cigarette butts and bottles down onto the lawn, and had friends who vomited in the elevator. And those people were in no danger of being thrown out, because they were family members of owners. Inside the rules.
It wasn't fair.
The water cooled off, so I drained more out and turned on the hot full-blast with my foot.
What was I going to say to Sawyer? Assuming I ever saw him again.
Even though my heart was aching with the memory of him walking away, just a second of thinking about his kisses flooded my senses with an unfamiliar warmth. The pleasure of a real man, flesh and bone, was so much bigger than the pleasure of imagination.
I shouldn't have gotten so f**king pissed at him. He didn't know how precarious my situation was with the illegal rental agreement. Bruce knew, and he said it wasn't a big deal—that everyone did stuff like that and it wasn't hurting anyone. Bruce said the world wouldn't be a better place if the apartment sat empty, so I shouldn't feel bad. I didn't feel bad, though.
Memories of my mother's boyfriend Derek came back. My hatred for him didn't seem as overpowering tonight. Maybe Derek's lessons about taking what you want in life without apology had actually sunk in and earned him some respect.
A little too late.
I inhaled sharply at that thought, and slipped under the water. I opened my eyes under the water and stared up at the metal handholds through the haze. The soap stung my eyes. I wished I was a mermaid, and that I could stay under there in the warm silence forever and ever.
I'm sitting at the edge of the blood, next to the body. I can't look at the body, so I look at the blood. I can't tell if it's still moving, flowing toward me, or if it's stopped. The floor is linoleum peel-and-stick tiles that my mother and I put in a year ago, as a surprise. I picked the tiles. They're gray and if you don't look too closely, they could be something fancy, like real stone.
We started trying to pull off the old tiles, to do the job properly, but only a few were loose and the other ones tore when we tried to remove them, so we ended up pasting them back down and putting the new ones over top the old, lining up the seams.
The blood has run down between the seams and traveled further, so in some parts, it looks like the floor itself is bleeding, like a river is coming up from Hell.
I know I'm smart, because my teachers at school always tell me I am. I can think my way through this. I just need time to think.
The kitchen smells like raw hamburger. It's hard to believe this blood seeping up from Hell is anything like the bit of pink stuff that's left on the white plastic container after you dump out the ground beef.
I keep rubbing my hands on a dish towel. I can't feel anything, and my hands don't look like my own. My nail polish is chipped.
I pull my shirt up over my nose, so the smell of blood in the room is covered by the baby-powder scent of my antiperspirant.
Something creaks. The floorboards. Down the hall.
I jump up and look for something to protect myself with. I lean over the blood and the body to grab the other knife, the one still in the wood holder by the sink. This knife is shorter, but clean.
The floor and walls creak again. I'm not alone.
Something's moving in the kitchen too, splashing. I look down and see that I've lost bladder control, down my leg under my skirt. I'm so scared, and then I hear another creak, and I just can't be scared anymore.
I clutch the knife tightly in my hand and imagine my arms strong and sure.
Today is not the day I die.
Saturday morning, I woke up thinking I had fallen asleep driving. My heart was thumping, my breath short, and even though I saw my sunny room around me, I felt the impact of a crash. I'd never been in a bad car accident before, but my body knew the terror.
I rubbed my arms and hummed a kid's song Bell liked me to sing when she had bad dreams.
When I got up and found her room empty, even though I knew she was safe at her grandmother's, I felt a tremor of panic at seeing her little bed, still made.
I got some cereal for breakfast and ate standing over the sink, then I washed all the dishes and walked around the apartment with the spray cleaner and a rag. I stopped at the kitchen table and got down on my knees to look across it. On the shiny wood table, I could see what looked like a full-body smudge from my bare back, complete with a stripe from the band of my cotton bra. There were full hand prints on either side, from Sawyer's hands.
Smiling at the memory, I spritzed the table and wiped away the evidence. Thinking about Sawyer kissing me, touching my body, made me feel bad and good at the same time. He didn't want me—couldn't want me. Guys as young as him, as cute as him, didn't go dating single moms. And, for all intents and purposes, I was a single mom, even though I didn't feel like one. We'd had our fun and now he was probably trying to get as far away from the crazy bitch as possible.
Good.
The only person a girl can count on is herself, anyway.
After cleaning up the apartment, I went to my grandmother's to pick up Bell.
As soon as I walked in the door of their tidy bungalow, my grandfather called me over to the television room.
Grandpa Jack was in a bright mood, his amber-brown eyes twinkling. He and Bruce had the same color eyes. I hadn't grown up around very many people who were related to me by blood, so it amused me to spot all of our similarities and differences. My grandmother reminded me of my mother, from the shape of her face to the pitch of her voice. Many of the things she said sounded like questions, even if they weren't questions. Her voice rose at the end of every statement, as if she was constantly waiting for reassurance from someone.
“Look!” He pressed a button on the remote control, and the screen turned to picture within picture, a small image from a news channel in the lower right corner while the main screen showed a golf tournament.