He needed people to meet me and see us happy, see that I was a real person—at least a few coworkers and some family. Then, when I supposedly became ill, he had their sympathy, and it didn’t seem odd that they’d never met this ill wife who never leaves the house. They’d met a happy, normal person who became ill; he crafted it carefully. With each turn, he made sure he dropped clues about my instability to make him look like the selfless, long-suffering husband. Once the groundwork had been laid, everything changed overnight. I went from giddy newlywed to this.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter with a third mug of coffee in my hand when I see a woman walking toward the house. I don’t know who it is. Before I can step out from in front of the window and pretend not to be home, she sees me and waves. I don’t wave back. I put my mug down and chew on my knuckle, thinking. I have to open the door now, don’t I? I think about Lucas watching. No matter what he’s doing, when he hears voices trigger the audio alert on his phone, he’ll stop and listen. Sometimes, he might not be watching in the moment, but he’ll always scan the footage later to make sure there is nothing he missed—at least the parts where voices are involved.
I don’t know what she’ll say. Will he be angrier if I don’t answer and appear normal and friendly, or if I talk to her and say something wrong? What could she possibly want? I decide not to answer.
“Hello?” she calls. “Anyone home? It’s Paula Landry from up the street. Yoo-hoo!”
I stand behind the front door in the dark entryway and wait for her to leave. Then an envelope is shoved under the door and onto my bare feet. I gasp but cover my mouth quickly so I don’t give myself away. Then I hear footsteps down the porch stairs. She’s leaving. I open the sheers on the front window and peek, ever so slightly through the blinds. When she’s out of sight, I grab the envelope and bring it into the kitchen. There’s a yellow sticky note on front that saysDropped in our mailbox by mistake. Has your address on it.It’s addressed to me. To me! How? What could it be? My hands tremble uncontrollably. It’s from the credit union I opened an account at back when I arrived, when I had my own money and never thought twice about getting a local bank account or telling Lucas about it. Why would I? I’d always been independent—always made my own way. What could it say?
I can’t open it here. He’ll already see that somebody dropped something off. I have to wait until Avery’s daily noon nap on the porch and freeze the camera before I open it. The hours before I can see what it is are agonizing. There’s no way he didn’t know about this account and drain it so I wouldn’t have access. There can’t be money in it. So I probably shouldn’t get excited. He controls everything, every other detail. It was all planned: how he’s cut off my phone, access to internet, transportation, money. He forced me to sign off on everything, adding his name to my bank account to keep control of my money. He forced my signature on documents he brought home on a lot of things—I’ve lost track—so there is a tiny flutter of hope in my chest that maybe he didn’t know about this one.
It’s not like I mentioned it. He was showing signs of being a little controlling—guilting me about small stuff, having me check in and call everywhere I went, acting jealous over nothing. I thought it was him being overly protective since I was in a new country, but I guess there was a small part of me that thought I should protect my money, money I’d earned, since my world now revolved around his income, his house. It felt safe. It wasn’t much, a couple thousand. God, it seems like an absolute fortune now. I need to see what the letter says. How can I hide it?
Just before noon, I place Avery in her high chair. She eats bits of banana and yogurt as she kicks her socked feet against the table. There is a mess of old mail in the wooden mail organizer on the counter. I stand near it and drop a piece of bread into the toaster. I can only work with the pieces that are lying on the countertop. I can’t move anything. I see what looks like a spam offer from a car dealership. Lucas is very tidy but tends to jam junk mail into the organizer all week and then clean it out on the weekend. This is a great benefit to me right now. I make a fresh pot of tea and pour myself another cup. Then I pull out a plate from the cabinet. I place it on top of the car dealership envelope. When my toast is ready, I butter it on the plate and then pick up the plate holding the envelopes beneath it.
“I’ll be right back, bug,” I say and then head over to place my plate and mug on the porch table. Before I do, I make sure to say “Oops,” as if I forgot something, and then I place my plate on the stand by the front door where my letter sits. I go back to the kitchen and grab a spoon, then pick up the plate with the bank letter underneath it and take it outside. I’m trembling. My knees feel like they’ll buckle I’m so incredibly nervous, but I quickly go in to collect Avery and place her on a blanket on the daybed with her musical book to play with until she gets tired.
I eat my toast and wave back at Cora, who is excitedly waving my way. I pray to God she doesn’t come over. I need time. After Avery is asleep, I lie down next to her and slip my hand beneath the daybed cushion, locating the small remote that allows me to freeze the camera. I can only guess that the function is working, since I am not actually looking at the surveillance screen, just a camera lens. So far, he’s never seemed to think anything is off, so that’s how I know it works. The heart-pounding risk each time I do it makes me ill.
I try to breathe deep and calm my nerves a minute. Then I pull the letter out of my pocket and rip it open. I press my knuckles to my mouth as I read it and then read it again. Oh, my God. I can’t—Oh, my God! There’s money. It’s an annual statement. My pulse throbs in my ears. I recall declining to receive monthly statements to save the planet from paper waste. If I hadn’t, he would have seen monthly statements come through and that would be it. My. God. He didn’t find out about this account. There’s twelve hundred dollars in it! It’s not a passport and a plane ticket, but it could get me out. This time I wouldn’t waste my time trying to set up a plan or passport first, I’d just go as far as the money could take us. Tears begin to fall, and I frantically wipe them off the bank statement and fold it up, shoving it in my bra.
This is a miracle. This is somebody watching over me. A lot of mail gets sent directly and doesn’t actually get forwarded to the PO box, but he always checks the mailbox, and I’m not allowed to go near it. This feels like more than luck: it feels like salvation. I hold my head in my hands and rock back and forth, my mind racing, planning. How do I get to town? I have to.
“Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?” a voice asks, and I leap to my feet, holding my heart. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Cora says. She puts her hand on my shoulder.
“No. It’s fine. I just—You startled me,” I say, and she sees Avery sleeping and then puts her finger to her lips, indicating she’ll be quiet. She sits down without being asked, so I sit back down as well.
“We had the toy drive last month, and I found a box of baby toys in the garage that got left behind, so I brought little Avery this,” she says, producing a plush octopus from her bag.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s really lovely. Thank you. She’ll love it.”
Cora smiles, pleased with herself. I know a sane person would offer tea, and since she’s showing no signs of leaving, I ask her if she’d like a cup.
“That would be great. Thanks,” she says, and I remember the porch camera is frozen, and if I go inside while the surveillance shows me sleeping, I will be so incredibly screwed.
“You know what, I’m so sorry. I just used the last tea bag,” I say. “I was planning to go into town and get some today.” It’s all I have. I don’t think she believes me.
“That’s okay, dear. I just wanted to make sure Avery got this is all.”
I should offer her something else, but I can’t, so I make conversation instead, as it’s all I have to offer.
“It’s nice today,” I start.
And it is. It’s sunny today, which is fitting because I feel light for the first time in months. It’s still light-jacket weather during the day and cold at night, but I know winter is coming, and I feel this rare flutter of hope expanding in my chest that maybe I’ll escape before it gets here.
Cora continues making small talk about things I don’t have the luxury to care about—Weight Watchers, and a new organic cat food she found to feed the neighborhood stray she’s apparently named Alfalfa. Avery begins to stir. Cora puts her fingers excitedly to her lips and smiles as if she’s never seen a baby before and will endure physical pain if she can’t touch her.
Avery wakes happily today, blinking at us and stretching her little legs. Cora looks to me.
“You can give it to her if you want,” I say, and she gives a joyful little shimmy of her shoulders, takes the stuffed octopus, and sits next to Avery on the daybed.
“Hi, sweet girl,” she says softly, and Avery coos and flexes her hands, reaching for the stuffed animal.
“This is for you. What should we name him?” she says, tickling the bottom of Avery’s feet. I see Cora’s open bag next to her empty chair. I can feel my cheeks flush with shame at the very thought of stealing from the nicest woman on the planet. I will pay her back, though. If she knew why, she wouldn’t fault me, I tell myself. I just need ten dollars to get to town. How? I can’t have her go inside to get something or bring Avery in or anything. It will tip off the motion-sensor cameras inside. It would ruin everything.
“Looks like someone needs a fresh diaper. Did you tinkle? Yes, you did,” she says, and it sounds a little more like she’s talking to a puppy than a child, but Avery loves it. Cora doesn’t even ask me: she just pulls a clean diaper out of the bag of toys and baby supplies that sit near the front door and begins to take control.
I feign cleaning up by plucking up Avery’s bottle and a few toys and then sit in Cora’s spot.
