I brush my teeth, moisturize my face, comb my hair, and roll deodorant under my arms in a state of rapture. After being trapped in the dark, I’m beginning to feel almost normal again. The clothes fit snugly but there’s no bra or pockets for me to put my St. Christopher in and you can see my nipples through the T-shirt. I pull the socks on and look around for shoes. I knock on the inside of the door. “Hi, are there any shoes?”
“No.”
“Oh, but my socks will be ruined on the floor?”
An irritated grunt. “Are you dressed?”
“Yes.”
“Then put the bag back on your head.”
I do it, and hold my St. Christopher in my fist. The door unlocks and the man takes my arm again. When he next takes off the bag we’re in a small room, empty except for a table and chair. On the table is a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese. My heart leaps. “Is that for me?”
“Yes. Sit.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much! Mr…?”
He looks at me with his flinty grey eyes. “Gretzky.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gretzky.”
I eat fast, burning the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care. In seconds the plate and bowl are empty.
Mr. Gretzky scowls. “Done?”
I nod. “Everything was delicious.”
“I didn’t make the food.” He hands me back the bag.
I hesitate. “Does anyone want to see me? Mr. Morelli, maybe?”
“No.”
With a sigh I lower the bag onto my head. Mr. Gretzky leads me back down the house until I hear the now-familiar creak of the basement door. My chest hollows out. It’ll be better to be clean and fed in my cage but it’s so lonely in the dark. Maybe that’s Eli and Doc’s plan? To melt my sense of perspective and force me to choose one of their proposals out of sheer boredom.
Or they’ve forgotten about me.
“Lift your feet so you don’t hit the grate,” Mr. Gretzky says.
I do as I’m told before I pull the bag off my head. “Thank you for helping me—Ahhh!”
Bobby rises from my bed, his hands up. “Sorry! Sorry, January, I didn’t mean to scare you!”
He’s wearing chinos and a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He looks like a TV boyfriend. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
The basement door slams. Mr. Gretzky must have left. Which means Bobby and I are alone.
He moves to one side, gesturing at the bed. “Come sit down.”
Unsure what else to do, I sit, tucking my feet underneath me. I’m super aware of my damp hair and scrubbed face, my nipples brushing against my T-shirt. I fold my arms across my chest. “Um, so why are you here?”
Bobby scrubs a hand through his short hair. “Do you feel better after your shower?”
“Yeah totally.”
“That’s… good.”
