“I hate to break it to you, princess, but this is starting late.” I hammer another tile, as if to prove a point and it makes her flinch like she’s been physically assaulted by the sound. “I’m planning on starting at seven every morning going forward.”
I hammer a couple more tiles and pieces fly up. She places her hands, covered by the cuffs of the sweater, over her ears. “You’re trying to kill me.”
I laugh at her overdramatic act.
“And where am I supposed to shower? This is the only bathroom!”
“Yeah, I guess that’s why Jude wanted me to do this when the house was supposed to be empty,” I remind her and she narrows her eyes on me, like she’s trying to wither me with her stare. “You can use the bathroom in my trailer while I’m working in here. I’ll pull out the toilet last and turn the water back on so you can use this place at night.”
“Use your trailer?” she repeats, clearly horrified. “For showering?”
“Yeah. The bathroom is pretty decent actually,” I say trying not to sound too defensive. I mean, yeah it’s a trailer, but I’ve made it as nice as possible and I’m not a slob. I keep it neat and clean.
“You think I’m going to shower in your bathroom?” she repeats, still annoyed and somehow offended.
“What’s your problem?” I demand. “Use it or don’t. I don’t care. You can always go stay with your boyfriend, wherever the hell he is. That option would suit me best, actually, if you were just gone completely. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
She’s so defensive and angry all the time I feel like I should be sympathetic, because I was like that once too. But instead it makes me want to challenge her more and push her buttons. It’s a very old, very bad habit I thought I kicked. The fact that she keeps making me realize I haven’t just annoys me more.
I hammer another tile, much harder than required just to make as much noise as possible. She makes this strangled, gurgle of frustration in the back of her throat and storms off. She stomps her way all the way up the stairs.
For the next twenty minutes she’s banging around the house. Her frustration is starting to thicken the air in the whole house. I find myself grinding my teeth and scowling, but at least it seems to make me work harder and faster. I’ve finished breaking up all the tile so I head outside for the big rubber trash can I bought for hauling out debris. It’s around back from the trailer and as I walk by the window in the bathroom I hear the shower running. Good, Princess is taking me up on my offer. I grab the bucket and head back inside.
As I’m hauling out the first load of broken tile, Winnie is walking around the side of the cottage pushing a very ancient looking bike. I have a vague memory of her traipsing around town on it as a kid. She doesn’t say a word to me, just shoots me a quick, penetrating glare, hops on the bike and rides away very unsteadily.
Whatever. At least she’s gone for now.
Winnie doesn’t come back for hours and I’m able to get all the demo done and then I take a quick break for lunch, scarfing a turkey sandwich in front of my sink in the trailer before spending the afternoon clearing out the rest of the debris. As the day went on the temperature rose. It was an abnormally warm September day and since Winnie was gone, I pulled off my shirt and used it to mop my face as I worked. I leave the toilet intact for now and I’m debating whether I should try to haul out that ancient metal shower stall before cleaning up to go meet my sister when I hear the bang of the screen door.
I freeze in the doorway to the bathroom and slowly turn my head toward the porch. Winnie appears and whimpers softly as she steps into the house. I’m instantly concerned. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she says, but it’s through gritted teeth. I turn away from the bathroom so I can face her completely. My eyes sweep over her as she visibly limps and I immediately notice a tear in her jeans, at the knee, that wasn’t there before.
I point to it. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she replies tersely but as she reaches out to balance herself on the nearby table, I notice her palm is full of angry red scrapes. I walk toward her. Her eyes snap up and meet mine. She looks like a wounded animal. “I fell off the bike. It’s nothing.”
As I get closer, I can see the extent of her injuries and I know immediately it’s not nothing. Both her palms are badly scraped up and there are bits of gravel and dirt still in them. I can’t see her skin, where the knee of her jeans has torn away because it’s nothing but a bloody pulp. I wince and when our eyes meet again, hers are watering.
“I just need to clean it up,” she insists.
“You need to see a doctor about that knee,” I argue. “I think it might need stitches.”
She shakes her head furiously. “No. It’s just a scrape.”
“Winnie…” She just keeps shaking her head and she’s got her bottom lip pulled between her teeth and her eyes are glassy and she looks like she’s about to come undone under the weight of the lie she’s trying to make me believe. I don’t know if it’s her raw emotions or my own panic that she’s really hurt herself here but for some reason I reach out and gently cup the side of her face. “You’re right. It’s a scratch. But let me help you clean it up, okay?”
She doesn’t want to say yes. I can feel the tension in her neck as she stops herself from shaking her head, no. She bites her lip a little harder, swallows and says, “Sure.”
I help her to the dining room table and get her to sit down in one of the chairs and then I grab some scissors from the kitchen. I start to cut the torn bottom half of her pant leg off. She doesn’t complain, just watches. The jeans are destroyed anyway and I think she knows that. As soon as I have a better look at the wound, I know for a fact she’s entirely wrong. This thing is way worse than a scrape. I’m squatting in front of her knee, my hands gently holding her calf. There are streaks of blood running down it. I look up, and our gazes connect. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my trailer.”
I stand up and reach out for her hands. She looks startled and kind of leans back, away from me. “It’s easier if you come with me,” I lie. “Come on. I’ll help you.”
She looks like she knows I’m up to something, but she puts her hands in mine anyway and lets me help her to her feet. But when I quickly step forward and scoop her up so I’m carrying her, she gasps and squirms like an earth worm on a sidewalk. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You can barely walk,” I remind her and start toward the door. “Now, stop squirming or I’ll drop you.”
She stops moving but not talking, unfortunately. “You do not have to carry me. I am not an invalid. It’s a scratch. I don’t want your help if you’re going to be all Neanderthal about it.”
