Claudia
Week One
IrealizeI’ve been sitting on the edge of my couch staring at the fire escape for at least an hour when Liz comes through my apartment door. I know I look like shit. My head, my hand, and my foot are still bandaged up. My eye is less swollen, but it's still bruised as hell. My bosses at Kleinman’s have given me an extended leave. Purchasing women’s apparel for a major chain requires a lot of travel and a lot of face to face. They don't want me to scare away potential vendors with my mangled skin and broken body, but none of that matters. I can't bring myself to leave my small loft.
Liz is busy with her own life, but she is the first person I have the hospital contact. Hers is the only number I save in the stupid burner phone the Feds gave me a few days after they casually mention that everything from our campsite is to be used as evidence. Including my phone. And my brother.
Liz is all I have left.
I'm grateful, but I hope nothing makes it so I have to pay her back. Not like this.
“Hey pretty girl,” she says in her usual bright cheery way. I blink a few times, focus on her face. “I have your favorite. Jerk chicken from Miss Rica.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say. My throat is perpetually raw these days.
“And I have your mail. This was outside.” She holds up a small brown box from Amazon.
“That should be my phone.”
“Oh good.” She sets the food on the coffee table and hands me the box before she starts to peel off her trench coat.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. There are drinks in the fridge from last night. I'll grab us those,” she says. “What else can I get you?”
“A time machine.” I had no idea tears can just leak out of your eyes like this, but since I got home I've almost stopped wiping my face. There’s no point. I can’t stop crying.
“Oh honey.” I realize Liz is looking at me. I'm staring at the gold heart necklace hanging on her chest, the one I got her from work. She turns and heads for the kitchen. I turn back toward the TV. It's still off. I can't remember what I was planning to watch.
“Here.” Liz hands me a paper towel, just barely dampened with water.
“Thank you.” I wipe my eyes and my raw cheeks. I try to breathe normally. I can’t, but the coolness of the paper towel makes my face feel better.
“I'm going to stay for a while,” she says as she sits and starts distributing the chicken and rice.
“You don't have to.” Liz has a real job, corporate litigation. I know her free time is precious.
“But I want to,” she says. “Plus, we have at least two seasons of the Great French Baking Competition to watch.”
I don’t argue because I don’t really want to be alone. I grab my blanket out of the corner of the couch. I wrap myself up while she finishes with the food and grabs the drinks. My hand throbs like crazy, but I manage to grip the remotes and find Liz’s favorite baking competition show.
“Ooh, it’s Tarts and Pies week. This is gonna be good.” She flashes me a bright smile. I try to smile back, but mostly I just slow blink and think about how tired my eyes are.
I force some food down, listen to Liz’s comments on whose crusts look the best in her opinion. She gets a text.
“It’s Brooklyn.”
“How is she?” I ask. I have a soft spot for her little sister.
“Still wild,” she says with a smirk.
“You’re still jealous.”
“Of course I am,” she laughs. “I should be worried that her flighty ass isn’t going to pass the bar, but of course she is.”
“The kid’s just smart. She can’t help it.”
“She’s like the anti-Elle Woods. No effort, all results. She says ‘tell Claudia I say feel better and I love her.’”
