me feeling the air, I reached the place where the shape was.
I touched it.
It was what I’d imagined.
My pillow.
I felt the material, searching for whatever was holding it up. I found a hand. I stroked it with my fingers, recognizing its bumps. The wrinkly fold between two of her knuckles, the circle of burned skin at the base of the thumb, the wide, smooth scar near the wrist. It was my mother’s hand.
I squeezed it gently to tell her she could let go. Her nose whistled from the other side of the wood. The door closed.
I went back to the bathtub.
I closed the curtain again and lay back.
I hugged the pillow inside that cold white ceramic bed.
I slept.
The pipes whistling woke me up again. The water was running in the sink. On the other side of the curtain, someone had turned it on, but the light in the bathroom was still off. Only Grandma would use the bathroom without switching on the light. I breathed, trying to smell her talcum powder.
Then I heard a cough that I recognized. It wasn’t my grandmother’s, but my sister’s. She hadn’t seen Dad punish me by making me spend the night in the bathtub. Maybe she didn’t know I was there. Which was why she hadn’t knocked on the door. But why hadn’t she turned on the light?
There was another cough. It was actually a wetter sound than a cough. A retch. I waited to hear the vomit hitting the sink, but it didn’t. She just hawked the spit and snot from her throat.
She also groaned in a way I could barely hear. When she sighed a few times, I thought she might be crying. There was a high-pitched screech when she turned the handle again, followed by a louder flow of water. If the shower curtain hadn’t been closed, the drops I heard splashing against the plastic would’ve reached me. Then the gargling started. A gurgle and then the mouthful of water falling into the basin. Followed by a moan, or rather, a stifled whimper. She repeated the exercise several times. I wanted to peek out by lifting a corner of the curtain, like I had before, but the sticky sound of the skin on my hand when I peeled it from the tub ended any attempt to move. If my sister didn’t know I was there, if she thought I was sleeping in my bunk like I did every night, she may not be wearing her mask. In the darkness of the room I might not manage to see her deformed face, but I could perhaps make out some grotesque contour. The flat profile of a noseless face.
I recognized the sound of the soap dish sliding a little. It was fish-shaped and it gripped the soap with plastic scales. Its three resting points squeaked when they slipped along the ceramic sink. The bubbling and friction I heard next told me that my sister was washing her hands. It was for longer than even Mom spent washing hers after chopping garlic in the kitchen. The sound of my sister washing her hands was followed by a flicking sound that was repeated five times. Then the curtain moved and a piece of material landed on my chest.
I used the hand I’d peeled from the bathtub to touch it, feeling the circular contour of a button. It was the blouse my sister slept in. I understood that she’d undone the five buttons before leaving the blouse on the edge of the bathtub. Where I was.
There was also an elastic sound, but not the one made by the strap on her mask. I remembered her taking off her bra the afternoon when we’d had a bath together. The garment fell onto the blouse. One of the straps brushed against my shoulder. The soap dish skidded again. It was followed by some kind of friction sound. It wasn’t two hands soaping each other. It was different. There were more muffled whimpers, like the ones Grandma gave sometimes when she was sitting in the living room, her face in the direction of the wall for an entire afternoon.
Another noise broke through the darkness of that bathroom that my sister and I shared without her knowing it. A noise from out in the hallway. My sister drew in her breath. The bar of soap hit the
I touched it.
It was what I’d imagined.
My pillow.
I felt the material, searching for whatever was holding it up. I found a hand. I stroked it with my fingers, recognizing its bumps. The wrinkly fold between two of her knuckles, the circle of burned skin at the base of the thumb, the wide, smooth scar near the wrist. It was my mother’s hand.
I squeezed it gently to tell her she could let go. Her nose whistled from the other side of the wood. The door closed.
I went back to the bathtub.
I closed the curtain again and lay back.
I hugged the pillow inside that cold white ceramic bed.
I slept.
The pipes whistling woke me up again. The water was running in the sink. On the other side of the curtain, someone had turned it on, but the light in the bathroom was still off. Only Grandma would use the bathroom without switching on the light. I breathed, trying to smell her talcum powder.
Then I heard a cough that I recognized. It wasn’t my grandmother’s, but my sister’s. She hadn’t seen Dad punish me by making me spend the night in the bathtub. Maybe she didn’t know I was there. Which was why she hadn’t knocked on the door. But why hadn’t she turned on the light?
There was another cough. It was actually a wetter sound than a cough. A retch. I waited to hear the vomit hitting the sink, but it didn’t. She just hawked the spit and snot from her throat.
She also groaned in a way I could barely hear. When she sighed a few times, I thought she might be crying. There was a high-pitched screech when she turned the handle again, followed by a louder flow of water. If the shower curtain hadn’t been closed, the drops I heard splashing against the plastic would’ve reached me. Then the gargling started. A gurgle and then the mouthful of water falling into the basin. Followed by a moan, or rather, a stifled whimper. She repeated the exercise several times. I wanted to peek out by lifting a corner of the curtain, like I had before, but the sticky sound of the skin on my hand when I peeled it from the tub ended any attempt to move. If my sister didn’t know I was there, if she thought I was sleeping in my bunk like I did every night, she may not be wearing her mask. In the darkness of the room I might not manage to see her deformed face, but I could perhaps make out some grotesque contour. The flat profile of a noseless face.
I recognized the sound of the soap dish sliding a little. It was fish-shaped and it gripped the soap with plastic scales. Its three resting points squeaked when they slipped along the ceramic sink. The bubbling and friction I heard next told me that my sister was washing her hands. It was for longer than even Mom spent washing hers after chopping garlic in the kitchen. The sound of my sister washing her hands was followed by a flicking sound that was repeated five times. Then the curtain moved and a piece of material landed on my chest.
I used the hand I’d peeled from the bathtub to touch it, feeling the circular contour of a button. It was the blouse my sister slept in. I understood that she’d undone the five buttons before leaving the blouse on the edge of the bathtub. Where I was.
There was also an elastic sound, but not the one made by the strap on her mask. I remembered her taking off her bra the afternoon when we’d had a bath together. The garment fell onto the blouse. One of the straps brushed against my shoulder. The soap dish skidded again. It was followed by some kind of friction sound. It wasn’t two hands soaping each other. It was different. There were more muffled whimpers, like the ones Grandma gave sometimes when she was sitting in the living room, her face in the direction of the wall for an entire afternoon.
Another noise broke through the darkness of that bathroom that my sister and I shared without her knowing it. A noise from out in the hallway. My sister drew in her breath. The bar of soap hit the
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