say.
Linden doesn’t seem to hear me, though. He’s staringahead when he says, “It would’ve destroyed me if I’d lost her. My father knows that, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” I say cautiously. I can see the doubt coming to his face, the way he’s piecing things together. Vaughn never told Linden much about his late brother, or his mother. He didn’t want Linden to feel a shred of love for them. But Linden can love his wives if he wants to, because if they die, Vaughn knows that his son will return to him, broken and vulnerable and so easy to control.
He looks so haggard. I move my chair beside his and force the cup of cold tea into his hands, hold my palm under it, and guide it to his lips. He takes small obligatory sips, but then I have to take the cup away because his hands are shaking so much that the tea is splashing onto his thighs.
I put my arms around him, and he grabs my shirt in his fists and pulls me close.
“Hey,” I say into his ear. “She’s going to be okay. That’s the important thing. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
Linden nods and says nothing more, but I can feel his rage. This is where it starts. This is the spark that will eventually consume him.
I WRING OUT the sponge, and the water in the bucket goes pink with my sister wife’s blood.
Reed makes his own soap—these crude oatmeal-based rectangles that leave a beige film on everything. But it’s doing wonders for the upholstery in his car. The big bloody stain becomes a dull orange, and then gray. By now it looks like it could be a grease stain, or cooking oil. But I want it gone completely, and so I scrub until my shoulders ache and the upholstery starts to look thinner. After this I’ll mop up the red streaks in the hallway, launder the bedsheets, burn them if washing them doesn’t take care of it. Bad enough she had to lose the baby in that hospital room all alone. I’ll be damned if she has to come home to the evidence, too.
“I think you got all of it, doll,” Reed says. His hands are dirty up to the elbows. He said he’d be in his shed. Idon’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t look up. Keep scrubbing.
“Not all of it,” I say.
“Really. It was pretty dirty before, anyway. You can’t make it perfect.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Doll . . . ”
I wring out the sponge again. Pink suds drip from my fingers and onto the stain. This is getting counterproductive. I need fresh water. When I pick up the bucket, it slips in my wet hands and spills across the floor of the car. And suddenly I can’t move. I can only watch the water get absorbed into the carpet. I’m breathing hard. My muscles ache. My head is pounding. And all I want is for this stupid car to be clean, but it’s not going to happen. It’s not ever going to happen.
Did I bring this on? In warning Cecily about Vaughn, did I only fuel her defiance against him and put her in his warpath? How bad would it have been to let her carry on in blissful ignorance? She would have been safer under Vaughn’s thumb, maybe, and she wouldn’t have lost this baby.
I feel sick, and I purse my lips to fight against a dry heave.
Reed climbs into the driver’s seat, reaches across and opens the front passenger door. “Come on,” he says, and numbly I step out of the car, walk around it and sit in the passenger side. I close the door with a slam that makes everything shudder, and the tears just come. I can’tstop them. I’m too tired to even try. I’ve been sleeping hunched over in a plastic chair, my dreams pervaded by a sharp, rhythmic beeping. My back is sore and I’ve definitely pulled something in my neck, but how can I possibly fixate on that? I can’t, not when Linden’s eyes are so puffy, and not while there’s so much cleaning to do.
Reed slides his hands around the steering wheel like he’s pretending to drive. “Rough week, huh?” he finally says.
I snort and wipe my eyes with my wrist. “Yeah.”
“They’re
Linden doesn’t seem to hear me, though. He’s staringahead when he says, “It would’ve destroyed me if I’d lost her. My father knows that, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” I say cautiously. I can see the doubt coming to his face, the way he’s piecing things together. Vaughn never told Linden much about his late brother, or his mother. He didn’t want Linden to feel a shred of love for them. But Linden can love his wives if he wants to, because if they die, Vaughn knows that his son will return to him, broken and vulnerable and so easy to control.
He looks so haggard. I move my chair beside his and force the cup of cold tea into his hands, hold my palm under it, and guide it to his lips. He takes small obligatory sips, but then I have to take the cup away because his hands are shaking so much that the tea is splashing onto his thighs.
I put my arms around him, and he grabs my shirt in his fists and pulls me close.
“Hey,” I say into his ear. “She’s going to be okay. That’s the important thing. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
Linden nods and says nothing more, but I can feel his rage. This is where it starts. This is the spark that will eventually consume him.
I WRING OUT the sponge, and the water in the bucket goes pink with my sister wife’s blood.
Reed makes his own soap—these crude oatmeal-based rectangles that leave a beige film on everything. But it’s doing wonders for the upholstery in his car. The big bloody stain becomes a dull orange, and then gray. By now it looks like it could be a grease stain, or cooking oil. But I want it gone completely, and so I scrub until my shoulders ache and the upholstery starts to look thinner. After this I’ll mop up the red streaks in the hallway, launder the bedsheets, burn them if washing them doesn’t take care of it. Bad enough she had to lose the baby in that hospital room all alone. I’ll be damned if she has to come home to the evidence, too.
“I think you got all of it, doll,” Reed says. His hands are dirty up to the elbows. He said he’d be in his shed. Idon’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t look up. Keep scrubbing.
“Not all of it,” I say.
“Really. It was pretty dirty before, anyway. You can’t make it perfect.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Doll . . . ”
I wring out the sponge again. Pink suds drip from my fingers and onto the stain. This is getting counterproductive. I need fresh water. When I pick up the bucket, it slips in my wet hands and spills across the floor of the car. And suddenly I can’t move. I can only watch the water get absorbed into the carpet. I’m breathing hard. My muscles ache. My head is pounding. And all I want is for this stupid car to be clean, but it’s not going to happen. It’s not ever going to happen.
Did I bring this on? In warning Cecily about Vaughn, did I only fuel her defiance against him and put her in his warpath? How bad would it have been to let her carry on in blissful ignorance? She would have been safer under Vaughn’s thumb, maybe, and she wouldn’t have lost this baby.
I feel sick, and I purse my lips to fight against a dry heave.
Reed climbs into the driver’s seat, reaches across and opens the front passenger door. “Come on,” he says, and numbly I step out of the car, walk around it and sit in the passenger side. I close the door with a slam that makes everything shudder, and the tears just come. I can’tstop them. I’m too tired to even try. I’ve been sleeping hunched over in a plastic chair, my dreams pervaded by a sharp, rhythmic beeping. My back is sore and I’ve definitely pulled something in my neck, but how can I possibly fixate on that? I can’t, not when Linden’s eyes are so puffy, and not while there’s so much cleaning to do.
Reed slides his hands around the steering wheel like he’s pretending to drive. “Rough week, huh?” he finally says.
I snort and wipe my eyes with my wrist. “Yeah.”
“They’re
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