“You take the bed,” he says, plopping into the recliner, letting the bags drop at his feet. Now that he’s sitting, he leans his head back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. The long ride must have worn him out. Even though he’s used to riding, I can’t imagine going for so long doesn’t take its toll.
“I’m going to take a shower.” I lean down beside him, letting my arm brush against the side of his leg, and retrieve my small bag. When I go to stand up, his eyes are open, fixated on my every move. Whatever confidence I had about being in such close quarters with Ryan have disappeared. The butterflies are back. I’m so out of my element here, it’s not even funny.
I shuffle backward and dart into the open bathroom. It’s empty, not even a bar of soap or a towel. Thankfully, I have the soaps and washcloths I shoved in my bag. I turn on the water and fiddle with the knobs until I figure which is hot and which is cold. Even after figuring it out, the water is room temperature at best. The soap is harsh on my dry skin, but it's all I have. It's funny how we take the little things in life for granted. Growing up, I never wanted for anything material. Not really, anyway. My father was the reigning boss before I was born, and his position afforded us a very comfortable lifestyle. Whenever we traveled, we never used the hotel soap. When I was a child, my mother would say it wasn't good for my skin and so she would always pack my soap from home. After she died, it just stuck with me, I guess.
Dragging the white bar across my body, I feel anything but clean. A film forms on my skin that is uncomfortable and binding. My hair is stringy and feels like straw. It seems so stupid and materialistic as I stand here, trying to clean myself in this rundown log cabin, but I really miss my bath products.
Thinking about my absentee bath products is a dangerous road. Before I know it, I'm thinking about my bedspread and my pillows. Neither were particularly sentimental or expensive, but they were mine. I knew exactly where the lumps had formed in my pillows and how many blankets to use in the winter when snow would fall outside my bedroom window. My father's house was one of the nicest on the block, but it was also old and drafty in the cold winter months.
Tears well in my eyes, and I'm unable to stop them from falling down my cheeks, only to be washed away by the spray of the water. Once the first tear has fallen, I'm a goner. The rest hurry to catch up. They seem to fall faster the more I think of everything I'll never have again. My mother's nightgown—the one she died in—is gone. And that thought is my undoing. I let out an agonized scream at the top of my lungs. Placing my hands on the plastic walls of the enclosure, I slap at the plastic in a half-hearted attempt at releasing some frustration. That nightgown was the only thing that ever made me feel connected to her. She never was one to keep material things, and she was so reserved there were times I felt like I never really knew who she was. But once she passed and I dragged myself into that nightgown, it felt like a missing piece had been put into place. I could smell her, and see her in a way.
Every time I wore that thing I remembered her laugh and her smile. I remembered every bruised knee she bandaged up and how she so perfectly fit herself into my father's side. She loved that man with everything she was, and even though I often wondered why, I respected it. I think one of the only reasons I'll miss my father is because my mother loved him. And if she loved him, there must be something in there worth loving and missing.
The bathroom door flies open and, before I can react, Ryan's flung the shower curtain back and he has a gun pointed at the wall beside my head. His eyes are everywhere but on me. He's not even meeting my eyes. Through the tears and sorrow, I can feel a breakdown creeping up on me. He only has the curtain open for a moment before he's closed it again.
"Why were you screaming?"
I have no real response I can bring myself to give him. Telling him about the soap and shampoo just makes me sound like a spoiled brat who's found her circumstances to be beneath her. Trying to express the loss of the life I once had to a guy who's been wearing the same clothes for days now seems fruitless. So I say nothing. I stand beneath the cooling spray.
God took my mother from me. My father took my brother from me. Officer Davis took my father and uncle away. Ruby took Aunt Gloria away, and her crew of bikers have taken my privacy away. My grief is the only thing I have left that is solely mine, and I'll be damned if I have to lose that, too.
"Fine. You don't have to talk," he says. "But get this, you scream, I'm gonna have a .38 out and ready to shoot. Unless you want any accidents, keep quiet."