“No,” Brooklyn moans, writhing in her arms. “Please. I don’t want to fall out of bed again, and Ella isn’t here, and it’s scary waking up alone. I don’t want to sleep there.”
Patricia looks at the tall staircase, so grand and beautiful with its curling, shining banister and snow-white carpet. She doesn’t want to go up the stairs, much less carry or drag Brooklyn up there. And in that room—well, there’s no way to keep the child in there. The door opens inward, locks from the inside.
Brooklyn can no longer be seen as innocent and devoid of threat.
But there is one place she could stay.
“Brooklyn, how would you like to sleep near me?”
“Oh yes, Nana!” the child agrees, nodding eagerly. She squirms down from Patricia’s arms and scampers toward the master bedroom. “Your bed is the biggest bed in the world!”
“Not my bed, dear. What if we made you a cozy nest in my closet? Then you’d be right near me, and it even has a door to the bathroom.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Patricia wonders if Brooklyn has any memory of what happened this afternoon, if she’ll shrink from that room for the rest of her life and see blood every time she looks at a mirror.
But Brooklyn’s face scrunches up adorably while she thinks about it until finally she says, “Okay, but I get a lot of blankets.”
“As many as you need. Bring them all from upstairs, if you like.”
Brooklyn gallops upstairs, and Patricia returns to the closet to make sure all evidence of today’s incident has been hidden. The mirror is gone, the shards discarded, the floor sprayed and blotted and vacuumed. There are some faint stains, so Patricia takes down her least favorite fur coat and carefully arranges it to hide the orangey splotches.
Some time later—because time is indeed going strangely—she leans down into a huge and untidy pile of blankets and pillows, most quite expensive and the sort of gleaming, creamy white that doesn’t go well with small children who favor food coated in powdered cheese. Brooklyn clasps her neck in a hug and kisses her cheek wetly and asks for a nightlight. Patricia fetches her own nightlight from beside the bed and plugs it in before edging out of the closet.
“Wait. Nana, where did your fancy mirror go?”
Patricia pauses in the door and smiles.
“It was too big and clunky. I moved it so you would have more room for your nest. We can bring in a new one tomorrow, should you need to twirl some more.” With a blown kiss, she closes the door and slides a chair under the closet doorknob.
This is the only way to be sure.
33.
Chelsea thought training for the Violence Fighting Ring would be like a movie montage, but really it’s more like giving birth—long, grueling, sweaty, and painful. And that’s just the first full day. She didn’t know her body could push this hard, that her muscles could tremble and strain and not collapse. She didn’t know she could eat so much without feeling guilty. She didn’t know she could…do something. She’s so accustomed to busy nothings, to always feeling like she was behind even though she didn’t have a job. Life without David is a miracle.
They’re on break now after their grueling morning workout, drinking Gatorade mixed up weakly in a big orange canister to replenish their electrolytes. The weight training and cardio were brutal, and the wrestling practice was deeply uncomfortable. As an only child with a non-hugging single mother and no family outside of her own home, Chelsea has never really gotten the hang of non-sexual physical intimacy with strangers. Grabbing and fake-slapping and slamming these women around, having moments where their bodies are entwined or clasped or, her least favorite, crotch-to-face during a move, is just something she’s going to have to get used to. And she will, because she needs that vaccine.
“Ladies, with me,” Arlene says, and Chris follows it up with, “Guys, over here.” Everyone stoppers their new VFR water bottles, wipes their mouths, and moves to follow their teachers. Sienna and Indigo are out in their RV, sewing costumes. Harlan is probably in his own RV. Chelsea hasn’t seen him today, but she’s surprised he’s not here supervising like an owner watching his prized horses run from far away, judging their progress. Arlene told the girls he’s setting up their tour, fixing dates and places and marking them on a map and building the website. It’s odd to think that her entire future rests in his giant hands.
Arlene pulls the women over to a set of mats and tells them to sit in a circle. Chelsea goes on alert; this seems like it’s going to be touchy-feely, and she’s still on edge after her big Florida Woman outburst. She wasn’t the only person brought to tears when choosing a name and character, and she’s pretty sure now that Arlene worked in a rehab center or psych ward, running circle time there, too. She seems to have a gift for walking the fine line between truth and comfort.
Arlene stands as Chris leads the men out the door, and Chelsea breathes a small sigh of relief. The boys will be running outside in the ninety-degree weather, which sounds like her definition of hell. At least the women get air-conditioning. And privacy.
“Poor boys,” Amy says, sitting to Chelsea’s right.
Chelsea nods her agreement, but she’s not so sure the women will have an easier time of it.
Instead of sitting with them on the mat, Arlene paces around the outside of their circle, her thumb on her chin as she thinks.
“We’re going to play Duck Duck Goose, but when I tap you, I’ll give you an emotion or adjective, and I want you to embody it. Don’t get up and run, though—I know you’re still tired from cardio.” A chuckle goes up around the circle. “Just put everything into the emotion. Okay?”
Everyone nods. This is a new game, but it seems straightforward enough.
Arlene walks around the circle and touches Joy on the shoulder.
“Arrogance.”
This one comes naturally to Joy. She rolls her eyes and sneers, snorting as she crosses her arms and turns away.
“Good.” Arlene walks around the circle and taps Amy on the shoulder. “Pain. You just got slammed.”
Amy throws herself into the circle, rolling around and clutching at her arm like an invisible giant snapped it in two. Tears spring to her eyes, and she struggles to get up and fails. Amy is good at this; although she doesn’t speak of her past—no one does—she did admit to doing some improv as part of her business training.
“Good.” Arlene stops behind Chelsea and taps her shoulder. “Rage.”
Chelsea bares her teeth and roars, following it up with gnashed teeth and growling, but Arlene doesn’t move on.
“I don’t believe it, Chelsea. It feels more like you’re imitating a dog than channeling a hidden well of rage.”
Chelsea puts her mouth back in place and looks up. “I’m not really an angry person.”