Pretty Girl-13

DELETION




UNFINISHED BUSINESS. WHY WAS IT ALWAYS UNFINISHED business between her and Greg?

“Well, he obviously hasn’t told her yet,” Kate whispered across the lunch table. “I mean, look at them.”

“I’d rather not,” Angie said, peeking anyway. Of course, she had wasted no time confirming Kate’s prediction, that with only the slightest encouragement, Greg wanted her back. But three days later, Greg was still eating lunch with Liv and tossing Angie only the most sideways glances to let her know he knew she knew he hadn’t officially broken up with Liv. Ugh. Why did it have to be so complicated?

“It’s getting awfully close,” Kate said.

“What is, their knees under the table?”

“No, you jealous voyeur. The fall formal. I mean, he has to uninvite her if he’s going to take you, right? We’re starting ticket sales tomorrow.”

Until this moment Angie hadn’t even considered it. “Are you going?”

“I have to. Student government VP and all that. Noblesse oblige.”

“What does that mean?” Angie asked.

“My position obligated me, more or less. Plus Ali asked me. Can’t say no to my president!”

Just an obligation? Kate’s dimple suggested it was more than that.

Angie followed her gaze to the table where Ali and his twin brother, Abraim, usually sat alone for lunch. As the only two Muslims in the senior class, they were two peas in their own pod, identically handsome and smart—perfect for Kate. Angie teased her. “You like him too. Don’t you?”

Kate shrugged, failing to wipe the smile off her face. “At least I don’t have to worry about him getting drunk.”

Angie snorted. “Bought your dress yet?”

“That’s on the agenda for Saturday. Come with me tomorrow and we’ll shop for you, too.”

Great. Another expense for Mom and Dad. But if she got a regular babysitting job Friday nights, she could at least contribute. She’d talk to Mrs. Harris as soon as she got home.

Mrs. Harris was thrilled at Angie’s offer. “That would be just wonderful, dear. If I get Sammy off to bed at seven, we can pop out for a quick dinner.”

“I’ll come at six,” Angie insisted. “It’s your night off. Just tell me his bedtime routine, and I’ll take care of everything. Make it dinner and a movie, even. I’ll be fine.” The more hours, the more dollars.

“He’s a little tricky to settle down,” Mrs. Harris warned as her husband went to start the car. It was already six fifteen. Her instructions had been thorough, covering every possibility from diaper rash to Martian landings. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s a problem.”

Angie hoisted Sam on her hip. His fingers tangled and pulled her hair. His breath was sweet and carroty. “Go. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“You seem very confident,” Mrs. Harris said. “Do you babysit a lot?”

“Actually, not a lot,” Angie said. In fact, never. “But we’ll be fine. Mom’s just across the cul-de-sac if I need advice.”

Mrs. Harris relaxed. “Oh, yes. You’re right. What am I worried about? And of course, if you were his big sister, I wouldn’t think twice. Your mom’s going to be so lucky to have you to help her out.” She leaned forward and kissed the baby in the middle of the towhead fluff standing straight up on his head. He made a grab for her hair, but it was safely pulled back in a sleek blond bun. “Be good, Sammy. Be good for your honorary big sister.” She chuckled.

“I think he looks like you a little,” Angie said.

“How sweet of you to say so, Angie. Of course, only a coincidence, after all. See you in a few hours.”

Angie lifted a tiny fist from her hair and waved it. “Say bye-bye, Sam. Bye-bye, Mom.”

“Ba-ba ma,” he said, waving. “Ba-ba ma.” He crowed with pride and buried his face in Angie’s neck, giggling. She cuddled him close, thinking for the first time that it might not be so awful for Mom to have a baby. Sam fit into her arms like he belonged.

Next morning, when Kate arrived to pick her up, Angie was hollow-eyed and exhausted. She couldn’t explain it. It’s not like the Harrises had gotten home too late. And she’d slept in till after nine. Only one hint—her room was spotless, and her rocker was halfway across the room, facing the window, with the blanket neatly rolled like a mini sleeping bag. Looked like Girl Scout had gone into a cleaning frenzy and sat up the rest of the night, rocking. At her next therapy session she would ask Dr. Grant to please find out if Girl Scout was her mad rocker—so they could “communicate and negotiate.”

“Shopping, shopping, shop-ping!” Kate sang to a cha-cha beat. “We are going shop-ping.”

“Groan.”

“What’s the matter, Ange?”

“I am possessed by a rocking demon. She seriously gets me out of bed for hours.”

Kate clamped her hands on Angie’s forehead. “Out. I cast you out, rocking demon,” she muttered in a deep voice. “Out!” She flung her arms apart. “There. Did it work?”

Angie tossed her a twisted smile. “We’ll see tonight.”

The hunt for dresses was frustrating at first. Kate wanted something not too short, not too strappy, not too plungy for Ali’s sensitivities. Of course, everything she discarded as inappropriate, Angie’s hands grabbed. At least Angie had a clue what was going on now. Slut wanted a party dress. Slut wanted a private party with Greg. Angie was having trouble telling where Slut’s feelings for him left off and hers started. Maybe they were the same, but she wasn’t sure.

“Here, try this,” Kate said, thrusting a satiny dark blue thing at her.

“It looks so boring,” Angie argued.

Kate stuffed it into her hands. “Just try it.”

Angie came out of the dressing room with a new appreciation for Kate’s taste. “Oh, girlfriend, just look at me,” she commanded. She twirled, full-skirted in front of the triple mirror, and the dress, which hung below her knees at rest, flared into a spinning shimmer. The sapphire color turned her skin milky white, her cheeks rose pink, and her gray eyes twilight blue.

A dressing room at the far end opened and out stepped a girl in ruby red—Livvie, in a strapless crimson mini. Her cleavage was legendary. “I guess jewel tones are in,” she said with a tight laugh. “Nice dress. Who’s taking you?”

Angie’s mouth dried up. A week away, and Greg still hadn’t straightened it out.

Kate came out of another room to save her life. “It’s a surprise, Liv,” she said. “Apparently.”

“Why, it’s Glinda the Good!” Liv commented.

Not entirely fair. Kate’s dress was a pale blue gauze monstrosity with puffed sleeves, but not totally good-witch-in-a-bubble material. “I’m going to alter it.”

Angie was impressed. “You know how to do that?”

“Oh yeah. Piece of cake,” Kate said. “I like yours, too, Liv. You look like a Twizzler with tits.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Liv said over her shoulder as she flounced back into her dressing room.

“Is that her secret?” Angie whispered with a giggle.

Kate yelled down the row of dressing rooms, “Don’t cut the tags off too soon.”

Angie nudged her. “You are soooo bad.”

“Ridiculous,” Kate replied in a high voice. “Don’t you know I’m Glinda the Good?”

By Wednesday, it was getting completely irksome. Greg hadn’t called her, hadn’t changed his lunch-with-Liv routine. She finally had to break down and stalk him to get him alone after school. When he opened his car door to leave, she was in the passenger seat, waiting. “You never lock, do you?”

“Safe part of town,” he said. “What’s up?”

Ugh. How awkward. Again. “I—you haven’t—I haven’t heard from you,” she said lamely.

“What do you mean? I see you every day. I haven’t heard from you, either.”

Angie frowned. “I mean, I—you—have you talked to Livvie yet?”

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “It’s only been a few days. I will. Hey, don’t nag me about it.”

Angie shrank into the seat. “It’s just, I was thinking, with the formal coming up and …” She trailed off.

His jaw tightened. He exhaled loudly. Angie stopped breathing.

“The formal. Oh. Right.” He turned back to her and rested his hand on her arm. “So, like, Liv and I already had a date for the formal. I made dinner reservations a long time ago. She already bought an expensive dress and everything.” He smiled apologetically. “I knew you’d understand.”

Angie started, “I bough—” and stopped herself.

“But right after that, I’ll tell her, I swear. It’s bad timing now, is all.” He took her face between his hands. “I still … you’re still really important to me. God, don’t look at me like that. You make me crazy for you.”

He glanced at the windows and sank his lips into hers like a bee diving headfirst into a flower.

You opened your mouth and invited more. Behind your eyelids, sparkling patterns danced. Oh yes, he wanted you. You could taste it, smell it. His urgency made you tremble. But this was good, right? He had to want you more than Livvie. We had to win. That was vitally important. You could hear the pounding of his heart, feel his pulse race against your chest. A deep voice in your head said, Step aside, Pretty Girl. I’ve got this covered.

You tried to hang on, but the messages from your lips, from your skin, got fainter and farther away. You were pulled away from them, dragged back to the old, derelict porch. Some faint sounds reached you—sighs, groans, zips, clicks. You turned your head away. You had no part to play. You sat in darkness and wondered and rocked until …

“So that’s okay, then?” Greg’s voice.

Angie was home, standing by the rolled-down driver’s window of his car.

He tugged a strand of her hair to pull her face in close and kissed her with his tongue. He tasted weird. “But after the dance, I promise. I’ll tell her then.”

Angie nodded numbly. What had happened? And what had she agreed to? Clearly, he wasn’t taking her to the dance. He was still taking Liv.

She had to call Kate.

“That cowardly bastard,” Kate declared. “Sorry. I guess you still want him?”

Angie shrugged, then realizing that her gesture didn’t transmit well across the phone, added, “I think so. I mean, all I can think about is kissing him.”

“Oh, great. That’s your libido talking, not your brain. Sure, he’s a hottie with a body, but how does he treat you?”

Damn, she wished she could answer that question firsthand.

“Silence?” Kate commented. “Excuse me for being a buttinsky, but here’s how I see it. You guys have a history, of a mild sort. Now you’re like the all-American cover girl, and he wants to keep you in reserve for when he gets tired of Livvie and her attitude. So he’ll do just enough to keep you enthralled, and I do mean enthralled like enslaved.”

“I’m not his slave,” she said indignantly.

“No? You’re not his slave, but you’ll just … just hop into his car and do him in the parking lot without a commitment?”

All the blood drained from Angie’s head. She collapsed back onto her bed, phone pressed to her ear. She whispered, “How, uh, why do you think …”

“I saw you, crazy girl. I can recognize the back of your head.”

“Oh my God. That’s impossible. I’ve never … I wouldn’t even know how!”

“Ange. Apparently you do.”

Or someone did. That damned Slut. It was definitely time to pull the plug on that part of her brain before she got her into deeper trouble.

Angie breathed hard, no answers coming. “Kate, what do I do now?”

“Ask yourself if a guy who’d use you like that is worth it and come to the obvious conclusion.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Angie said, a small piece of her innocence in tatters. She didn’t want to give him up. He was a link, a bridge across the lost time.

“I don’t have to,” Kate replied. “I’m already a leper. Gives me the freedom to be honest.”

Angie sighed deeply. “Nope. You’re a friend. Gives you the responsibility to be honest. Damn. You’re right, of course.”

“Come with us,” Kate suggested. “Happiness is the best revenge. Double-date with me and Ali. You’d actually be doing me a favor, since Abraim was going to tag along with us anyway. He can be your escort. Two problems solved, since you already have a dress.”

“Okay,” Angie said. “Since I already have a dress.” And although she knew she shouldn’t go there, part of her wondered how jealous Greg would be seeing her with another date. “Talk tomorrow. Bye.”

She lay back on the pillow and experimented with her emotions. She tried to be deliriously happy that she had a friend like Kate. She tried to be furious with Greg. She tried to cry. A tear or two squeezed out, but mostly she felt numb. Shell-shocked. God help her if any of this got back to Livvie. She’d tell the world.

Friday morning, she told Dr. Grant she had absolutely, positively decided. No take-backs. She was ready to go ahead with the procedure. While she waited, Dr. Grant called and confirmed arrangements with Dr. Hirsch for first thing Monday morning. Angie’s head pounded through the rest of the school day and all night.

Saturday afternoon, Kate drove over with a set of hot rollers to do Angie’s hair. “You are going to need major makeup,” she said. “More mad rocking?”

“That, and headaches, too,” Angie said. “I hope I make it through the evening tonight.”

Kate smiled. “Once the party starts, you’ll be great. The boys are picking us up here at six.” She found an electrical outlet. “And now, let the magic begin.”

She rolled Angie’s long hair and went to work on her nails and makeup. By the time she’d finished, soft blond curls of hair framed the face of a porcelain doll with wide gray eyes. Angie stared in the mirror at the beautiful girl who supposedly was her.

While Kate did her own final tweaking, Angie tore herself away to dress. She had figured out the hideous scar issue, she thought, crossing her fingers that Kate would approve.

She twirled in front of Kate in high-heeled ankle boots and sheer black stockings. “Okay?”

Kate tipped her head, giving her the once-over. “Yeah. Different, but kind of sexy. That’ll work. Here, let me show you mine.”

Kate tossed her shirt and jeans aside, slid her own dress out of the garment bag, and wriggled into it.

Angie was amazed at the fashion makeover. “How’d you do that?” Gone were the puffy sleeves and gauze overlay. The pale blue under-sheath was now a strapless, backless satin dress. Kate had turned the blue gauze into a wrap that concealed her back and shoulders in a way that was both mysterious and hot.

“Get this,” Kate said. She reached into the bag and pulled out a long, silvery scarf, which she draped over her dark hair, crossed under her chin, and threw back over her shoulders to hang down her back like a pair of silver wings. “Think he’ll like it?”

Angie giggled. “Chah. Though if that’s supposed to make you look modest, I bet all he’ll think about tonight is how to unwrap you.”

Kate gave a smug smile. “Good.”

“I so can’t believe Liv called you a prude,” Angie said. She clapped a hand to her throat. “Oops. Sorry.”

Kate shrieked with laughter. “Livvie kills me. She’s the one who needs a couple of shots to loosen up enough to let a guy near her.”

Angie had an aha moment. She chuckled low in her throat. “She’s not a hot, fast Porsche?”

“Huh?”

“Something Greg once said. Explains a lot. No wonder he’s obsessed with my inner slut.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “You have an inner slut?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “Surely you remember the wardrobe sabotage? The black lace? Et cetera?”

“The fire-red lipstick? Cleopatra eyes?”

“Oh yeah. That’s her.” Angie snorted.

“The no-bra white stretch top?”

“Oh, no. Please tell me you’re making that up,” Angie begged.

Kate’s mouth turned down. “Sorry. You didn’t know about that?”

“That was definitely her.” Angie sighed. “Anyway, she’s totally history Monday morning.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Are you getting cured?”

If only it were that easy. “Well, there’s this experiment—” Angie started.

“Hang on. An experiment? With your brain? But I love you the way you are!”

A rush of happiness flowed over Angie. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll be—”

The doorbell rang, and Kate scrambled for her shoes. “Oh kill me. This is so to-be-continued …”

Ali’s eyes nearly dropped out of his head when Kate answered the door in her sparkling, homemade head scarf. At least, Angie hoped that one was Ali. She didn’t want her date ogling her friend instead of her. Of course, his eyes went straight to Kate’s neckline after that. Boys will be boys.

Angie watched for Abraim’s reaction. Would he approve of his blind date? He gave her a shy smile as he stepped forward with a corsage box, the twin of the one in his brother’s hand. “You look pretty, Angela,” he said. “Thank you for saving me from being such a hanger-on.” He had the slightest hint of British in his diction. “I hope roses suit you?”

Angie held out her wrist without thinking. She was completely used to the scars, but she saw them again through the boys’ startled eyes. Abraim hesitated just a second too long with the corsage elastic.

Kate plunged to the rescue. “Old Girl Scout hunting accident,” she improv-ed on the spot. “Ran into a bear trap. She had to gnaw her own hand off to escape.”

Angie picked up her cue. “That’s where the doctor sewed it back on.” She gave a light laugh.

Abraim gently took her fingertips and bent her wrist back and forth. “Fascinating. I didn’t know microsurgery had reached this advanced level.” He adjusted the trio of roses on her arm, just hiding the strip of scar tissue. “I am planning on medical school. After college.”

“Where are you applying?” Angie asked.

The boys chanted in unison, ticking off the colleges on their fingers as they went: “Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Tufts, and Hopkins.”

Angie’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. Quite a list. “What are you going to do if you get into different ones?”

The boys looked at each other like they’d never considered that possibility.

“How about you?” Abraim asked Angie. “What are your plans?”

“To get through Monday. I’m kind of living a day at a time. Long term? No clue.”

“Hungry here,” Kate said. “Shall we?”

Abraim put a hand under Angie’s elbow in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly way to lead her to the car. “How about college?”

Angie shrugged. “That’s a long way off. I’m only in ninth grade.”

Abraim’s hand abruptly dropped from her arm. “So young?” He looked frantically at Ali.

“Sixteen,” Angie said quickly. “I’m sixteen.”

It was strange to hear herself say the words, and stranger still, for the first time she actually meant it. She was sixteen. She was moving forward. “I, uh, was abroad for a couple of years. I didn’t go to school. So now I’m catching up.” Yeah. She was. Catching up. The unfamiliar emotion of sheer happiness made her light-headed.

Dinner was amazing, a Middle Eastern all-you-can-eat buffet. It was a long drive to get there, but the guys promised it was totally worth it. They were right. Angie rolled the new foods around on her tongue, trying to guess the spices. Help me out here, she thought deep into her brain. She imagined the creak of wood on wood, the sound a porch rocker might make.

A tentative thought came back. That’s cumin. Turmeric. That sweet one is cardamom. Garlic, of course.

“Thanks,” she said, filing the tastes away in her own memory.

“Thanks for what?” Ali asked.

“Oh, uh, for passing the water,” Angie improvised. Talking to herself was “a new hazard of the thinning walls,” as Dr. Grant had informed her. Great. It could be awkward if she didn’t watch herself.

On the long ride back to school for the dance, Kate and Ali chatted in the front seat, loudly enough to make up for the slightly delicate silence in the back. Angie studied the stars through the window until a touch startled her.

Abraim held her hand gently in his. “Did it hurt? The surgery?” he whispered.

Angie’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “Yes,” she whispered back. “I believe it did.” Abraim lifted her arm to his lips and kissed her inner wrist, his dark eyes soft and compassionate. Then, as if shocked by his own actions, he jerked his head away to look out his own window. But he never let go of her hand.

The decision was made. There was no going back now. Angie sat motionless in the surgical suite, her head secured in place with cushioned clamps. The room was very, very white, and the lights hummed at a high pitch that didn’t seem to bother the doctors and nurses.

Dr. Grant’s eyes poked over the top of her surgical mask. The corner crinkles suggested she was smiling underneath. She gave Angie two thumbs-up.

Angie smiled weakly. The mild sedative kept her calm enough to hold still, but she was alert and awake. The tiny holes in the top of her head were hidden under her hair and filled with sterile biological putty. Three weeks ago they had prepped her brain by letting a virus carry those special genes into the web of neurons where the alters Slut and Angel lived. Who could’ve dreamed that a gene from an archaebacteria would save her sanity?

Dr. Hirsch confirmed that the genes were absorbed and working, making these special light-sensitive membrane proteins called opsins. So far, so good. Now, finally, Slut’s neurons were at the mercy of the laser lights on fiber optics that would be oh-so-carefully threaded through Angie’s brain into just the right places. Yellow light would blast aside the total darkness inside her skull, and those opsins would stop working—would shut down the ability for communication. Painlessly. Instantly.

Angie was almost surprised that Slut hadn’t taken over by force and hitchhiked out of town. She’d been strangely quiet about this whole thing, and that worried Angie. Was she resigned to her fate or biding her time for some dramatic explosion?

Dr. Grant had warned her about the possibility of memory cascade. “Often in therapy,” she cautioned, “there may come a point where the walls are fractured. Something will add the final stress, and the whole structure will come tumbling down, flooding you with memories. Repressed and hidden stories will whirl through your mind with hurricane force. If Little Wife unloads her personal history of abuse on you all at once, the overload could be devastating. But,” she advised, “if that happens, I promise I will be here to help you clean up the mess and rebuild.”

“Great,” Angie answered. “You’re my personal disaster-response team.”

So Angie held tight to the hope that this would all be uncomplicated, that Slut would leave her, not with a bang, but with a whimper; that the worst of the experience would forever remain someone else’s memory—not hers.

Gowned and gloved, Dr. Hirsch stood behind her where she couldn’t see his expression. She knew he was excited, though. Another success, and his technique would be on its way to a major medical journal. There were whispers among the techs and nurses about a future Nobel Prize in Medicine.

She felt only the slightest jostle as he threaded the optic bundles with their microfibers deep into her hippocampus, the location of all her memories, good and bad. Angie had time for one moment of complete terror. What if the genes had leaked? Would anything else be wiped out? And then the doctor said, “Roll the laser.”

Angie, while you sat immobilized in the surgical chair, amber and green light traveled down the slender filaments deep into your brain. The tiny glow penetrated the folds of matter that taken together were not one but many consciousnesses. One by one, the specially prepared cells began winking out. Your eyes rolled back, and immediately you were with us at the cabin. You stepped toward the broken porch, your attention sweeping the group, recognizing us one by one.

Little Wife clutched a hand to her throat as pieces of memory were stripped away. She sat frozen in her rocking chair, her black lace camisole fluttering in the breeze. Her face, your face, was melting away before your eyes.

Girl Scout watched in terror, knowing the same execution was in store for her. Her sash lay abandoned in her lap, a pile of merit badges spilled at her feet.

Tattletale watched from the meadow, seated high on a large black horse. The horse trembled, ready to bolt.

Angel manifested suddenly above the cabin. He stood before Little Wife, threatening you with his sword. “Are you the destroyer?” he demanded. He spread his enormous wings to hide her from your view.

“No,” you said. “I am the survivor. Step aside and let me live my own life.”

Angel furled his wings, sheathed his sword, and stepped behind Little Wife’s chair.

Her legs were gone now, her body translucent. She reached toward you with her arms, her face a pale blur.

Angie, something moved you to step forward, to take her hands. You braced for anything, a flood, a hurricane. Her voice came from a lipless face. “Take these.”

A picture. Your journal, hidden in your desk drawer. There was a final message.

And this. A memory. Of the last time she stole control. The sweet taste of it filled your mouth:

Abraim held you close on the dance floor while the slow music played. She slipped into your place and nestled tighter into his arms. Safe, comfortable. He kissed her brow. She kissed his neck. Later in the night, when the party was done, Ali drove you all up the mountain to watch and wait for the sunrise. He surprised Kate with a couple of blankets from the trunk, and they laid a fire in the stone fire ring and sat together close to the glow, wrapped up in each other, literally.

Sparks rose on hot air currents and flew up like stars. Beautiful, but it made us nervous, the untamed flecks of fire.

Abraim took you back into the warm car and you watched each other with shy glances. The firelight reflected on the windows and into his eyes. Little Wife looked through you and read his thoughts, his desires. She knew how to read men.

She moved your hands to your back zipper and pulled. The shoulders fell open, and Abraim sucked in his breath. Speechless, he understood her offer. Then he stroked her arms twice, kissed you above the heart, and settled the dress back together again. He zipped the back and pulled her/you into his arms. “I just want to hold you,” he said. His arms were trembling and his heart was racing, but it was a safe place. A harbor for the shipwrecked soul. She/you settled into the fold of his shoulder and slept deeply until the sky turned red.

She gave you the memory, of love, of peace, of rest, of comfort. And then she was gone.

“All done,” Dr. Hirsch said. “The effect should be instantaneous and permanent.”

Angie felt around in her brain for any sign of … of Slut. A wave of shame rocked her. How could she have thought of that lonely, broken girl that way? She searched her brain for any sign, any hint of Little Wife.

She was gone.

As soon as Angie got home, she rummaged through the bottom drawer of her desk. Under a layer of theater programs, she found it—the journal Little Wife had hidden again. She opened it to a new entry, dated from the Friday before, from the day Angie had signed her death warrant. Angie’s stomach clenched. Yeah. Death warrant. Be honest. Because for all her problems, at the last moment, Angie had recognized Little Wife as both a part of herself and as a separate person with her own wants and needs, history and present. But no future. In that moment she had understood.

Angie’s throat closed up painfully, and she thought about burning the note unseen. What would the condemned person say to her in the only way she could?

She spun Little Wife’s silver ring on her finger. She could take it off now, and she started to, but something held her back—maybe just the guilt.

The journal demanded her attention. It was all she could do to make herself go on, but she did.

Ange,

That Lynn is a persistent one, and patient. You’ve gotta give her that. She’s been trying hard to get me to answer her questions but, sneaky as she is, I’ve managed to keep her off. You have to hear it from me. Because I know what you need to know and what you don’t. There’s things you’ve gotta understand about the man. And me.

No, first of all, I don’t know his name. Never did, and that’s true. What did I call him? She asked me that a hundred times already, like she’s the freaking police detective or something. I called him “Husband.” That’s what he wanted, so that’s what I did. Whatever he wanted, I did. That’s how you don’t get hurt.

The ring was my idea, early on. It made things righter, you know what I mean? He made this huge deal about giving it to me, down on one knee. And that was when I convinced him I didn’t need to be tied to the bed when he did his thing on me—not if I was his Little Wife. I mean, if my hands were untied, I could make it better for him. My freedom at his price.

He only trusted me so far. Still tied me for sleeping. Not that I slept much, spread out on my back with his snoring self half on top of me.

Did I ever find a piece of paper with a name? she asked. No. Did I ever look? Yes. I tried. He brought a briefcase home with him, but it was never in the same room as me. He was very careful about that, no matter how much he trusted me in the end. There were a few books in the bedroom, Leaves of Grass, a few westerns, some Shakespeare, and a Bible. None of them had a name in them. I’d put them in a pocket when he wasn’t looking, so Girl Scout could read them in the daylight. Kept her busy and out of my domain, not that she wanted in, at least at that point.

All I was, all I knew, all I felt—it happened within those four walls, with only a narrow doorway between my world and hers. But we learned to exchange a word at the threshold as we passed through and exchanged places. Yeah. A word. At night she’d say, “Your turn, Slut.” In the morning, I’d say, “Your turn, kitchen bitch.” Not exactly the best relationship for two people who completely depended on each other.

All she had to do was keep the front room clean and put a decent meal on the table. Boring as hell. And she had the nerve to look down on me.

Little did she know, that bedroom was my heaven. The man, he brought me the most beautiful things to wear for him, lace and satin. He dressed me up and stroked and admired me. He made me gorgeous. My only mirror was his eyes. He loved me. He was the only person I ever knew for a long, long time.

That bedroom was also my hell. The man, he told me I could never leave him. He tied me to sleep. He feared me. And yes, Ange, I feared him. Hated him too. I especially hated him that time when I started getting fat. It had to be Girl Scout’s fault, because I never ate. He put me away and had no use for me. I don’t know what I did to make him so angry. For months, I was all alone, so lonely, and she took my place. From our porch, I couldn’t see her, but I heard her crying. She screamed a lot—for something, for someone. She disturbed him. Finally he called me back, and things went on as before. I was thin and I was happy again.

What happened after that was all her fault. She was the one who let the Angel in while I slept. Always remember that, Ange. It was all her fault. It had to be her. I could never have harmed my husband. And yes, Ange. I loved him.

I’m so tired. I know you hate me now too. So I don’t mind going away. I just wish I could feel a little love again before the end.

Angie closed the notebook.

She began to sob. All the sadness, all the regret, all the pain of three years exploded with shoulder-heaving, gut-wrenching wails.

What had she done?