“Grandma?”
Though my grandmother was dead, she did have the uncanny ability to pop into shiny surfaces and offer help when I needed her most. I couldn’t think of any other time seeing my dead grandmother’s face would be more helpful. The mirror continued to reflect back my own face, extra pale in the single-bulb light. My cheeks were tear streaked and mottled red; my hair a tangled mass of ponytail and little bits of fiber left over from my sojourn on the floor.
“Grandma?” I tried again.
Again there was no answer; the wobbling glass remained smoky and plain. I felt the gurgling choke of another waft of tears. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, holding myself tightly, leaning gently against the cleanest wall I could find—which, ironically, was tagged with funky purple lettering that spelled out O.G.s don’t quit. I’d never fancied myself an original gangster, but I considered the purple scrawl as a shiny beacon of hope—an homage to strength and Snoop Dogg, and I would follow suit.
Little redheaded girls don’t quit, either.
I took several slow, deep breaths—gulping air through my mouth, trying not to imagine the multitude of bathroom-butt germs clinging to my teeth—and commanded myself to come up with a plan. I thought. I paced. I stopped.
“I’ve got toilet paper”—I kicked the side of the surprisingly clean toilet—“a toilet seat, which could possibly be used as a weapon. Paper towels, sink.” I gave the latter a good yank, just in case it should suddenly fall away and reveal a secret passageway to the outdoors or the Four Seasons. “Um, mirror. Okay.”
I nodded, slapped my thighs, and took another spin.
“Okay. Nothing overtly weapon-like or break-down-the-door–like. But that’s okay. I’m a resourceful girl. I just have to think—what would MacGyver do?”
And then I realized, with a sinking heart, that I had never seen a MacGyver episode full through, and I could kick myself for it.
“Not a problem,” I said, bringing myself to the brink of tears but talking them back. I watched a significant amount of television; and if anything was going to spark a memory, it would be now. I didn’t watch MacGyver, but I had my own list of television heroes, escape artists, and resourceful individuals. Right?
If only I hadn’t spent an inordinate amount of time watching the Food Network.
“Okay,” I said again. “Well. What would Paula Deen do?”
I felt the panic begin to stir again.
What would Paula Deen do?
She would add a stick of butter. Or a heap of pork fat. Or something slippery and slimy and ... I looked at the small barred window on the back wall.
Then I looked at the plastic bottle filled with bubblegum pink hand soap bolted above the sink.
That’s what Paula Deen would do.
I squirmed out of my sweatshirt and yanked my yoga pants over my sneakers—there was no way I was letting my skin touch public bathroom floor. I glanced up at the window again. I sighed, then slipped my T-shirt over my head, too, and stood in the glaring light of that stupid naked lightbulb, mostly naked.
I gently tugged on the ancient faucet and a meager trickle of water began to fill the chipped basin. I loaded my dampened palm with soap, and began sudsing myself up. I chanced a glance at myself in the wobbly mirror—white soap foaming up around my neck, my arms glistening with water and tiny bubbles.
If this doesn’t work, I thought, then I hope I die.
Once my body and underclothes were sufficiently sudsed—or greased, in Paula speak—I stood up on the toilet seat and angled an arm toward the window, giving the ancient jam a shove. To my immense relief, it opened easily and the air felt good as it washed over my damp skin.
“Here goes nothing,” I said to the paper towels.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I clamped a hand around each of the bars and hauled myself up to the window a la Mary Lou Retton. Okay, Mary Lou after a few too many donuts and a couple of extra years. I stuck my head out the window first and wriggled, legs kicking, sneakers thunking against the bathroom wall, and my shoulders slipped out easily. I was out, up to my hips, when one of the bars firmly stopped my plumpish rump. The cold metal bore down hard on my lower back. I couldn’t risk the leeway I’d already made by going back in for more soap, so I used the pads of my fingers to dig into the crumbling stucco outside. When I looked down, I realized that my little cell must have been nearly underground. A cement parking lot was only about a foot below me, and the realization sent a hopeful thrill through me. I gave myself a mighty wriggle and moved about a quarter inch forward, successfully scraping my chin on the wall, pushing my half-soaped panties halfway down my butt, and eking the breath out of my lungs. I rested my forehead against the concrete in an effort to regroup and cry miserably, when I was met with a pair of slowly walking, sneakered feet. They came to a rest a half inch from my nose.