3

Uma awoke with a start to yelling and the sound of a cane knocking on wood.

For the first few moments, she was buried alive by panic, fear, and frantic breaths, arms and legs trapped by the weight of unfamiliar wool blankets. When sensation finally coalesced into thought, she managed to claw her way out of sleep and eventually out of bed.

“You open this door now, missy!” the voice yelled, sounding frantic. Ms. Floyd. No, Lloyd. Ms. Lloyd. Her boss.

She stumbled to the door and put her hand up to unlock it before her bleary mind realized what it was seeing—blue, black, and green words marring white arms, the sight still enough to make her sick.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up.

Last night came back in a flash. So hot with the windows painted shut. Claustrophobic. Itchy. In the dark, stripping down to her tank top and underwear, with plans to dress under the blankets in the morning.

Oh God. Breathe. Breathe.

She focused. First, on pushing sound through her tight throat. Miraculously, “Be right there” emerged. Or maybe “Sorry.” Whatever she said, it must have been English, because it got a response.

“I will not be kept out of rooms in my own home,” Ms. Lloyd screamed. “I won’t have it!”

“Coming!” Uma called, tripping her way back to her bed, then rummaging around on the floor for yesterday’s clothing.

“Open this door!”

Shirt inside out, jeans unbuttoned, but at least Uma was covered by the time she got the door unlocked.

Ms. Lloyd opened her mouth to speak, no doubt some scathing remark, but then closed it again as, from downstairs, the phone started ringing—a shrill, insistent sound. Ms. Lloyd ignored it.

Big eyes pulled her apart, sweeping top to bottom, seeing more than was comfortable. Uma forced herself to meet the woman’s gaze.

After what seemed like ages of birdlike scrutiny, her boss delivered her prognosis. “You look awful.”

Something about the insult—perhaps the way it was delivered, or maybe the fact that she’d noticed—was a teeny, tiny thawing on Ms. Lloyd’s part.

Predictably, she ruined the moment by saying, “Get properly dressed and help me with my bath.”

* * *

It took less than twenty-four hours to get into the swing of the new job—for better or worse. It was amazing how quickly you could adjust to a new life, especially one as sedentary as Ms. Lloyd’s, where everything that could possibly interrupt the flow of the day had been cut out. There was no room for variation. No excitement, no surprises. No air.

After their breakfast of oatmeal and a single cup of tasteless, gas-station-grade coffee came the morning television marathon. News shows, accompanied by Ms. Lloyd’s laments on the stupidity of today’s youth, of which Uma was apparently an excellent representative.

The woman was set in her ways and painfully frugal, whether by desire or necessity. Could she afford the few hundred she had agreed to pay Uma every month? Uma suspected it was a stretch to her already strained finances, but you never knew with old people. They’d live their whole lives like paupers and then, after they died, you’d find they’d squirreled away a fortune under the mattress.

A few times that first full day, Uma caught Ms. Lloyd eyeing her, but besides the morning’s kerfuffle, there was surprisingly little conflict, as if Uma had undergone her trial by fire and could now rest easy. She didn’t quite trust that notion.

She busied herself at work. It was laundry day, thankfully, since the clothes on Uma’s back had been worn and worn again. But how to wash her single pair of jeans while still covering herself provided a brief conundrum. She eventually opted for a big towel around her waist—which would have worked out fine if they hadn’t gotten a visitor.

When she first walked down the rickety wooden stairs to the basement, arms filled with the overflowing laundry basket and head full of overly specific directions on what not to wash with what, Uma had two thoughts: How on earth did Ms. Lloyd manage these stairs in her condition? And more importantly, how did the stairs survive the woman’s considerable weight?

The basement was weird, paneled in dark wood with a bar at the far end of the room. It smelled of old, moldy carpeting and stale smoke. Buck heads, probably hunting trophies, adorned the far wall. She hardly dared look at the glassy eyes staring at her in blank, creepy vigilance. It was dirty and dank, with an underlying nastiness that had Uma running back up as soon as she’d gotten the load in, towel clutched around her hips, back itching with the sensation that someone or something followed close behind.

At the top of the stairs, Uma hesitated at the door. There were voices on the other side.

“It’s fine. She’ll do,” Ms. Lloyd hissed, and Uma leaned on the basement door, straining her ears.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to do this. If you need me to, I can—”

What? Do what, exactly? She pushed her ear hard against the door, and it swung out with a crash, interrupting the conversation and sending blood rushing to Uma’s cheeks.

“Oh, well, look at that! Here she is!” Ms. Lloyd chirped.

Uma’s heart hitched up to warp speed when she saw the enormous silhouette standing in the front door. Oh no. This is it. He’s here. Joey, here to drag—

The figure shifted, and perception caught up to reality. It wasn’t him…not even close. Joey’d never been so tall or wide or calmly imposing. Self-consciously charming and perpetually wired about summed up Joey, not like this…this…monolith. Calm. Steady. A rock.

Her mental camera snapped a reluctant picture, wanting to memorialize this man’s tranquility and bottle it, an antidote to her own messed-up life.

As she focused on the shift in reality, Ms. Lloyd and Ivan focused on her: curious, waiting for something—apparently a response to some question.

“Ive came to see you, dear. Aren’t you going to say hello?” What? To see her? And where the hell had that dear come from?

“Um. Hello, Ivan.”

“You can call me Ive.” God, she’d forgotten how intimidating he was. Not just his size, but his presence.

“Sorry. Ive.”

“’S okay. Just came by to see how you’d settled in.”

Uma had also forgotten how slow and deep his voice sounded.

She responded, oddly mesmerized. “Great. Yeah, good. Everything’s just perfect.” She snuck a look at his face to catch his eyes riveted to the worn floral terry knotted at her waist.

“New trend?” he asked.

“Laundry day.”

“Ah.”

Ms. Lloyd wore a little pursed-lipped expression that managed to look both satisfied at Uma’s predicament and irritated that she’d taken to wearing her bath towels.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Ive, honey. Come inside.” Ms. Lloyd pulled him in and locked the door, four and then five times. Always five. “Did you bring the Gazette?”

“Oh, darn it,” Ivan responded, sounding wooden. His gaze slid to Uma, then back. “They were all out again.”

“Hmph. I might have to call old Shady Grady myself and ask him to hold back a copy for me next time. Couldn’t possibly be selling out, since the darn thing’s a rag, anyway. Not a real journalist in the bunch. And they never did seem to get my ad right.”

“Yep. Always somethin’, isn’t it?” Ivan looked decidedly shifty. “So, you settled in all right, Uma?”

“Yes. Great. Thanks for checking in.” The towel around Uma’s waist made a bid for freedom. She barely managed to snag it before her shamefully threadbare granny panties became fodder for Ms. Lloyd’s ridicule.

“Pleasure.” Ivan’s eyes rose to the TV bolted to the living room wall, only touching on Uma’s struggle briefly before skittering away again. “How’s the TV workin’ out?”

“Oh, Ive, honey, it’s changed my life! I can’t begin to thank you enough.” Ms. Lloyd was effusive, as lively as Uma had ever seen her.

“Just sittin’ there in the house, goin’ to waste. No use for it.” He shrugged and glanced at Uma again, his cheeks slightly pink. “Least someone’s enjoyin’ it now.”

“I wish you would let me pay you something for it!”

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head stubbornly, his eyes returning to Uma’s and staying there a beat, then another. The silence lengthened, until Uma’s face started to heat, no doubt matching his.

A glance at her boss showed the woman’s dark eyes darting between them, full of questions and a barely suppressed glee. Oh, lovely. They were the entertainment: reality TV right there in the entryway.

“Come on in, honey. Have a seat. Irma here can whip us up a fresh pitcher of tea.” Uma didn’t bother correcting her—her boss knew exactly what her name was. “Unless you want coffee? She can make a fresh pot.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure Uma’s got better things to do.” His eyes flicked to Uma then away again. “I gotta take off. Just wanted to…” His voice fizzled to leave a silence that he filled with an open-handed gesture, a hundred times more eloquent than his words. Clearly he was a man comfortable in his body, not his speech.

“Thanks again for checking in,” Uma said as brightly as she could. Her voice sounded fake and uncomfortable…a professional voice. The way she used to talk to brides—before. In the kitchen, the phone rang, and with relief, Uma turned to get it.

“Don’t touch it!” the older woman snapped.

“Not answerin’, Ms. Lloyd?”

“Prank callers again.”

Uma opened her mouth. “I could—”

“Leave it be,” Ms. Lloyd said over the last steady, sonorous dring. “Not calling the police out for this, and no way I’m letting some prank caller bully me into changing a number I’ve had for thirty years.”

“Let me—”

“No thank you, Ive. You’ve done enough.”

“Okay then.” Brows raised, he put a hand on the door and tried pulling it open before he remembered it was locked. “I’m right next door if you need anything.” He turned to Uma. “If the boss lady here ever gives you time off, come on by for a visit.”

“Sure.”

“All right.” He cleared his throat, stepped onto the porch, and waved. “Take care, Ms. Lloyd. Call if you need anything.”

Uma watched briefly from the open doorway as he loped off, taking the porch stairs three at a time. His dog appeared from around the side of the house and fell into step beside him, tail wagging furiously.

As soon as the door was closed and locked behind him, Uma turned to find her boss crowding her, leaning heavily on her cane. “You did flirt with him, didn’t you? Did you invite him to come over and see you? I won’t have it. Men coming and going with you half-naked at the door.”

Uma squeezed by her, truly angry at the woman for the first time. It was a more solid, honest emotion than she had experienced in days, maybe longer. It was good, clean. Real.

“I didn’t invite him over. I barely said anything to him.” The thought that she’d want to bring men into her life when she was running herself into the ground trying to escape one would have been laughable if it didn’t make her so angry.

Ms. Lloyd stared at her with all the power of those wide, disconcerting eyes.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t flirt with any man, all right? Especially not a married one,” Uma went on. “That’s not the type of person I am.”

“You think—” Ms. Lloyd cut herself off midsentence. “As long as we understand each other. I won’t have a home-wrecker living under my roof.”

Whatever. The woman had no idea who Uma was or what she’d been through. No idea, damn it. “I’m not a home-wrecker.” Uma gathered up as much dignity as she could and stalked off toward the kitchen, towel swishing dramatically about her knees.

“And make me lunch, Irma. I’m hungry,” Ms. Lloyd called after her.

* * *

Ms. Lloyd was not a particularly nice person. By the end of Uma’s first full day, that was apparent. But, despite being a pain in the ass of epic proportions, the woman wasn’t nearly as threatening as her ad had insinuated. World’s bitchiest agoraphobe, maybe, but abusive hag? Not so far. Something didn’t quite jibe, and waiting for the other shoe to drop kept Uma on constant tenterhooks.

On tenterhooks was a perfect description of her life since Joey. Long months spent running, always on the lookout, constantly wary. Utterly exhausted.

But for once, she wasn’t running or looking over her shoulder, and that letdown, that release—along with the stress of dealing with Ms. Lloyd—turned Uma into a complete wreck by nightfall.

Another night. Already.

And then, worst of all, shower time—by far the hardest part of the evening.

In the bathroom, she set her towel by the shower and took in the lay of the land—memorized it—before turning off the light.

Okay. Pants off first…the easy part. As they did most every night, her hands clenched themselves into tight fists when she reached for her shirt, her body as unwilling as her brain. But, God, she couldn’t stay dirty forever.

Painfully unclenching before forcing her fingers to claw at the cotton, then tearing so hard at it the neck scraped back her ears, and she didn’t care. What was physical pain when the sight of your own body pulverized your soul? Just its shadow in the dark.

Through the invading moonlight, she took the two steps to the bathtub, blindly scrabbling to turn on the water, then inside, not even waiting for the temperature to adjust, because who gave a shit about something so inconsequential as comfort? Shampoo first—the easy part—then soap, with eyes squeezed shut. But even her eyelids couldn’t obliterate the words. She knew they were there. Knew their intricacies intimately, despite never looking. MINE on her wrist. BITCH on both arms. One version misspelled and crossed out, and the rest…more. So much more. All of it burning, burning, burning.

Soon. Soon they’d be gone. It was why she was here, after all.

Water off, she dried herself as quickly as possible and yanked her clothes on over damp skin.

Done. Breathing hard, she went back to her room.

How could the same house, the same room, the same air, all shift so drastically with the setting of the sun? God, why, in the thick of these lonely hours, was she reduced to hashing and rehashing events that she’d never be able to change?

Once the light was out and Uma could hardly see her hand in front of her face, she stripped down to her top and underwear. It was definitely time to invest in some real pajamas—with pants and long sleeves.

Rather than get into bed, she went straight to the window. Because, as darkness fell, her priorities morphed, alongside her fears. The safety of locked doors and stuck windows warred with her desire to escape, to breathe real, fresh air. At those moments, the fear of what lay outside was nothing compared to the torture within her own brain. She wasn’t convinced that she’d ever feel true freedom again.

And then the never-ending debate: to sleep or not to sleep. Sleeping meant dreaming. But staying awake meant dwelling on a dire past, a pathetic present, and a hopeless future.

Whatever. In the end, it didn’t matter whether she went for option A or B—nights were hell either way.

The only thing that had staved off her panic the night before had been a certain rhythmic clanging, an echo in the night. Tonight, face pressed to the chilly window, she listened, waiting for its music to begin.

Nothing.

A deep breath in, and her mind started wandering—into safe territory this time: her father. Pops had been steady, regular. He might have been a hippy in the seventies, but somehow, over the years, his beliefs had morphed into something old-fashioned rather than New-Agey. Her mother, on the other hand, had favored more mystical spirituality, based loosely on ancient beliefs.

If she were here, she’d advise that Uma meditate. “It disperses the shadows of doubt,” her mom liked to say. Uma knew it wouldn’t work, but she tried anyway. She’d try anything right about now.

It was when she sank into the night, let it envelop her in a way that channeled both parents, that she eventually noticed the shadow moving in the dark yard below. She reared back briefly, panic flaring hot and tight in her throat, teeth already sunk deep into her hand, before recognizing the shape for what it was: the dog, Squeak. Sniffing in the grass. The animal squatted before disappearing into the hedge, from which she eventually emerged, head cocked to the side. Uma caught the glimmer of an eye, a pinprick in the night, and then noticed, with a hint of discomfort, that the dog was looking up, right at her window. Her first instinct was to duck down and hide.

She stilled. It’s just a dog. Besides, she couldn’t possibly be visible in the pitch-black room. Could she?

And then, from somewhere behind the house, the sound started, steady, regular…deliberate. A lifeline. A companion. Another soul alive in the dead of night. She sighed, a long, thin, pent-up stream of relief. Eyes floating shut, lungs finally functioning without effort, brain loose, just the tiniest bit comfortable. Little by little, her shoulders relaxed and her head dropped forward again, to lay against the blissfully cool glass.

Bang. A breath in. Bang. Breath out. Bang. Breath in… Bang… Out… For minutes…hours…forever, maybe, she rode the rhythm, thinking of absolutely nothing under the oddly comforting gaze of the neighbor’s dog, lulled by the metronome of… What? What was Ivan doing back there? Whatever was behind that sound, she had no idea. Curiosity burned her with its need to know, yet somehow it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that steady, metallic drone.

Later, she jolted awake, shocked to find that she’d finally, miraculously succumbed to sleep, face flattened awkwardly against the glass.

Uma’s brain rattled with echoes of a disjointed dream—pinpricks of pain, screams, arms caught in a fisherman’s net.

Outside was complete silence.

There was a thin line of drool smeared across the window, and beyond the window—

Uma’s eyes refocused past the glass and landed on that man out there, seated on the steps of his front porch, lit from above, dog at his feet. He was doing something with his hands. Her attention caught on those deftly moving arms. Big and capable. Whittling? No, unwrapping something. Or wrapping. She watched with bated breath as he stood and went up the stairs, then disappeared into the shadows of his front porch.

There followed another sound, duller this time, but as repetitive as the metallic clang. Funny how the deep country quiet shortened the distance between neighbors. Thunk, creak. Thunk, creak, thunk, creak. Like a soldier falling into line, Uma’s erratic heart once again took to the rhythm he set, needing its regularity, craving it like her lungs craved air.

Part of her wondered what the hell he was up to—but mostly, she didn’t care. She just knew she needed that steady beat to get her through the night.