Page 5 of Saving Grace

I nod.

Swallowing, I run the water in the sink and add the dish soap. The bubbles grow as I swirl a hand around the burning liquid. Washing up, I stack the plates, mugs, and cutlery on the rack to dry. As the water drains, I wipe down the counter and every bubble from the stainless-steel sink. “No bubbles, Grace. No mess.” Joel doesn’t do mess orout of place.

I would spend days once, before him, doing just that. Making a mess, painting. Creating. Being who I am. Happy.

Before Joel.

A clump of bubbles refuses to slide down the drain. I swipe them up. They sit on the side of my hand the way a ladybug would. Or one of those fluffy things that you make a wish on. Glancing over to Joel, who’s still face-deep in the sports section of the paper, I blow on the bubbles. Closing my eyes, I make a wish.

A sliver of hope.

If only fleeting.

Please.

“What are you doing?” The harsh words snap me from my quiet state.

“Nothing, just thinking.”

His hard stare doesn’t waver. “Fix it, Grace.”

Yes, drill sergeant,I want to banter back. Be a brat.

I won’t. Being sassy hurts.

So, I clear my throat and wipe down the sink for a second time. When no trace of the frothy detergent remains and the kitchen is spotless, I make my way to the porch. The flag is up onthe mailbox. A whisper of joy slides my veins. It doesn’t last long. Hope, always hiding just out of sight as it waits for the chance to be part of my life, fades. Probably bills.

I take my time to travel down the four stairs and along the path. The neat, fresh-cut grass glistens under the morning dew. Post is early today.

Reaching the mailbox, I pull down the back and slide the letters out. Junk mail from a realtor. Phew. I flip it to the back. A bill for electricity. Heart in my throat, I slip a finger under the flap and rip it open. Less than last time. A tiny glimmer of relief curls in my chest. The cold showers and trying not to use appliances paid off this month, at least. The last letter is not commercial. I flip it over and gasp.

The return address is my parents’.

This is the first letter, first communication, I’ve received from them since the day I left with Joel. My breaths turn shallow as I run my bottom lip through my teeth. Did they remember my birthday? Is it a letter or an olive branch?

I slide a shaking finger under the wide flap and pry the envelope open.

A pink, glittery card sits inside. I double-check Joel hasn’t come outside then pull it out. It’s beautiful. Under glittery embellishment sits an easel, a girl facing it, hand raised, her back to me. Her long dark hair hangs loosely in a ponytail down her back.Happy 21st Birthday,my favorite work of art!the inscription reads. I slap a hand to my mouth. Mama used to call me her little work of art when I was small. I was her constant companion, even as a teenager. Until Joel.

Opening the card, fifty-dollar notes flutter from the center to the ground, surrounding my feet.

Shit!

I scramble to gather them up, gaze locked on the front door. Praying Joel doesn’t choose this moment to come out. Or themoney is gone. He will drink it away with his buddies. The thought sends my gut plummeting. I don’t think I could take that.

My bubble wish came true. A two-faceted silver lining. A connection with my mama. Some money to squirrel away for something, someday.

“Grace! Where’s my wallet?” The muffled words tell me he is in the front room. His wallet is always in the drawer in the kitchen. Was he watching this whole time? I stuff the notes into my underwear behind my belt at my back and cover it with my shirt. I leave the card and envelope out. That can’t hurt.

I jog back inside.

“What’s in the mail?” Joel says, leaning on the door. His belt runs through his hand. I force my gaze to meet his and not linger on the leather and buckle.

“Electricity, junk mail, you know...” I say, letting the last few words fade.

“Where’s my wallet? I have to meet the guys at the bar to talk strategy.”

“The guys?”

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