Page 26 of Deceit & Desire

Forcing my eyes open, I planted my clammy hands on my hips and glared at the bathroom door for a minute before I sighed and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’d rather kiss a rattlesnake on the mouth than go in there. God damn it.”

I hadn’t been in that bathroom in twenty years, and for good reason.

The big, empty house mercilessly swallowed up my words, and I knew what I had to do. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed a toilet bowl scrubbing wand with the disposable head, bathroom cleanser, glass cleaner for the mirror, and a rag out of the utility room. Then, tools in hand, I forced myself to put on my big girl panties and go into the bathroom.

Flipping on the light switch, I ignored the tight ache in my chest and the cold sweat that trickled down my spine, opting for a cold, detached, methodical approach.

One thing at a time, Zoe. Don’t think, just clean.

I sprayed down the mirror with glass cleaner first, then wiped it to a clean, streak-free shine. Next came the sink, then the vanity, and the toilet after that.

Finally, I forced myself to turn and face the bathtub. For a second, my whole body locked up, but I gritted my teeth and sprayed the cast iron tub down with bathroom cleanser.

“You’re a big girl, Zoe. You can do this.”

Every instinct in my body disagreed as I turned on the tap and wet the rag, then kneeled on the faded pink bath mat and started scrubbing. Against my will, my gaze strayed to a familiar but faint rust-brown blood stain in the otherwise white grout, and I froze. It was so small and faded that most people would never know it was there, would never notice it. But I knew, and I couldn’t help but notice it, despite my father’s endless attempts at removing it over the years.

My vision blurred as an unwelcome memory assaulted me. I dropped the rag and gripped the bitterly cold edge of the cast iron tub with both hands, trying to steady myself, trembling and completely at the mercy of things I’d spent the last twenty years doing my best to forget.

* * *

“But Mom,I don’t wanna! I’m too tired to take a bath and wash my hair, and if we wash it, we’ll have to blow dry it, and that’ll take even longer?—”

“Quit arguing and get your fanny in the tub, Zoe.” My mom blew out a sigh, wincing and pressing her fingers against her temples as she followed me down the hall and into the bathroom. She’d been complaining of a headache all day long, and apparently it hadn’t let up despite the painkillers she’d taken for it. “If you hadn’t gotten filthy playing with Missy and Roman, you wouldn’t have to take a bath and wash your hair tonight.”

Grumbling under my breath, I stripped down and got in, plopping down gracelessly in the warm water she’d run for me. I reached up and tried to take my hair out of its ponytail holder, but yelped. It was hopelessly tangled and knotted around the hair tie.

I cut a sideways glance at my mother. “Hey, Mom, can you get this out of my hair?”

“Of course, baby.” Mom stopped rubbing at her temples and kneeled on the bath mat, reaching for my ponytail.

Her hands faltered.

“What—”

I turned to look at her. Her brow furrowed with confusion and her beautiful green eyes went unfocused as blood poured from one of her nostrils, dripping on the floor tiles beside the bath mat.

I frowned. “Mom? Are you okay?”

She didn’t say a word, but her body swayed and slumped forward, collapsing face-first in my bath water. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion and all at once as I stared at her in disbelief and the blood pouring from her nose turned my bath water pink.

“Daddy.” I tried to scream, but the word came out as a hoarse whisper.

Mom’s body tipped further forward, the full weight of her head and shoulders pressing down on my stomach as her torso slumped over the side, too. I tried to move. Tried to push her up, tried to lift her, tried to get her face out of the water, tried to do fucking anything.

But I was god damn useless, and my mother was dead, and her bleeding nose was staining my bath water red around me.

Finally, something clicked into place in my brain and my throat all at once, and I screamed.

“Daddy, help!”

And as soon as those words were out of my throat, they turned into a sobbing, inhuman, animalistic howl of grief. I stroked my fingers through the tendrils of her wet black hair as it floated in the red bath water and screamed my rage and loss at the ceiling until my father barreled into the bathroom, already on the phone with 911, and lifted my mother’s lifeless body off me and laid her on the floor, desperately attempting CPR.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them, shaking and hollow-eyed, watching the scene play out almost like I was floating outside myself.

When the coroner did the autopsy, he said it was a massive brain aneurysm, and she was already dead before her face ever hit the water, but I’ve never forgiven myself for not being strong enough to lift her out of the water myself, even though I was only eight years old at the time.

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