Page 23 of Dear Wife

The first one is dinnerware, neat stacks of plates and bowls and plastic cups. I shut it and move down the line. Cleaning supplies, pots and pans, but not a single crumb of food, no box of dusty tea bags.

“You must be the new girl,” a female voice says from behind me.

A grenade erupts in my chest, and I whirl around, searching for her face in the darkness.

The shadows shift, and the ceiling lamp buzzes to life, blinding me with sudden light. I cover my eyes, squinting through my fingers at the woman sitting cross-legged atop the kitchen table. Caramel skin and big brown eyes and the body of a fifties film star, petite but curvy.

She watches me with barefaced curiosity. “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.”

She’s as pretty as her accent, a South American cadence slowed with a Southern drawl. Two silver discs hang on delicate chains from her neck, each of them engraved with something I can’t quite make out from this distance. Names, I’m guessing.

I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, not when the money belt hanging from my middle is about as subtle as a third breast. I pull on my too-tight T-shirt, fold my arms across my waist. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Was that you upstairs?” She pauses. “I heard somebody scream just now. Was that you?”

Shit. So that part wasn’t a dream.

My face goes hot, thinking of all the sleeping bodies upstairs. “Sorry. Did I wake you?” How many others did I rouse from their slumber?

“No. My room is right next to Ned’s.” She points to the ceiling, the boards above our head rumbling like a faraway train. Ned, I assume. “Anyway, tell me what you came down here looking for, and I’ll tell you where you can find it. Though I will warn you—Miss Sally keeps the good stuff locked in the pantry.”

“Oh.” Miss Sally’s warnings ring in my ear—her honor code, and the hidden cameras everywhere. But surely a tea bag doesn’t count as stealing, especially if I replace it first thing tomorrow. “I was hoping to borrow a tea bag, actually.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.” She hops off the table and pads on bare feet across the room. Her shorts are the kind a cheerleader would wear, skintight and Daisy Duke short. “I’ve got a box of Lipton—hope that’s okay.”

You once hurled a full cup of piping hot tea at my head because it was Lipton. You said if you’d wanted a cup of hot piss, you would have asked for some.

I smile. “Lipton is perfect, thank you.”

She pulls a yellow box from a drawer by the microwave, flips on the electric kettle, drops the bags in two mugs she finds in a cabinet.

“So, what were you doing down here?” I say, gesturing to the table. “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”

“I was meditating.”

“Seriously?” It’s not at all what I was expecting. She doesn’t seem like the type—too fidgety, toova-va-voomto be that grounded. “In the middle of the night?”

“Why not? Meditation relieves stress, increases concentration, clears your mind and calms your nerves.” She closes her eyes, holds her hands in the air, palms to the sky, in a classic meditation pose. I notice a tattoo that pokes out from the collar of her white tank top, winding down the skin of one arm. The other is covered in bracelets, leather and bright, colorful beads. “Ommmmmm.” Her eyes pop open, her gaze finding mine. “I’ll teach you sometime. Honestly, I’m glad to have another one of us here. Another female, I mean. We’re the only ones, if you don’t count Miss Sally. I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but this place is boiling over with testosterone.”

Her rapid-fire change of subjects is dizzying to my sleep-deprived brain, and I sink onto a chair at the table. I consider which part of her monologue to latch on to—the meditation, the proffer of friendship, the gender imbalance in this place—but she’s already moved on.

“I take it you’re new to town,” she says.

“Just got here, actually. How long have you lived here?”

“Atlanta or Morgan House?”

I shrug. “Both, I guess.”

“I’m a Grady baby, born and raised.” She leans a hip against the counter, taking in my frown. “Oh, sorry. Grady’s the hospital downtown, where they take all the gunshot patients and moms too strung out to know they’re pushing out a baby. I spent six weeks in one of those heated bubbles, sweating the crack and Lord knows what else out of my system. By the time I was clean, my mom was long gone. They handed me over to foster care.”

Her story has a few holes. Her accent, for one. Even if her foster parents were Latino, even if she grew up speaking Spanish at home, would her accent really be that strong? And why would someone born and raised in this city end up here, in a boardinghouse that caters to transients? Still, no way I’m planning to ask. The less she tells me about her life, the less she’ll expect me to tell her about mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “The foster system is tough.”

She shrugs, a what-can-you-do gesture. “The worst part is not being wanted by anyone. That really messes with your head, you know? It can make you feel worthless if you let it.” She pulls a bear-shaped bottle from the cabinet by the fridge and waves it next to her face. “Honey?”

I nod, even though I don’t usually take my tea sweet. My stomach is sharp with hunger, and honey will help.

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