Page 40 of Everything Under the Sun

THAIS

I slept like I hadn’t slept since before my home was attacked, and as I stirred awake, I felt that my legs were spread-eagle, my arms stretched above my head. I woke the rest of the way in a quiet panic, rising swiftly from the cot and covering myself with a sheet. But the sheet I covered with wasn’t there the night before, I realized. I gazed across the sunlit room at Atticus’ bed and saw that the only sheet on it anymore covered the mattress.

I shot up from the cot, determined to dress myself before he came back. I stripped off my sweaty gown and put on my dress.

I was alone in the room—alone. The realization filled me with adrenaline. I glimpsed the door behind me in the reflection of the mirror—it was unlocked. It’s unlocked!

Darting across the room, I practically flung myself against the door. The door clicked open, and I gasped because I couldn’t believe it. Am I seeing things? Am I still asleep and only dreaming? I peered through a one-inch crack in the door, my eyes scanning. There was no soldier on guard in the hall—there was no one. I could leave now. I could a make run for it.

But I didn’t, and Atticus knew that I wouldn’t, otherwise he would’ve locked me in. Having no idea where in the city full of buildings Sosie might be, if I escaped, the chances of finding her before someone found me, were slim to none, especially in broad daylight.

I closed the door and locked it for added protection—the brute still thought I belonged to him; and then there was Petra I had to worry about. But why was I not much afraid of Atticus? How was I able to sleep so deeply and for so long in a room alone with him? Was this what too much trust did to a woman: changing the makeup of her brain as easily as switching a song on a radio? Yes, this must be what too much trust feels like. Either that, or this must be how conformity begins. “Soon, I’ll end up like Petra,” I said aloud to myself. “I could end up crazy like Petra…”

I paced the room slowly, taking everything in. It was filthy: dust had settled on every stick of furniture, every book on the two shelves lining the walls, every map and useless trinket that lay atop the desk by the window; candle wax hung over the sides of the desk like frozen icicles from a roof. Clothes were strewn about: socks that may have once been white hung in random places; shirts and pants and underwear had been tossed with abandon. It reminded me of my father’s bedroom; I’d cleaned it nearly every day for him because my mother was no longer there to do it. But I’d be damned if I lifted one finger to clean this man’s room.

I went to the window and peered out at the city. A crowd was gathered in a familiar place in front of a large stone building with a dome-shaped roof. It was the building I’d stood in front of when I last saw Sosie, when Atticus ripped us from one another.

He stood there now, in the same place as before, at the top of the concrete stairs. Soldiers packed the crowd; there were women—and men this time—bound by ropes. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t help but watch. No one screamed or begged to be set free; these prisoners were either happy to be here, or already too broken to care.

I watched Atticus the most, the way he ordered this and that person into this or that “profession”. I watched how his expression never seemed to shift, how he remained indifferent, and confident, and maybe, deep down behind those stark blue eyes, a little conflicted, too. But then I snapped back into reality, realizing that I was eight floors up and could barely hear his voice much less see the true definition of his face, and that some of what I had been seeing was just my memory of the day I stood before him.

I would never forget it; it would forever be etched in my memory.

I left the window and went to the desk, ran my fingers over the map that lay atop it, unfolded and marked upon by red and blue ink. It was a map of the United States of America, with rectangular creases equally distributed throughout the paper as if it had been folded compactly and sat on a rack in a gas station at one time. With the tip of my finger I traced a line of red ink from Kentucky to Ohio and then over to Virginia and downward to the panhandle of Florida. There were many hand-drawn lines along the map, but nothing that made any sense. Several circles had been marked with red ink in a strange pattern, most confined to the eastern and northeastern states. I couldn’t even guess what they meant.

A knock at the door startled me, and I jerked my hand away from the map as if I’d been doing something I wasn’t supposed to. The sound of knuckles rapped three more times on the wood, but I couldn’t move except to look out the window again and see that the Overseer was still there, so I knew it wasn’t him on the other side of the door.

Thank God I locked the door.

“Miss Thais,” I heard a familiar voice say. “I’ve brought your breakfast.”

It was one of Rafe’s wives, the pregnant brunette; her accent was southern, but mixed with something else—Cajun, perhaps.

I went across the room and placed my hand on the doorknob, unsure if I should open it.

“Thais, please open de door.”

After a moment, I slid the lock away and let the woman inside.

“Breakfast is a little late dis mornin’.” She set a tray of food down on a small table. “We had a’mishap in de kitchen—one stupid girl damn near burned de place down.”

She stood with her hands beneath her rounded belly, her slender fingers linked; long, dark hair tumbled like a wave of silk over one shoulder and down her back, stopping at her waistline. She had dark, fierce eyes set in a round, ivory face with just a dash of pink in her cheeks that could’ve been makeup or a natural blush.

I looked at the food on the plate; a puff of steam rose from the scrambled eggs.

“Thank you.”

I thought it would be better to wait until the woman left before digging in; it seemed she was here for more than delivering the meal.

The woman walked into the room, taking small, unhurried steps as her eyes scanned Atticus’ belongings. I watched her curiously, wondering why she was here, why she felt it necessary to take her time. I was used to Naomi’s company—this woman, for reasons I couldn’t place, made me uncomfortable.

“Can I ask ya a question?” the woman said, not looking at me.

“Of course.”

She pretended to be studying the ottoman at the foot of a giant chair, her hands still locked underneath her pregnant belly; she looked about seven months along.

“What do ya think ya can offer my husband as his wife?”

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