This Story Might Save Your Life(66)

When my nipples grew sore a month later, a tiny warning bell rang in my subconscious. When I started suffering from breakthrough exhaustion, I asked the internet. One quick search confirmed it: Xander had been filling my pill boxes with placebos. I wonder how long he’d been saving them. How long he thought he could get away with it.

By my calculations, I’m eight weeks pregnant. Xander doesn’t know.

I’m bone-tired, and bruised to my core. Xander was fuming mad when I left. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him. But I’m safe now. That’s what Gloria keeps telling me.

I’m safe.

Sometimes, when I’m falling asleep or waking up, I hear his voice. He tells me he loves me. Promises he’ll find me. As far as I’m concerned, this is reason enough to stay right where I am.



* * *



A KNOCK AT the door. My muscles don’t work and the ceiling is spinning.

“I’m naked,” I lie. It comes out as a near inaudible slur. I lick my lips and raise my voice. “You can leave it in the hall.”

“I’ll wait,” Gloria’s voice calls out.

I sink deeper into the pillow.



* * *



SHE’S KNOCKING AGAIN.

“Coming, coming,” I mumble, rolling onto the floor. I crawl across the room and brace myself against the wall as I open the door.

Gloria holds out a pile of clothes. “These are roughly your size.”

I take them from her outstretched arms and hug them to my chest. They’re soft, and they smell of lavender, and this small kindness makes my throat swell. “Thank you.”

“There’s plenty more downstairs.” She doesn’t comment on my appearance, or the fact that I’ve filled my days here with sleep. My room probably smells. I probably smell. I remind myself to use the toiletries she left for me last time she was here.

“I wanted to check in,” she says. “And to let you know we have our weekly support group in an hour.”

Words are difficult right now. “Sport…” I try again. “Support group?”

“To help you plan your next steps.”

She tells me about the other services this place offers. Life skills classes. Job skill training. Individual counseling. “There’s also a computer lab down the hall.”

Hearing it spelled out like this, I fill with guilt because these are things I can afford, things I shouldn’t be taking for free. There must be someone who needs this room more than I do. Hanging my head, I try to summon the energy to gracefully exit the conversation when she adds, “We also have a legal advocate in case you decide to obtain a temporary protective order.”

“Protective order?” I seem to only be capable of parroting today.

She’s staring at my swollen eye. “Restraining order.”

I’m so tired I can’t think straight. It feels like a punishment, this exhaustion. What eventually comes out is, “Computer lab?”



* * *



“COMPUTER LAB” IS a generous term for a compact room with two desktop PCs. At the newer model is a young woman wearing a maroon bindi, a navy sweatshirt, and skinny jeans. She glances up at me, eyes widening at the sight of my face, my bruise. She covers her surprise with a cough, and her expression shifts to a forced indifference. I point to the black screen of the unemployed machine. “Is it working?”

She shrugs. “They’re not supposed to be off. They take forever to boot up.”

I sag into the empty chair. In front of me is a sign reminding users not to shut down the computers. Another states that all IP addresses in the shelter are protected. The last offers a sternly worded reminder to not share the shelter’s location for the safety of all staff and residents. They’re written in English, Spanish, and Korean.

My computer comes to life with relatable slothfulness, and as it does I allow myself a moment to consider the measures Xander must have already taken to locate me. He’ll have traced my phone back to the house and gone through all of my things. He’ll have set up alerts on my credit cards. Called hospitals. But what he won’t have done, I’m certain, is admit I’m missing. Admitting I’m missing would mean admitting why, and he’s too proud for that. Because by now, he’s been served with divorce papers. Even though nothing went as planned, I assume this hasn’t changed.

When at long last the wheels stop turning, I load the browser for my email and then pause, realizing I don’t have my login info. The auto-generated combination of random letters and numbers and symbols is stored in my password manager, and I’ve stored that master login info deep in a notebook I forgot to take in my hurry to leave. There’s no way to reset any of these because I don’t have my phone.

I close the tab, awash with unexpected relief. I am truly unreachable.

Leaning hard against my chair, I cross my arms and tilt my head back as far as it will go, unsure what to do next.

“I’m almost done here if that one’s not working.”

There’s a dark brown water stain in one of the ceiling tiles. “It’s working fine.”

A few moments pass, enough for me to think the conversation is over. Then she blurts, “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to. But I have to tell you I subscribe to your podcast. I am a very big fan.”