Didn’t stand out to her. Good. It was also time to get back.
When everything was put back where she’d found it, Nena went to the bathroom as she’d asked, returned to dinner, and enjoyed the conversation between a daughter and her father, hoping she could do as Georgia’s mother seemed to ask from the photo. Protect them.
32
BEFORE
The sharp clicks of the unlocking door alert me Monsieur has returned. I am tense, not knowing how I shall receive him. Thoughts of what kind of torture or psychological terror he will dole out nearly loosen my bowels. I hate the way I cower, the way I am so weak at the sight of him.
My dungeon opens, revealing him in a bathrobe and house shoes. His hair stands on end, a funny picture I am too scared to find amusing. He holds a pitcher of liquid in one hand and a crate beneath his other arm of what I hope is hot food. He looks satiated. Either his business was successful or he has had a visitor. Whatever it is, he will soon tell me, as he always does.
He sniffs. “Jesus, Souris, you smell horrible.”
My head drops. I try my best to keep as clean as possible. During his stretches of absence, I must choose between cleanliness and survival. Therefore, the container of water he leaves is for consumption. There is also a bucket for my waste that cannot be emptied until he lets me out of my little room. So yes, there is a smell. I am now accustomed to the debasement Monsieur subjects me to. Me, the daughter of a chieftain, a princess. It is almost laughable.
He places the crate of supplies on the floor, uses his foot to push it into the room, and beckons me to come out. He holds a bar of soap and a rough towel. I take them quickly in case he changes his mind, but again he is in decent spirits, so he lets me be. I quickly pass him to enter the small bathroom, noticing the door atop the stairs is ajar. I eye it longingly.
“Eh, Souris, you forget something, oui?”
The bucket. I cannot forget. Anything can ignite his wrath.
“Apologies,” I murmur, rushing to get my bucket of shit and piss I will empty into the toilet. He goes to his workbench, where the surveillance monitors are up and running.
I rinse the bucket and use my bar of soap and water to make suds, then let it soak while I bathe. The bathroom has no door. And while he says he would never lower himself by being with me, I do catch him watching me on occasion. If that is as low as he will go, I can live with it.
Neither of us hears the creak on the steps until it is too late. I am readying the shower, wanting the water to be as hot as it can. Fortunately, it is very hot.
The gasp behind me makes my heart skip a beat. It is not from me and surely not him. I spin around at the same time Monsieur looks up from his worktable. His face is a blank canvas.
She is halfway down the steps, has long, tousled dark hair, and is wearing a glittering dress that reminds me of Bridget’s. A sizable green leather purse loops over her shoulder. Her eyes are as round as saucers as she takes in me, wrapped in my too-short towel, and Monsieur in his half-opened robe.
We stare at her, and she stares back. She is pretty, a bit overly done with the makeup. She is older, more voluptuous, and the lights do not complement her sallow skin.
Silently and with a foreboding that deepens within my gut, I twist the faucet knob until the water drips to a stop. And I wait for what comes next.
33
AFTER
Georgia ditched the adults to finish homework. Nena and Cort sat together on the living room couch in awkward silence while she nervously played with the hem of her shirt. Her behavior, her shyness, was different than it’d been the night they’d met, and she worried he was disappointed. She should have told Elin where she was going. Maybe Elin would have given her some pointers—after Elin laughed so hard she peed herself and called their mother.
Nena blurted, “Why Georgia? I mean, it’s a lovely name; don’t get me wrong. But why Georgia and not Dakota or Arizona or Virginia?”
He settled into the couch. “I was born in Haiti, my wife, Donna, as well. We grew up together in a little town that was . . .” He trailed off. “We had a difficult life.”
She nodded for him to continue, folding her legs beneath her.
“Donna and I said we’d come to the States to go to school and have the all-American life. We worked hard, really hard, saved everything we had, and bought our way here when we turned eighteen. We worked our asses off while we got our degrees—hers in nursing and mine in law. Atlanta was the first real vacation we ever took. We were always going without to make ends meet. Finally, one day, I was like, ‘Let’s go somewhere.’”