Page 27 of Wished

There’s a stitch in my side that feels like the handyman shoved his screwdriver into my appendix and is still twisting the blade.

I’d double over if I thought it’d help, but I’m pretty sure that would only make the pain worse. My heart rampages around my chest like a wild animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage, and I draw in a great, gulping lungful of air.

Come on, Mom. Answer the door.

She doesn’t start her shift until the afternoon. She might be in bed still, sleeping off the wine, but the volume of my knocking should wake her.

“Mom!” I call, knocking harder.

The door swings open and I stumble forward, caught off-balance by the force of my knocking. A tall woman in a purple sweat suit catches me. She’s the size of a professional bodybuilder, with muscular legs, biceps as big as my thighs, and a thick, muscular neck.

I have no idea who she is or what she’s doing in my apartment.

She shoves me and I trip backward like a pinball, ricocheting from one point to another. I wince as the cuts on my feet scrape against the tile floor.

“Ow, ouch.” I catch myself on the doorframe and give the woman a smile, just to show I’m not upset she shoved me like a rugby player and now she’s blocking my door. “You know,” I say, “I’ve had a rough morning. I bet you can tell. Can you please”—I wave my hand, gesturing for her to move—“let me in?”

Instead of stepping aside, the woman crosses her arms over her chest, making her muscles even more prominent. She widens her stance, blocking the door.

Okay.

Fine.

I straighten up and give her the look my mom perfected years ago. “Excuse me, I need to get into my home.”

The woman is not impressed. She’s not going to move. I might as well try picking up and moving the Jura Mountains.

“Your home?” she asks.

Oh.She must only know my mom. I tap my chest. “I’m Janice’s daughter.”

I wait, expecting the woman to move aside. She doesn’t.

Instead she stares at me as the fluorescent light hums overhead and the air conditioning clicks and moans, sending out a wheezy, anemic breeze.

As she takes in my appearance—my sweat-streaked forehead, my wind-combed hair, my bare feet, and the shirt that hits above midthigh—I get the impression she’s about to slam the door.

So I lift onto my tiptoes and shout, “Mom! Wake up!”

But once I’m looking over the woman’s shoulder, I notice something I didn’t see before. The walls of my apartment aren’t bright yellow, the furniture isn’t cheery red, and there aren’t watercolors tacked to the walls. In fact, the apartment is gray-walled and full of barbells, free weights, and workout benches.

As I’m staring at a barbell loaded with 150 pounds of weights, the woman slams the door. The sound echoes through the hall.

I drop to the flats of my feet and stare at the block numbers painted on the door.

302. That’s my apartment.

302. That’s where I live.

302. That’s my home.

Not anymore, a small voice whispers.

I shake my head. Then I hurry to Dorene’s.

She answers right away.

“What?” she asks.

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