Page 4 of The Cabin
It has been a long time since Adrian and I used any of those things over there.
Years, in fact.
I close the door of my car, listen to the engine tick and pop as it cools. I finally summon the motivation to go inside; just as the garage door light flicks off automatically, bathing the garage in darkness. The house is silent, dark. I flick on the kitchen light, a small pool of incandescent yellow, limning the marble counters and stainless-steel appliances with sepia light.
Green numerals on the oven: 12:47.
I’m hungry. But food seems to require too much energy to prepare, even ripping open a protein bar or popping some popcorn in the microwave, or reheating leftovers. It’s all too hard. I toss my purse on the island, fish my phone out of it, shuck my hoodie and leave it on the island with my purse—I’m going back to work in less than six hours anyway. No point in putting them away. I trudge upstairs. My footsteps scuff loudly on the carpet, and when I touch the doorknob to open my bedroom door, I’m shocked by a burst of static electricity, bright blue-white in the darkness of the hall. Sometimes, if I remember, I leave the TV on in our bedroom, just for the semblance of welcome.
I neglected to make the bed this morning. Only one side is mussed, slept in. Adrian has been on a research trip to the East Coast for the past week. Even though I’m dead on my feet, I force myself to bypass the bed. I have to shower, and scrub the day away. I strip out of my scrubs and drape them on the seaman’s chest at the foot of our bed, for tomorrow. Toss my sports bra, underwear, and socks in the hamper. Turn the shower on and let it run to scalding and brush my teeth and scrape a brush through my hair.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Black hair, so thick I’ve broken brushes trying to drag them through the waves. It hangs to my shoulder blades, dry and loose and brushed out. Shimmers, glistens. Adrian says he fell in love with my hair first, and then with the rest of me. I don’t blame him—if I’m vain about anything it’s my hair. It’s never felt the touch of chemicals, and I religiously trim the split ends, condition, brush it out every night the way Mom used to. My olive skin is naturally tan and tans darker at even the least glimmer of sun. I’m slender, maybe a bit too slender, and my ribs show. But I’ve got abs, which is nice considering I never work out. I always drop weight when Adrian travels. I work twelve to eighteen hours a day as many days in a row as Dr. Wilson will let me, and I often either forget or don’t have time to eat.
I’ve been spacing out in front of the mirror for…I don’t know how long. Long enough that the bathroom is fogged with steam.
I linger in the shower long after I’ve shampooed and conditioned and scrubbed my skin. I soak up the warmth, let it loosen my tight muscles.
The water goes warm, then lukewarm, and I finally turn it off. Towel mostly dry, use my magic wand to brush and dry my hair at the same time: my Dyson hairdryer. God, that thing is amazing. My crazy thick hair would normally still be wet hours and hours after the shower, but that thing makes it so I can brush it and get it dry enough to go to bed without my hair being soaking wet.
I don’t bother with clothes. Just fall naked into bed, climb under the covers. Bedside table alarm clock: 1:36 a.m. My shift starts at seven.
One more thing I have to do before I can sleep.
I call Adrian. It rings exactly twice, and then he answers. “Hi, baby.” His voice is muzzy, thick and slow with sleep. “Doing okay?”
“Long. Hard. We lost someone.”
“Shit.” A sad sigh. “Work again in the morning, yeah?” He somehow convinced Lacey in scheduling to email him my schedule every week. He probably gave her a signed book or three.
“Yeah. Seven.”
“You could’ve called me on the way in.”
“I have to call you at night. I need to hear your voice so I can sleep.”
“I know.”
“What’d you do today?” I ask.
“Toured the site of the Battle of Yorktown.” He’s working on a Revolutionary War piece about a Redcoat who falls in love with the widow of a rebel…a man he killed. It’s in the developmental stages, he says.
“Get some good material?”
“Eh. I think Yorktown is later than I’m planning on setting the bulk of the story. I might hit Lexington and Concord next.”
“When will you be home?”
“Thursday, maybe Friday.”
“I miss you.”
