Page 29 of That's Not My Name

The hot water is just as soothing this round, and by the time I climb out of the shower, even my bruises feel better. The blue-black circles under my eyes still need time to heal, and the cuts on my scalp sting like a bitch every time the shampoo slides through my hair, but it feels like all the pores on my body take a collective deep breath.

I towel off and dig through the bag, deciding what to wear. I settle on a pair of leggings and a blue tank top. I pull the shirt over my head, and it rolls into a constrictive bunch under my armpits. Something’s not right. I wrestle it off, tugging it up half an inch at a time until I’m free, and hold it out in front of me.

It’swaytoo small. Almost comically small. How could he look at this and think it would fit me? I check the tag on the leggings but they’re smaller than the shirts. These look like they’d fit a middle schooler. I sit on the floor with the clothing in my hands and blow out a slow breath, holding back unexpected tears.

The loss of the only things in this cabin I thought were fully mine hits hard. But I feel ridiculous for almost-crying about some leggings.

What’s wrong with me? It’s an honest mistake. We’ll find my car soon, or we’ll exchange these for a different size. It’s not the end of the world. I just have to wait a bit longer.

I take a deep breath, toss it all back in the bag, and maneuver into the clothes I slept in last night: another pair of light gray sweatpants with the drawstrings pulled so tight they dangle to my thighs, and a gray T-shirt with Homer Simpson on the front.

I drop the bag of clothes in my room and return to the kitchen, scrunching my hair with a towel. Wayne crumples the newspaper and chucks it into a basket beside the fireplace with the other cardboard and burning materials. “All right, enough news. What’s on the docket for today?”

I press my back to the sink and worry at my lip. If he noticed I haven’t changed my clothes, he hasn’t said anything. I hesitate, not wanting to upset him when he’s trying so hard to help, and his eyebrows come together.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Um…yeah, everything is fine. I was wondering if we could run into town today.”

He leans forward, folding his arms on the island. “Do you have a fever or something?”

“Huh?”

“You hate going places,” he says. “You hate leaving the house. In fact, I have to practically drag you out into civilization whenever we run errands.”

Oh right, I’m a homebody. A reader—nothing crude.

But honestly, I’d walk all the way down the mountain on my own if it meant getting out of this outfit. “I guess the need for clothes that fit overrules the urge to stay home?”

“What about the clothes I bought you?”

I grimace, thinking of the wad of fabric in the bag, with a stab of guilt. “They’re too small. I’m sorry,” I say, before I realize I’m apologizing because the clotheshebought won’t work for me. Which is ridiculous. I didn’t pick them out.

His face falls. “You’re kidding. Everything? None of it fits?”

“Well, I could wear the shirts, I’d just have to stop breathing for the rest of the day,” I joke, but I immediately regret it when he looks even more upset.

“I’m so sorry. I grabbed whatever looked right.”

I wave him off. “It’s totally okay. Maybe we can go back and exchange them? I left all the tags on. I can pick everything out this time so you don’t have to worry about it.”

He looks down at his hands folded in front of him. “I think you need another rest day. Maybe a few, really. You’ve been through so much.”

I throw the towel over my shoulder and gesture to the outfit currently hanging off me. “Please? I want something I can feel like myself in. Something not,this. Plus, I feel so much better already. I really don’t need a rest day. I won’t even look at anything made of eggs.”

He stares at me.

“Please?” I cross to the other side of the island. “I’ll be in and out, I promise. Ten minutes, tops.”

He sighs. “Mary. I’m still worried you’ll have a histamine flare-up, not to mention the concussion, and you look like someone punched you in the face. Maybe we can order something online instead. It won’t take more than a week to arrive. Besides, there’s not much of a selection in town. The store’s more of a gas station that also has some clothes in the back. I barely found what I already got for you, unless you’re looking for a XXXL men’s neon work shirt…”

Ugh. I know it’s unreasonable, but the idea of waiting a week for packages to climb the mountain makes my stomach drop. “Can we go to a different store? I really want something that fits.”

With a great big sigh, Wayne sits back in his chair. Watching me.

“Please? Please, please, please?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. You win. There’s a little thrift store down the coast that we can go to. We stop there every time we’re in the area. If you’re up for a drive, they’ll have a much better selection for you, and it’ll save you from shopping for another couple months,” he says with a laugh. “It won’t be busy this time of year either. But you’re doing the breakfast dishes first.”

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