Page 19 of The Quiet Tenant

The last thing I learned: he was prepared. I think he had done it before. There was a confidence to him, a determination. Calm, even when I didn’t go along with his plan. Because he knew I would, eventually. He knew the world would bend to his will.

He was—that’s the last thing I ever thought—like a warrior. Like someone who knows it’s not over until the other side stops squirming.

CHAPTER 13

The woman in the house

A tremor in your shoulder. He’s leaning over you, shaking you awake. When did you fall asleep? All you remember is lying on the hardwood floor, trying to find a decent position for your handcuffed arm.

You wait for him to free you. He pulls you up to your feet. You rub your eyes, shake out your legs. In the shed, you were always awake by the time he came in. Your throat closes at the idea that he was able to slip in unnoticed—that he hovered over you as you lay, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, oblivious to the world around you. Unaware ofhim.

“Let’s go.”

He grabs your arm, opens the door, guides you across the hallway. Under his other elbow, he has tucked a bath towel and a set of clothes. He opens another door to your left—one you didn’t notice last night—and pulls you in. You conduct a quick assessment: bathtub, shower curtain, sink, toilet. He puts a finger on his lips as he turns on the shower. “She’s still asleep,” he says, his voice low, drowned out by the stream. “But be quick. And be quiet.”

Cecilia. The memory of last night floats between the two of you, his daughter’s inquiring voice and the panic in his eyes. All three of you, standing, hands linked, on the edge of a cliff.

You slide your jeans and your underwear down your legs. Take off your sweater, your T-shirt, the cheap sports bra he got you when the hooks on your original one finally gave out.

You lift the toilet lid. You’re so busy being stunned by the reality of the experience that you forget, for a moment or two, that he’s watching. All you know is there’s a cotton mat grazing the arches of your feet, a cold rim of enamel digging into the back of your thighs. A roll of toilet paper to your right, white, two-ply. He keeps his gaze on you, as indifferent as if you were a dog relieving itself on a walk.

To your left, water splashes against the tub. You don’t ask aboutCecilia, whether the sound of someone showering might wake her up. He’s a father, and he knows what interrupts his child’s sleep. Your guess: she’s used to it. For all you know, he’s been getting up before her for years, shaving and brushing his teeth before her first yawn.

From the toilet, you examine him. Bingo. He’s dressed—jeans and a clean fleece and work boots laced up. Hair combed, beard freshly trimmed. He got up early, made time for his own ablutions before tending to yours. If she hears anything, his kid will think that the new tenant is just like her dad, an early riser.

You get up to flush. You’re about to step into the bathtub when something stops you. A shape in the mirror. A woman. New and unknown. You.

You need a few seconds. To look at your hair, long and dark as it used to be, but the roots graying, a couple of white skunk stripes streaking past your shoulders. Ribs protruding, rolling under your skin as if threatening to poke through. The outline of your face.

“Come on.”

Before you can get a better look, he grabs your arm, slides the shower curtain to the side, and hurries you under the water.

It’s so hot. You used to take showers like this every morning. You stood for long moments, water ricocheting down your chest. You tilted your head back and let it fill your ears, fill your mouth, possess you. You gave yourself to the moment fully, with finality, grasping for a sort of sublime that never materialized. Now, after five years of splashing yourself with water from the bucket, you can’t tell what part of this experience—water scalding your back, streaming over your face, steam filling your lungs—was supposed to be enjoyable.

You keep your eyes open, try to breathe through the fog. Do you remember how to do this? You go to grab the soap. Your feet slip. He catches you, rolls his eyes. The shower curtain is still drawn to the side. There’s no razor, nothing you could use to harm him or yourself—not even a bottle of shampoo you could squirt into his eyes. Just you, your naked body, and a bar of soap.

You hold it under the stream. Rub the foam on your arms, your chest, between your legs, all the way down to your toes.

“You done yet?”

You tell him almost. You go back for more soap and wash yourface and hair. Then you switch off the water and turn to him. He hands you the towel. You dry yourself. Your body is so present, so real under the yellow lighting. In the shed, in the gleam of the camping lantern, you couldn’t see its details—stretch marks like lightning bolts on the inside of your thighs, dark hairs on your forearms and calves, tufts in your armpits. Bruises on your arms, stagnating pools of purple and blue in the crooks of your elbows. On your chest, a smattering of scars. Brutal years written across your skin.

You hand him the towel. He points to a hook on the door, where you hang it to dry. He gestures to the pile of clothes he has set on the floor. You kneel to find new, supermarket-issue underwear. A sports bra cut out of the same black cotton. Clean jeans, a white T-shirt, a gray hoodie with a zipper. Everything cheap, neutral, boring. Everything new. Everything yours.

As you slip on the clothes, you remind yourself of the details of your new identity.You are Rachel. You moved into town recently. You needed a place to stay, and you heard that a friend of a friend was subletting a room.He hands you a new toothbrush and points to the toothpaste on the rim of the sink—his, presumably.

This isn’t kindness. The basic hygiene, a chance to clean yourself up. It’s easier for him if you don’t get sick, if your teeth don’t fall out, if your body doesn’t fuss itself into an infection. In the shed, he needed you healthy enough that you wouldn’t create additional work for him. Now he needs you to look as normal as possible for his daughter.

“Come here.”

He positions you in front of the mirror and wipes off the fog with a washcloth. This is your chance to take a closer look at yourself. You were never pretty, not exactly, but on the right day, from the right angles, you were able to see the appeal of you. Your jet-black hair, your short bangs. Good skin, save for a monthly breakout announcing your period. Defined lips. You could pull off red lipstick. You taught yourself winged eyeliner, white pencil on the rim of your lower lid. Eyes as large and round as possible.

The woman in the mirror doesn’t have bangs. They grew out a long time ago. Your skin feels, somehow, dry and oily at once. There are new creases on your forehead, between your eyebrows, around your mouth. Pinhead bumps from your temples to your jawline. Theweight loss has transformed your face, too. Your cheeks are hollow, permanently sucked in.

You used to be muscular and healthy. A runner who ate oatmeal and stretched on Sundays, an occasional yogi with a Pilates subscription. You walked as much as you could, ate when you were hungry, stopped when you were full. Your metabolism whirred, undisturbed. It was a miracle to you, this obedient little machine, this organism that rewarded you for taking care of it. And now he’s ruined it. Ravaged it, like he does everything.

“Stand still.”

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