Page 71 of Show Me How
The tensing of her shoulders is the only reaction she has to learning she isn’t alone anymore. I step around her and glance into the washing machine. It’s full to the brim with clothes, a mishmash of colours all shoved into one load. Without looking at her for approval, I start picking out the white clothes and set them on the dryer. There aren’t many, but they’d be ruined if she washed them in this load. There are too many colours in here, all of them bright.
“I can’t . . . I’m not sure how to get the machine started.”
Her voice is dull, caged, like she’s tucked herself away and hidden it from me. I let it go, knowing that she’s feeling vulnerable.
“I’ll help you,” I say. The pile of whites is big enough that I can scoop it up as one and hand it over to her, careful not to let the sketchbook drop from beneath my arm. “Set these back in your bag. You’ll need to do a load of whites by themselves once you’re done with everything else.”
Pushing to her feet, she drops her hands from her face and takes the clothes. Keeping her chin tucked, she avoids my eyes. Millie drops the clothes to the rest of her laundry on the floor and then stands beside me, looking into the washer.
“Do you have any more coins? These machines take quarters or loonies.”
I tug out the coin drop and eye the fading instructions on the side of it. She watches me and reaches into her sweatpants. Shifting a few steps, I make room for her to take my place and read the instructions. There’s a slight tremble in her fingers as she inserts the quarters into their spot and pauses.
“Leave it like this until you’re ready to turn the machine on. Is that your detergent?”
“Shelly’s. She gave it to me on her way out.”
“Alright. Pour a capful of it in and then shove this back inside,” I instruct, tapping the metal slide that she dropped her coins into. “After that, all you have to do is choose your settings and turn it on.”
Her swallow is loud, tense. “You don’t have to stay and watch.”
“I haven’t spoken to you about what I wanted to yet. I’m fine standing here with you for a while.”
She doesn’t answer. Twisting the cap off the detergent bottle, she pours the thick liquid into it and then dumps it onto her clothes. The metal slide goes in next, and then she closes the lid before poking around with the settings.
I take her hand and push her index finger onto the option she should use and then let it go. She flexes her hand before dropping it to her side.
“I know what you must think.”
I pause, looking at her despite the lack of eye contact she offers. “What’s that, Millie?”
Her jaw works while I spot the red rim around her eyes. “That I’m a lost cause and inept at taking care of myself. That I need someone to teach me how to do absolutely everything.”
She turns and walks away from the machines. I follow her. Millie’s exhales are strained, wavering the way they were when I got here, so I pick up my pace.
Before she reaches the door, she sinks onto the wooden bench beneath the window. Her shoulders roll forward as she palms her forehead, hiding her face. I drop the sketchbook to the bench and sit beside her. Bracing my elbows on my knees, I keep only a couple of inches between us.
The washing machine churns across the room, humming softly. It smells like dust and laundry soap in here, but somehow, they go together in this moment.
“You know,” she says after a long beat, “my mother used to say crying in public was one of the worst things a woman could do.”
I glance over at her, hating that she’s still hiding from me. “Because it makes you weak?”
“Or messy. Or difficult. Or dramatic. Take your pick.”
I let that settle between us. With every second that passes, it pisses me off more.
“Mine used to say the opposite. That crying was proof you gave a shit. It meant you were still human in a world full of robots.”
Millie turns her head to look at me, eyes wide and a little stunned. “She sounds . . . nice.”
“She is.” I nudge her knee with mine. “Those things you said about being inept? I don’t think that.”
“Why not?”
I stare at her pink cheek, noticing the single tear streak marking it. “Because you left. You ran from a life where you were safe and wouldn’t have ever had to worry about doing something like this. That doesn’t sound inept to me. Sounds brave as hell.”
“I didn’t run because I was brave.”
