It was two in the morning when Marie heard whispering coming from the front door. She was lying in bed, the covers pulled over her ears so that only the top of her head was showing. She was at Newfound Hope, the group home for troubled young women her parents had unceremoniously dropped her off at two months before. She could not sleep.
The whispering seemed agitated. It wafted to her down the hall. She knew one voice at least: Ms. Donahue, their matron; the other she didn’t know. It was a man, he sounded young. Young men weren’t allowed in the group home at any time.
“Please Mom. It’ll only be for a couple of days until Hannah stops being mad. You know how she gets, and I don’t have anywhere else to go...”
There was a pause. Ms. Donahue sighed.
“Oh, alright. But just to sleep. You won’t stay during the day. You’ll go somewhere else, is that clear?”
Shuffling. Ms. Donahue’s soft laugh. Marie realized the young man had won the matron over, her annoyance dissolving as soon as it had come.
There were footsteps. Marie closed her eyes. Someone looked into the room, then, finding no one awake, walked quietly away into the dark. Silence again. She opened her eyes. So far, she had barely slept. The next day was Sunday—town day. A day she had to prepare for. A day she dreaded all week, when the night before stretched out into an eternity of anticipation, smothering her in its cold grip.
When she woke the next morning the light was grey, growing slowly behind the cheap paper blinds. The other girls—seven of them including Marie—lay frozen in their beds around her, trapped by sleep, faces like pale gauze in the dark. She got up, put on her slippers and shuffled out of the room. There was no use in trying to fall back asleep again. She would wait until the household woke up around her. If she remained still enough maybe the day would never come and she could stay wrapped safe in the waiting forever.
She washed her face in the pale light of the bathrooms then wandered to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
A man was in the kitchen. He was standing on a stepladder by the sink, fixing an upper cabinet. The whispered exchange of the night before came back to Marie. She thought it must have just been a dream.
He turned to her. His eyes were green, vivid beneath long lashes. He had perfect teeth, auburn hair, and a small scar beneath his right brow. She felt a strange jump in her chest that startled her, a her that was far away, that she had to work to take control over once again. She swallowed. “Hey...sorry if I scared you. I’m Max. Ms. Donahue’s son. Not just some stranger in your kitchen, I promise,” he smiled widely. “This cabin was crooked so I’m fixing it. I hope I didn’t wake you?”
Marie stared at him, realized he was waiting for an answer, and quickly shook her head.
“Good. I’m just staying here for a bit, to fix things up. I’ll keep out of your guys’ way. I promise. Don’t mind me.”
“Ok.”
She couldn’t look him in the eyes, she found it easier to focus on the cabinets.
“What’s your name?” he asked, startling her again. He was smiling; she didn’t know why he was smiling.
“Marie.”
He nodded. There was a silence. He moved, put his screwdriver down on the counter, wiped his jeans.
“I’m sorry. I can do this later. I’ll get out of your way.”
He nodded to Marie, then walked past her out of the kitchen. When the wake of air from his body hit her, she shivered.
He was not at breakfast. She felt her body sag in relief and sat in her usual chair near the end of the dining table. The others took their seats, yawning.
Marie stared into her eggs and, as usual, pretended to be invisible.
Ms. Donahue took a delicate sip of tea, swallowed, then stared down at the group through her silver glasses.
“My son is going to be here for a week or so, doing maintenance for me. This place is falling apart so he’ll be around fixing things up. Don’t mind him but don’t bother him either.”
The girls gave each other wondering glances. Ms. Donahue’s son? How old was he? Was he handsome? Would he come into their rooms to fix things? Could they talk to him?
Tori, a spoiled but pretty girl, and Bernice, a mousy girl who did everything Tori said and liked everything she liked, giggled over their eggs in the corner. Marie’s eggs were powdery and tasteless. She had no appetite and stopped eating, excusing herself from the table.
It was rare that Marie did not finish her food. She often ate too much. Her mother said she was a glutton, she did not fit her name. Marie was a name for pretty girls. It was delicate and prim, promising something soft and flowery whereas she was big-boned and stubby.
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to think of her mother. Not on town day.
Miss Lana, as always, was taking them.
She was young and unmarried. Newfound Hope was her life and her passion. It was astounding how much she cared for the defective and difficult girls who came to stay with them for a few months, sometimes years. It was a care that was almost transcendent. They were her perfect little basket cases whose defectiveness kept her alive.
Now she was bustling them down the steps, over the concrete walkway and through the creaking metal fence onto the sidewalk. She was like a mother hen squawking around her young, a flurry of energy; adjusting their beanies, wiping invisible crumbs off their jackets, wrapping their scarves ever tighter around their necks.
They went to Miss Lana’s favorite café, as always. Marie took delicate bites of a blueberry scone, careful not to seem like she was enjoying it too much.
Someone caught her eye through the window that made her heart spasm. She froze. There he was, walking down the street.
He looked through the window and as he saw them a smile spread across his face, prompting a feeling in Marie akin to dying. He was turning and entering, the whole physicality of him emerging through the door and approaching their table. The other girls looked up in wonder while Marie trained her eyes down at the table.
“Well, hey. I was just going to have lunch here,” Max said.
Tori put her sandwich down and hurriedly cleaned her mouth. She batted her lashes up at the exciting stranger, like a housecat purring at the sight of a shiny new toy.
“Hello, Max,” Miss Lana replied with a definite coldness, very unlike her usual chipper self. “We come here every Sunday. I’m sure you were told.”
“That’s great. I should introduce myself.”
“No. I should.”
She straightened in her chair, setting her shoulders back and looked down at the group with authority.
“This is Max, Ms. Donahue’s son. As she said, he’ll be staying with us to do some maintenance on the house. I’m sure you will stay out of his way and he’ll stay out of yours. That is all.”
Max nodded, “Yep. If you need anything fixed, just come find me.”
Tori grinned. The others were doing much the same. Bernice was staring up at him with her mouth slightly open.
Miss Lana didn’t say anything and didn’t look at Max again as though she had already dismissed him. Max, seemingly unaffected by her coldness, smiled at them then turned and sauntered to the counter to order.
Tori and the others burst into barely contained giggles and began to whisper to each other in excitement. Miss Lana trained her small, mud-colored eyes on them with intensity, her thin lips downturned. She cleared her throat and, with a somber intensity, spoke.
“Now, I want you to listen to me, girls. Max is not a good kind of man. I know he’s Ms. Donahue’s only son and she loves him dearly so, please, don’t tell her I said this but he shouldn’t be here. It’s inappropriate. He takes far too much liberty, coming here. Besides that, he’s a drifter, he has no job. He’s caused Ms. Donahue a lot of grief over the years but he always gets away with it because, well, she has a soft heart and can never say no to him. Poor woman.”
Tori was rolling her eyes, chewing her sandwich and ignoring Miss Lana.
It was easy to ignore her. This was something Marie could agree with Tori on. One had only to look at her and then look at Max to understand. She was plain and each day growing older. Max was beautiful and full of life. He had never and would never pay attention to her in that way. So, she hated him, and wanted to make all of them hate him too. But they would not.
After a few minutes Miss Lana stood, annoyed by the glances the girls kept shooting at Max, the silent giggling.
They followed with obvious reluctance. When they walked to the door, Max looked up with a smile and waved. Miss Lana shot sharp looks at the girls and ushered them angrily out the door.
When they returned to Newfound Hope, Miss Lana headed straight to Ms. Donahue’s office, heels clacking in determination, pinched face set. The girls looked at each other then, without a word, turned and followed. They stopped a few feet from the closed door to listen. Miss Lana’s muffled voice was saying something about hormones and necessary boundaries.
Tori rolled her eyes and whispered, “she needs to get laid.”
“Both of them.”
“You don’t know?” Tori interjected. “Ms. Donahue has. Haven’t you noticed? She spends all day in her office, flirting with someone over the phone.”
“Gross! At her age?” said Sarah.
“I’m sorry he disturbed you,” they heard Ms. Donahue say. “But let me get this straight, Miss Lana. He’s my son and this is my institution. I know he wouldn’t do anything remotely inappropriate with the girls. Now I suggest you mind your own business and do what I pay you to do.”
After a moment, they heard the clacking of Miss Lana’s heels and hurried away, holding back their giggles.
Tori and Bernice disappeared into the dormitory and Marie could hear their stupid giggling from outside. It was medication time and she took her two pills, blue and pink, in their little cup and then went to the rec room and sat by the window looking out. A girl named Katie who never spoke, was watching TV—some kids' show where they were talking about going on a walk.
Unwillingly, Marie pictured her mother. She was probably watching TV, drinking sparkling water out of a glass in a miniskirt on their mink-furnished couch.
She remembered how her mother had looked when they’d dropped her off at Newfound Hope. She had stood in the doorway and watched as Marie’s father gave her a stern lecture. The light had spilled in all around her like a halo. She wore a long fur coat and dark sunglasses so Marie could not see her eyes.
She remembered the month before when she was supposed to be at her aunt’s house while they—her mother and father—had gone on vacation. She’d told her aunt—a chronically overworked lawyer who really did not care to babysit her—that a friend had offered to let her stay with her until her parents came back. She’d even bribed a girl at school to come over and pretend to be this friend in order to convince her. Her aunt hardly questioned any of this; she was only relieved to have Marie off her hands, not even bothering to call her parents to confirm. Marie had then snuck back into their spacious townhouse in Manhattan and stayed there, alone, for several weeks without anyone noticing. How peaceful it had been, how lovely. No one in the whole world had known she was there.
Her eyelids drooped. It was only 5 pm but she laid back on the couch and closed her eyes, curling into herself.
When she awoke, it was time for evening prayers, then dinner and bed. She dutifully changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, then lay in bed with the covers pulled up all the way. The other girls, who never seemed to want to sleep, were sitting in a circle around Tori’s bed, whispering eagerly. They were still talking about Max. She ignored them. Tori looked at her in spiteful amusement.
“What about you Marie? What do you think of him?”
“Of who?” she asked, playing dumb.
Tori rolled her eyes, “Of Max, dummy.”
She shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t think anything about him.”
One of the others let out a guffaw.
“Maybe you’re a lesbian,” said Bernice, giggling stupidly. Marie shrugged.
“Whatever,” said Tori, turning away. “She’s a stone-cold virgin, it’s obvious. Just looking at her you can tell.” They all laughed.
Marie laid back down as they resumed their conversation again without pause. She shut her eyes tight and made her mind go blank, waiting for the tension in her chest to ebb away as it must, falling off her in waves.
When she woke up, it was around three in the morning and everything was silent. She tried to go back to sleep and could not. Eventually she got up, padding quietly in the dark to the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror and stared hard at her reflection—the pimples exposed under the fluorescent lights, the chubby cheeks, the terrible jutting nose. She stared hard as though staring could erase her ugliness and make her new.
Sighing, she turned away.
In the hall, she heard a soft curse come from the front door. She frowned, listening and peering toward it. There was somebody outside, leaning against the door. It was Max—she could tell by the flash of curly auburn hair. He was trying to open the door by jiggling the handle but it was locked.
After a long hesitation she walked down the hall and opened it. He looked up at her in surprise, then he grinned.
“Damn key is stuck. Thank you. Did I wake you?”
Marie stuttered softly, “no, I got up to use the bathroom.”
“Oh gosh, lucky timing.”
He came in, seeming to loom above her. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. She looked down, away from him, and softly closed the door.
“Don’t want to be an even bigger nuisance than I already am.”
She smiled faintly, gave a small shake of the head, then turned to go. As she was turning, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Her heart jumped into her throat.
“You’re, uh, Marie, aren’t you?”
She glanced up at him, eyes wide. He had remembered her name. A smile spread over his face.
“Don’t be afraid of me.”
She had no idea what to say and so was silent.
“Are you tired? Why don’t we...play a game or something? I, uh, I have trouble sleeping sometimes. It would really help.”
She dared to look into his eyes. There was something there she didn’t understand. The whites seemed a bit red. He was high, she realized, or drunk. Yet, he was still beautiful, tall, charming.
“No,” she was stammering, “I...I gotta go back to bed.”
“Why? Are you tired?”
He seemed to take her hesitation for an answer and grinned, pointing a finger at her. She flinched. For a split second, it felt as though he was pointing out her chubby cheeks, her giant nose.
“You’re not so tired. Come on now, just one game. It’ll be fun, I promise. What else do you do here all the time? I mean, live a little! It’s like somebody died.”
“But...where would we go?”
“The guesthouse out back. That’s where I’ve been sleeping. I just came in here to get something I left. Hold on a minute. Don’t move.”
He turned and went down the hall to the kitchen.
She stood riveted to the spot. The skin where he’d grabbed her seemed to be burning. Move, she told herself, go back to bed. They’ll kill you if you go. Ms. Donahue will kick you out right into the street. Miss Lana will have a stroke.
Yet she stood there still, unmoving, like she was paralyzed.
Then he was coming down the hall, holding a bottle of something in his hand, grinning at her. He slowed, held up his hands like a cartoon character and walked on tiptoes comically. He came up to her and whispered, “I left it when I was fixing the cabinet. Hid it too well and forgot. Idiot.”
Fear ran through Marie—he was too loud– someone would hear and wake up, it was inevitable. Then he was brushing past her and ushering her with his hand and she was following him back out the door, over the prickly grass in her slippers towards the small guesthouse at the edge of the lawn. It was the size of a shed with chipped taupe paint, some flowers planted around it, and green shutters.
She realized then that she was really going to be alone with him. To be alone with a man for the first time in her life. She was almost 18 years old, wasn’t she? An adult. It was true what Tori and the others had said that night before bed, snickering at her with derision. She was a virgin. She’d never even kissed a man and everyone could tell. She was tired of that. Tired of everything.
She stepped through the door of the house and closed it behind her. The inside was quaint but cozy. There was a bed pressed up against the far wall, a little wooden table in the center with a glass vase of flowers and a tiny kitchenette with a cupboard and a sink.
A rug the color of murky blood on the floor. Paisley curtains.
Max was getting two glasses from the cupboard and filling them with the bottle he’d brought. Whiskey. Max turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, offering her the second glass.
She shook her head and he shrugged, then drank the glass down, and the second one too, letting out a long sigh. Marie stared at him, eyes wide. He looked at her and laughed, his auburn hair falling into his eyes.
“You look like I’m gonna murder you or something. Don’t worry, I’m not that bad. Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
Marie did as she was told, grateful for the instructions. Max poured himself another drink then sauntered over, pulling a pack of cards out of his pocket. He pulled out the chair across from her and plunked down.
“Now,” he said, taking out the cards and beginning to shuffle them. His elbows splayed out as he leaned over the table, and he began to deal the cards in front of them. He was very close to her now and she could feel his breath, could smell the alcohol on it, a faint scent of smoke on his clothes. She could reach out and touch his hand, his cheek, his neck.
But she didn’t move. Finally, he looked up and smiled at her.
“Have you played gin rummy before?”
He taught her how to play with unexpected patience. Together they completed several rounds without ceremony. Every so often he refilled his glass and drank. She didn’t mind.
No one had ever taught her a game like that before—really sat down and taught her and answered all her questions without annoyance. It made her feel something inside she’d never felt before, a warmth all over, like she’d just stepped into a hot bath.
He won the first two rounds and then she won the third, to which he let out a whoop and high-fived her. She laughed, smiling from ear to ear. She couldn’t believe she was laughing with him, that he had touched her hand and been happy for her. It was all a dream.
After the fourth and fifth rounds, of which he won one and she won one, he sat back and regarded her, which made the smile fade off her face in trepidation and her blush return. Something had changed, they were no longer playing. He was looking at her, seeing her. Did he want her to say something? She squirmed in her chair.
“You don’t say too much, you know.”
She blushed harder, nodded.
“I like that.”
Slowly, she met his gaze. His eyes were so green, like fresh grass. He had a perfect nose, elegant, upturned. Just the right size. Nothing like her own. If they had children maybe they would get his nose instead of hers, and his eyes and his hair. They would be beautiful, and she would be beautiful through them. Finally.
He grinned at her and she felt in her heart a clenching, overflowing. Hope. It must be hope.
“You know,” he said, leaning forward, “you have a very special face. Big eyes.”
She looked down again. This was too much. She was smiling, blushing terribly.
“Don’t worry about your nose,” he added and she blinked, her smile suddenly gone. She wanted to sink into the rug and never be seen again, like rain when it falls into the earth. “Your complexion makes up for it. It’s so...delicate. Like flower petals. Pretty.”
She looked up at him. Flowers. Pretty. No one had ever called her that before.
“I’m sure you have a boyfriend somewhere, don’t you? They’re keeping him from you, right? Premarital sex and all that.”
She blushed impossibly deeper, shook her head. She certainly couldn’t look at him now. His grin widened, straight white teeth.
“Yeah, you do. Of course you do.”
She looked down. It was ridiculous. She knew what she was, what she looked like. The girls in the house knew it too, made sure she knew. Her mother made sure she knew.
He let out a sigh and sat back.
“All that stuff is crazy. Let me tell you something—this place is a joke. My mom has good intentions but she’s just wrong about everything. She’s always been like that. She gets things into her head, thinking finally she’s found the correct way, the right way to live but she’s wrong. She never learns.”
He paused, licking his lips, looking somewhere in the distance. Then, taking a breath he pointed to the skin beneath his brow.
“Do you know where I got this scar? The army. Got hit in the head with the barrel of a gun and was in a coma for two months. They discharged me. My vision gets blurry sometimes. I get dizzy. That’s enough. I’m out of the army and all I have to show for it is this little fucking scar. Now what does my mom think about that? It’s God’s will! It’s for a reason! Yeah right. There’s no reason for it, or anything. Its senseless.”
He let out a sigh and slumped back in his chair as though all the tension had been let out of him at once. He sat there for a long minute without speaking, gazing to the side with a blank stare. She wanted to say something to comfort him. It seemed, anyway, that he’d forgotten she was there entirely. He had drunk a lot of whiskey.
She began to be aware of the sounds from outside—the chorus of crickets and the slight hum of the fluorescent light above them. She realized the windows had begun to lighten. She should go back inside before Ms. Donahue or Miss Lana woke up.
“Are you very tired?” he asked, suddenly, rousing himself. “We’ve been playing a while.”
“No, not really.”
He nodded. “It’s okay if you are. You know, this bed here is really nice. If you want you could lay down here, just for a minute. Then we could play some more.”
It was dawn. She needed to leave, to go back to her bed where they would see her and wouldn’t know she’d been gone for even a moment. All she had to do was stand, tell him, and walk out.
But she couldn’t think of the right words to say.
As if in a dream, he led her to the bed against the wall, touching her back to usher her forward.
She sat down on the edge first, tentative.
“You can lie down,” he said, amused.
She lay down facing the ceiling, the blank whiteness of it above her and then he was beside her, smiling. She was very still and didn’t look at him. He bent down towards her and touched his nose to her cheek. She didn’t breathe, didn’t move, didn’t blink. His breath was warm against her face.
“So still and silent, like a doll,” he said with a chuckle.
His hand was traveling down her neck over her body, down her stomach. She let out a shaky breath and felt herself shivering, though she wasn’t cold. She could feel his weight next to her, the warmth of his body, his leg and torso pressed against her own and it was not wonderful like she thought it would be, it was not pleasant. It was heavy and empty and smelled like whiskey. She closed her eyes.
She felt him lift up and opened her eyes to see him above her, his whole body, his face right there in front of her. His warm, sour smelling breath blew over her face, the whites of his eyes were red, and she could see the yellowness of his teeth. He was leaning down, to kiss her it seemed. To kiss her, she couldn’t think, she thought she would pass out.
And then he was slumping forward, his head landing next to her own above her shoulder, the weight of his body landing upon her. He began to snore. Loudly. She blinked. He had fallen asleep.
She lay there for she didn’t know how long, then carefully removed his body from on top of her, lifting his arm with a finger and sliding out from beneath. He stayed snoring. She sat upright for a moment, her mind spiraling, random thoughts whirling around in her head.
She could get up now and go back inside. Make her departure. Now. Now.
But she felt herself lowering back down and then lying there again, beside him. She didn’t move.
She thought of the day her parents had returned from their vacation. The moment when she saw that the last shred of hope they had for her had left their eyes. She’d been lying on the couch watching TV, trash and clothes strewn upon the ground from her weeks there alone.
They’d walked inside and stopped immediately, taking in the scene. Her mother had put her hands over her prim mouth and let out a sharp cry. She’d dropped her Prada bag which landed smack on the floor in some sticky puddle. Her father only looked at her without expression, profoundly grave.
She was not embarrassed or ashamed like she thought she should be. She’d felt, instead, only a mild amusement that had caused her to smile. Her mother gasped.
“Hello,” she said to them. The first word she’d spoken in weeks. “Welcome back.”
The light flickered. She was in the bed with Max. Outside, she heard a voice. Ms. Donahue. She was talking to someone on the phone. Marie waited to hear her name. They had discovered her absence and were looking for her now.
“No, no, not Friday, how about Sunday? Miss Lana takes the girls to town on Sundays. We’ll have the place mostly to ourselves then,” she giggled. Marie realized she wasn’t talking about her, she was flirting with someone on the phone. Her body deflated.
She heard someone else and her heart gave a little jump. Here it was. Now it would happen. Someone had come out to tell Ms. Donahue that she was gone. She would hear Ms. Donahue exclaim, hang up, begin to give orders for a search. She waited.
It was Ms. Turner, the cook. “Miss Lana called—she says she can’t come in today—she’s sick.”
“Mmh,” Ms. Donahue replied. “Right. Sick. She’s just pouting. I gave her a talking down yesterday.” She took a breath and let it out. “Well, no big deal. We won’t do much today. In fact, how about you let the girls sleep in this morning? I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. I have a few errands to run in town anyway.”
There was some mumbling, then the back door closed. Silence.
Marie lay still. Many more hours would pass before anyone would notice.
She could go back inside the main house without worry. No one would be appalled and horrified at her for staying alone with Max. They would not punish her for it or kick her out. If she went back now it could all pass over like a bad dream. There would be no trouble, no punishment. She would be left alone as before.
And yet she lay there still in the bed and gazed at the closed door of the cottage. She did not move one inch. She was waiting. Waiting until someone opened the door and looked in. Until someone came. They would have to eventually. She’d be very still and patient until they did. She’d lie there waiting until the moment someone would finally see her.