8. The Weight Of Warmth
THE WEIGHT OF WARMTH
FAITH
T he cold settles deep into my bones. It feels permanent.
But only until you die, Faith.
I don’t know how long it is before I hear a cry followed by the crunch of hurried gravel.
“Faith?”
A familiar voice. Low, incredulous, panicked.
I open my eyes slowly. It takes effort.
Georgia crouches beside me, her coat barely pulled on over a Ripley’s shirt. Her cheeks are red from the wind, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Jesus, girl,” she whispers, reaching out. “You look half dead.”
I want to answer. I want to say her name. But my lips are cracked, my jaw locked from the cold. I can’t even nod.
She doesn’t hesitate. She loops one arm around my shoulders and hauls me up, grunting softly with the effort. “Come on now. Let’s get you warmed up.”
She half drags, half carries me to her car. It’s a beat-up Volvo that smells like cinnamon gum and French fries.
Georgia cranks the heat, turns on the seat warmers, and glances at me while she drives.
“Should’ve known,” she murmurs. “Should’ve guessed you’d be the one they turned into the town ghost.”
She takes me to her place, it’s a small house in a residential area with trees and children playing on the streets.
Her home is warm, cluttered, and smells like eucalyptus and lemon cleaner. There’s a crocheted Afghan on the couch and a framed photo of an older woman in a sundress on the end table. Her mama.
She settles me on the couch, wrapping me in the warmth of the Afghan. I can’t stop shaking.
She hands me a mug of tea and orders me to drink so I can get warm from the inside. I do as she asks because the heat is delicious on my hands, which’ve been cold for way too long.
She disappears into the bathroom, returning with a small bottle of what looks like an over-the-counter painkiller.
“For the fever,” she says. “It’s coming.”
I take the two pills she gives me. I sip the tea, holding the cup with both hands. “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”
Georgia sits across from me, her elbows on her knees. “You didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
I may be numb, but I know how small towns work. I understand how Silverton does.
Cain will make her life impossible if he finds out she’s helping me. “I can’t stay. I need to find a job.”
I have no money. If I did, I’d leave. Get on a Greyhound bus, maybe the same one I now know I should’ve stayed on and gone to Los Angeles.
“Girl, you can stay with me.”
I smile. I have no idea how I manage that great feat.
“He’ll fire you.” And she needs this job.
Her mouth tightens. “No, he won’t.”
She’s lying. She knows it. I know it.
I shake my head. “Cain won’t forgive this. And you can’t lose this job. You’re the only thing between your mama and a room with a locked door.”
Her mother has Alzheimer’s and is in a home—she needs that because she needs professional care.
“I know.” Georgia looks defeated.
I lick my lips. I want a shower, but I’m so sluggish. I’m bone-deep exhausted.
“That asshole landlord of mine stole my money,” I whisper, “Or I’d leave Silverton.”
Georgia closes her eyes. “Maybe for the best. I can give you?—”
I shake my head, and she falls silent. She knows I won’t take anything from her. She knows who I am.
No charity for Faith Baker, I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.
“I can’t leave even if I have the money.” I feel crushed as I remember the words of the deputy who walked me out of jail. “Not until the police clear me.”
Georgia studies me with trepidation and then, as if reaching a conclusion she doesn’t like, says, “I know a place.”
“What place?” I set the teacup down.
“Have you eaten anything?”
I shake my head.
She helps me to her kitchen and sits me on a chair. I’m finding my body and mind again.
She makes me eggs and toast, just like they do at Ripley’s, with cream. She sets the food in front of me with another cup of tea, and orange juice. She keeps checking my forehead. I’m getting warm. I’m getting a fever. I know that. It’s coming.
“Maybe I should’ve made you chicken soup,” she mutters as she sits next to me at her small kitchen table.
“This is good.” I’m grateful. “You said you know a place?”
She studies me. Her eyes are wet and fierce.
“Nectar.”
The strip club!
“The owner’s crude, but not dangerous.”
“Georgia, I can’t…I can’t do that .” Not gonna whore myself, not for anything.
“You’re nothing but a whore, Faith. Nothing but a goddamn whore.” I can still hear Jamie screaming the words at me.
Georgia’s expression softens. “I’d never suggest that, Faith. They need someone to clean.”
I’ve worked in restaurants, diners, Denny’s, and at Jamie’s nightclub. Oh, when I got that job, I thought bigger and better things were on their way. I was so na?ve. But I’ve never worked in a strip club, never really even stepped into one.
“Okay. But…I haven’t cleaned…not like that. Usually just where I served.”
“If I say it, they’ll hire you,” Georgia asserts confidently.
My brows knit in confusion and some irritation.
But before I can tell her that I don’t need favors, she says, “You’re not a charity case, Faith. You’re someone who’s been done wrong. And I’m sorry about that. I can’t change that. But if you’ll take this one thing from me—I think it’ll get you through the worst of it.”
“Faith, sometimes it’s okay to accept help,” the ER doctor says to me, his voice kind, his eyes merciful. “If you won’t press charges, then…you need to get out of where you are. I can help you.”
“I can take care of myself, doc,” I reply, patting him on his shoulder. “I got a plan.”
My plan was to steal some money, three hundred dollars, which is what it ended up being, from Jamie and run.
Maybe I should’ve listened to the doctor and gone to a women’s shelter, gotten help both emotionally and physically.
“Thanks, Georgia.”
“I’ll take you.”
When she drops me off at Nectar, she pulls out three folded twenty-dollar bills.
I stare at it.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can,” she insists. “ Please .”
I take her money, grateful. She kisses my forehead.
She leaves me at the entrance, nodding at the bouncer. “Ricky’s expecting her.”
“You got it, Georgia.” He looks at me, gives me a kind smile. “Come on, we’ll take care of you.”