Chapter 3
Building Character
"Evie," Marie’s bored, Brazilian-Portuguese accented voice interrupts my dusting. "You forgot one of the bathrooms on the third floor. It’s the one attached to the pink room."
"I’m on it," I say to Marie. She’s my age, but her aunt is our boss, so she doesn’t hesitate to tell me what to do. Setting down the rag and spray, I wipe the sweat from my brow with my arm. I take a second to stretch my back, but a persistent knot refuses to release.
My fingers stroke along my neck a moment, remembering the feel of dark tendrils wrapped around it last night. Not a single bruise has bloomed in its wake. An involuntary shiver runs through me at the ghost of his touch that leaves me both unsettled and comforted.
For a girl like me, that’s the closest thing to a hug I’ve felt in years.
God, I’m fucked up.
As soon as I asked Shadow what he meant by giving up his freedom for me, he gave my neck one last squeeze before he disappeared, pulled back down under my bed as if being sucked into the depths of hell.
The second my feet hit the floor, I fell to my hands and knees, crawling quickly after him. Panic and desperation had me scrambling, but once under there, I found no trace. Not a ghost of his shadow, no portal to hell, only uneven water-damaged floorboards and a dust bunny.
I couldn’t decide if last night was a dream or a nightmare.
But this morning, the bleak reality of my life resumed as if nothing happened.
It makes the ache in my chest throb with new intensity.
A knot of need and hurt tightens every time I think about what my life has become, each twist a physical ache.
As I stroll by a bedroom where Helena, my boss, is tucking in a fresh set of sheets on the primary bed, she frowns. "Rápido, rápido, Evie, we don’t have all day. We have three more casas after this one."
I tighten my grip on my caddy of cleaning supplies and put some speed in my step for her benefit. Helena is in her mid-thirties, but she wields her authority like a Roman emperor.
When I started working for Magic Maid service, she let me know in no uncertain terms that I was a reluctant hire. Both of Helena’s cousins had gotten sick, and she needed immediate help. They are a family business, and I’m an outsider.
As first—and second-generation—Brazilian immigrants, they rarely speak English around me, and while I’ve picked up a fair bit of Portuguese, none of them are very interested in engaging in conversation.
But I’ve proven myself enough to secure my spot even after Helena’s cousins returned to work.
Helena is a fair boss, and no one is cruel to me.
They simply bust their asses on the job with a dedication I struggle to match.
It’s because they have families to get home to.
They are always running off from the job to attend a birthday or anniversary party for someone in their massive extended family.
Not that I’ve done much to develop relationships either. I far prefer indifference from others. It’s the interested parties I’ve always had to worry about.
Helena doesn’t want anything more than for me to show up and do my job.
And I convinced her to give me extra jobs and longer hours so I wouldn’t have to get a second job.
Up in the pink room, where a little girl must sleep among frilly sheets and gobs of stuffed animals, I wonder if she’s ever worried about monsters a day in her life.
With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s about to pass in the hall, I walk over to the bed and get down to my knees and check under it.
Shaking my head, berating myself for looking, though I know he won’t be there. Still, I whisper, "What happened?"
No response.
Five Years Old
In Mother Mary’s house, I share the room with three other foster kids. They knew each other before I came to this house and they don’t ask me any questions or really look at me, though I’m the youngest at five.
This house doesn’t smell as bad as the last one, but my new foster mom made sure I knew that if I was going to stay in her house, there would be chores.
I clutched Snarp to my chest and nodded even though I didn’t know what she meant about hard work building character.
It’s the focus of the house. Building character through work.
Now, as I clutch Snarp close to my chest, every muscle in my little body screams with exhaustion.
Earlier today, the mop’s wooden handle was gritty against my tender palms, its weight constantly pulling me off balance.
When I slipped on the wet, soapy floor, pain exploded in my bottom, radiating in hot waves that linger even now.
My foot kicked the bucket and murky gray water spilled out over the floor, hitting the carpet of the next room, turning the rose color a dusky shade.
The mix of strong lemon cleaner and the musky water overpowered my lungs, making me want to throw up.
My heart shriveled when my Mother Mary came in, yelling over the mess I made. But I worked hard like she said, so I asked if she could tell me if I builded character yet? I want to please her. I want to belong.
She walked away, muttering she doesn’t get paid enough.
Restless, I toss and turn on the threadbare mattress.
Each shift sends twinges of pain coursing through my limbs, drawing tiny whimpers from my lips.
My arm dangles over the edge of the bed as I lay on my stomach, seeking any position that might bring relief.
I feel as though I’ll burst, pressure building in my chest until tears blur my vision.
And then something warm envelops my small hand. It’s five times my size, its grip firm but gentle. I peek over the edge of the bed and see dark, clawed fingers holding mine. As if sensing my gaze, the hand gives a gentle squeeze, not once, but twice. My own small fist responds, squeezing twice.
It squeezes mine again in a funny little pattern.
I try to repeat the rhythm, but don’t do a good job.
A long thumb with a menacing claw strokes the back of my hand, rhythmic and soothing. As its comforting motions continue the unbearable tightness in my chest begins to ease, and before I know it I’m drifting off to sleep, comforted by the monster under my bed.
"What are you doing?" Alice interrupts. I jerk up. Helena’s younger cousin stands in the hallway, watching me with skeptical judgment in her eyes.
"Looking for monsters under the bed?" There is a wry mocking in her tone.
"Just dust bunnies," I say, heat rising to my cheeks.
I grab my caddy and head into the bathroom. My clothes and hair already reek of astringent bleach and lemon cleaners that sting then numb my senses.
Part of me considers finding another John or Jimi to take home tonight, but it’s too dangerous to try again.
I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.
Still, I need Shadow to come back and explain. Maybe he’ll come back if I leave his favorite snack? After all, it used to work before he disappeared four years ago. But getting what he needs isn’t pleasant.
I’d get it if it meant I could get him to return to my bedroom tonight.
Being alone has made me mean—maybe cruel. If he understood that, maybe he’d agree not to leave me again?
Or maybe he’d see me as the monster?
I sit in the corner of my room, waiting. Knees drawn up into my chest, they are tucked inside my oversized tee. I don’t bother with pants tonight as the warmth practically smothers the room.
Despite the frigid winter temperatures, my thermostat erratically swings from freezing to sweltering hot, no matter how I set it.
I’m not allowed to turn off the heat because the pipes could freeze, and it would be grounds for eviction.
With every bead of sweat and thump of my heart, I literally feel my limited funds drain away into the muggy air.
I found the shirt at Goodwill, attracted to the picture of a frog and a margarita. A logo for a place I’d never been, but I liked how soft it was. It also made me think of sunshine-filled vacations where other people made your bed and there was nothing but the sound of crashing waves.
Not that I’d know what that sounded like in real life.
I’ve always lived in the city. One day, I planned to take a bus to the shoreline, but usually by the time my days off come, exhaustion has set in and I don’t have it in me to do much more than take advantage of extra sleep and necessary errands.
The plate sits on the floor a couple of feet away from the bed.
On it sits a thick red organ. A cow’s heart with a couple of chickens’ feet on the side.
The butcher gave me the side eye as he asked what I intended to do with the unusual order.
I didn’t have an appropriate answer, so I didn’t give one.
Eleven p.m. came and went, then midnight, until it nearly ticks two a.m. Still, I wait for him.
My chin jerks off my chest. The quiet yet unsettling sound of sharpened claws dragging against old, dry wood floors tickles my ears.
"Shadow?" I whisper. My voice shakes as anticipation rises in me. Sweat pops out all over my body and I flush then turn cold in feverish turns.
The plate clatters loudly, causing my heart to take off like a racehorse.
The cow’s heart is gone, and one of the chickens’ feet has ended up on the side of the still-wobbling plate.
I am not alone.