Chapter 13 Threadbare and Broke
Threadbare and Broke
There might be a God, and He might not hate me after all. My landlord finally got my thermostat fixed and for two straight days, it hasn’t acted up.
Between the prospect of a normal energy bill and Miguel taking me out for dinners, I suddenly realize I’ve got a little extra change in my pocket.
Showering in ice cold water—God and my landlord aren’t entirely benevolent—I still plan what to do with my day off.
Sometimes I go walk around the lake and watch the ducks in the commons area, but it’s too cold for that. I could go to the library, cozy up and read a book.
As I wash soap out of my hair, I realize I could actually buy a book if I wanted. A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected. Okay, that would honestly be wasteful since I have a library card. No, I’m going to treat myself to something else.
Turning off the water and rubbing myself down with a threadbare towel as quickly as I can, I think of what I’m going to wear. The image of all my worn out, stained sweaters springs to mind. My favorite top is sporting a hole that is harder to pass off in public each time I wear it.
My heart leaps in my chest. That’s it. I’m going to buy a new sweater. A nice one that is soft with thick knit and long sleeves I can curl my hands up into. Hell, maybe I’ll buy two.
Caution whips up to warn me against that, seeing as there may come a time I need the extra cash in case the thermostat doesn’t hold.
The need to share my wealth has me already planning to buy a cow’s heart to see if I can coax Shadow back.
He never says if he eats enough, but I suspect he doesn’t. Especially while on the run from those who hunt him, seeking to throw him back into some hellish prison.
Yes, a sweater and a heart from the butcher.
Suddenly I feel as light as air, actually excited for my day.
After dressing and pulling on my puffy jacket, I open the door, only to find a woman already standing there, her skeletal fist poised over the door.
"Dana." The name escapes me before I can stop it, surprise and dread crashing together.
Her blonde hair is even more straw-like and brittle than when I lived with her and Mark. Red-rimmed eyes now have sagging bags under them, reminding me of a basset hound’s. It’s the only part of her with extra flesh to share.
My former foster mother smiles apologetically, though I’ve never seen her smile without an apology etched in it. As if she is constantly apologizing that her existence is an unforgivable inconvenience to the world.
My heart sinks and slides down into my stomach. Suddenly, my glorious plans for that new warm sweater are in danger.
"Are you busy?" she asks in that usual airy way she always maintains.
It’s always her voice that gets me first—soft, weightless, like she’s trying not to exist too loudly.
There is a heartbreaking hopefulness in her tone, as if I say no, she will fuck off and quietly die in a corner.
It’s always the same though we pretend it’s not.
I suppress the heavy sigh threatening to break free. "No, it’s my day off," I say with forced lightness.
I know why she’s here. It’s always the same reason she comes around.
Her face almost breaks under another wave of hopefulness. "Have you had breakfast yet?"
"No." Though it looks like she hasn’t had breakfast or any meal for the last several months. "But I was on my way to a diner to get some. Care to join me?" I ask, seamlessly changing gears as I shut the door behind me, locking it.
"Oh," she chimes. "That would be lovely."
Ten minutes later, we’ve slogged our way through ice and slush to the diner around the corner. Seated in a booth, I order an orange juice, and the cinnamon toast pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs and toast.
Dana orders a coffee, black. She pulls out a cigarette that she puts between her lips before taking it out and toying with it, as if she keeps forgetting she can’t light up in here.
"How are things?" she asks with saccharine sweetness.
"Good," I say honestly.
I think about telling her that I’m seeing someone, but it still feels too new, on top of the fact I’m not used to sharing my life with anyone. So, I ask her about her life.
Expectedly, she launches into a lot of chatter about her life.
I could always count on deflecting conversation to Dana, which usually puts me at ease. But it’s hard to relax when I know the big ask coming at the end of this road.
When our order comes to the table, I slide the eggs and toast over to Dana. "My treat."
Her loving smile breaks my heart. As she continues to talk, she picks at the food with her fork, only taking a couple small bites for my benefit. But she appreciates the gesture, and it makes me feel better to force a little food down her.
I heavily pour the syrup on my pancakes and dig in as she tells me all about her job at the dollar store and her roommate, Gayle.
"Well, my roommate isn’t too bad, really.
Sometimes she forgets to pick up her clothes and leaves things a bit messy in the bathroom and kitchen.
I end up tidying after her quite a bit." She hesitates, a shadow crossing her features. "Mark used to say I had an obsession with cleanliness. Maybe he was right. He said it ruins people’s ability to relax when someone is constantly scurrying around them, a sparrow always picking at things. So, I’m trying to resist my tendency to be a ‘neat freak,’" she says, quoting Mark again.
Even to this day, even after everything. Dana is still contorting herself like a pretzel to please whoever is around her. It’s always about what Mark says, though he left her years ago with all their money and a barfly who he claimed sucked dick better than Dana ever could.
"Any word from Mark?" I ask cautiously.
Dana pops the cigarette in her mouth yet again, avoiding eye contact with me. Just as quickly, she plucks it back out and fiddles with it as she drinks her coffee.
"Oh, you know." Her bony shoulder shrugs. "Here and there."
I can’t suppress the sigh this time. Not long after he left Dana high and dry, he ended up in trouble.
He quickly spent all the money and ended up needing more.
He regularly rings her up, sweet talks her and tells her all the things she’s desperate and starving to hear until she gives in and sends him money.
"Did he ask you for beer money again?" I ask, pushing away my half-eaten plate, wishing I had stopped sooner. My stomach distends under my sweater, overly full from the sweet breakfast.
Her head jerks in a small shake. "He needed bail money."
I swallow hard, trying to control my anger over how he treats her. "What for?"
Dana continues to fiddle with the cigarette between her fingers. It’s now wrinkled and somewhat mushed, and I wonder if it affects the quality of the smoke.
"He had a misunderstanding with his girlfriend that got heated."
My hand slides over my face. He beat another woman and got arrested.
Then Dana bailed him out. The irony of the situation sickens me.
He used to do the same to her on occasion, and whenever I went to call for help, she’d stop me.
She’d plead with me saying she deserved it, that she didn’t listen.
That she couldn’t get Mark in trouble like that, she loved him too much.
And now she was complicit in him doing it to others. I hated it. As much as Dana was one of the few people I had some feeling for, this sick, twisted part of her soul always makes me choke. There is nothing I can do to free her from Mark’s spell.
"He said he would come back once he was out of jail," she says before taking a long swallow of coffee to hide the tears welling in her tired, red-rimmed eyes.
And he didn’t. He never did.
"Rent was due a couple days ago…" she trails off, not meeting my eyes as she quickly swipes the moisture from her cheeks.
Dana is awash in so much shame and guilt, I can’t bring myself to pile on top.
Besides, I’ve tried before. Tried to make her see that dick knob isn’t worth a penny or a breath of her time. Dana always agreed, trying to save face with me, promising she would know better next time.
But I’ve stopped making her agree to it. I’ve stopped trying to make her see reason. The only thing left is to cut her off. If she’s without money, she can’t keep giving it to Mark.
She’d hit rock bottom and might start helping herself.
She won’t even explicitly ask, so I don’t have to say no. All I have to do is ignore the unspoken request. Pay for breakfast and walk out of here so I can head to the outlet store and buy myself a nice luxuriously warm knit sweater.
I know if I take care of the fabric, I can make it last for years before it starts to show its age. It’s a wise investment.
Whereas I know Dana will show back up on my doorstep in a matter of months with a similar story and a desperate need for money.
My heart thumps heavily in my chest, resentment roiling in my blood.
I won’t do it.
I’m tired of being her last parachute. I want to let her fall.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the wad of cash, leaving some on the table for the meal before sliding the rest of it over to Dana.
"It’s all I’ve got." My voice is raw to my own ears.
No matter what I tell myself, I can’t leave Dana to hang out to dry. She has it so much worse than me. It’s amazing such a frail sensitive woman has survived this long, and I don’t want to be that last straw that breaks her.
That or I’m just a sucker and she knows it.
Dana’s lower lip trembles before she fully dissolves into tears, burying her head in her hands.
"Thank you, Evie. Oh, praise Jesus for your sweet soul. Without you, I would be on the streets."
From across the table, I try to calm her with shushes. "It’s okay, it’s okay," I soothe, my hands poised to reach for her, but they never do.
She shakes her head, still covering her face. "I know I don’t deserve you. I know I don’t, but I am so grateful for you." Her words are wet and sloppy from the tears and snot running down her face in a torrent.
Other people in the diner are staring while I sit there, feeling my stomach knot over and over again.
I pull a bunch of napkins from the dispenser on the table and hand them over so she can clean up her face. Finally, Dana gets a hold of herself, and takes the money with a shaking hand.
We part outside the diner with a hug she holds for longer than I want, and I head to the bus stop.
Guess I’ll go to the library after all.
The loss of the sweater stays with me, but I try to let go of the resentment there. Things could be worse. I could be Dana, shackled to Mark.
Then I think of still stretching my funds to buy a heart for Shadow. Am I really all that different? Desperate and bound to a monster who doesn’t love me, though I am irrevocably devoted to him.
Maybe that’s why I have so much compassion for Dana.
Even as I settle on the cracked bus seat under a blasting heater, I know I’ll likely ration my groceries so I can buy Shadow a pig’s heart. Pressing my forehead against the frigid glass, I shut my eyes.
I’m an idiot. Just like Dana.