Chapter 3
THREE
ESTELLE
Then
Estelle parked her blue Ford Escort in the driveway, turned off the engine, and tilted her head to the headrest. Her feet hurt, her back hurt, and her hair felt greasy from the kitchen fumes that always hung thick and cloying at Barnie’s Bar and Grill.
It was two in the morning, and in five hours, she had to be at her second job at a plant nursery two towns over.
She exited the car and approached the front door of the house with her gaze on the window, where flickering blue light illuminated the dark of the night. Greg had probably fallen asleep in front of the TV again. There weren’t many nights when he didn’t these days.
As quietly as she could, she unlocked the door and opened it, the familiar whiff of damp wood and Febreze washing over her.
The floorboards closest to the entry creaked—they’d suspected for a while there was rot somewhere below—and she paused to see if he would stir from the sound. If he did, that would be a good sign.
Her stomach hollowed when he didn’t, and maybe to provoke the desired response, she kicked off her shoes with more vigor than she needed.
Still no movement.
“God dammit, Greg,” she mumbled as she rounded the couch and started gathering the empty beer cans that littered the pockmarked coffee table without a single look at her husband’s limp form.
When the space was tidy again, she turned off the TV, hung up the jackets that had fallen off their hooks, arranged the pile of shoes she’d contributed to, then she moved into the kitchen where a pot of dried-in mac ’n’ cheese still sat on the stove and dirty dishes lined the sink.
For a brief moment, she considered leaving them and going straight to bed, but they’d still be here when she got up, and seeing as all three of their mismatched mugs were somewhere beneath the stack of plates and bowls, the task would still fall to her if she wanted her morning coffee.
Had he at least picked up more milk like he said he would?
She opened the fridge, her lips tightening at the pungent smell and the sight of a six-pack of Coors inside. There were also several Tab colas, mayo, margarine, two apples, a takeout container (no doubt responsible for the odor), ketchup, and a bag with questionable lunch meat. No milk.
“God dammit, Greg,” she whispered again, her gaze finally going to the man on the couch. His head was tipped back against the cushions, his mouth open and emitting a high-pitched wheezing sound with each exhale.
He’d been doing so well up until six months ago, holding on to a job, doing right by them, but then the layoffs at the lumber mill happened, and he had another brush with the law, unable to keep from running his mouth as he was.
He’d applied for different positions since—at least so he’d told her—but nothing that had panned out.
Not that Estelle was surprised; it was hard to portray professionalism while smelling like a brewery.
A fresh wave of indignation rolled up her spine that she had ended up here. Where living hand to mouth was an ideal to reach for. Where life itself was a millstone. Where the sheriff had more reasons than one to come knocking.
With one more glance Greg’s way, she turned off the light above the stove and padded down the hallway past a closet and a door that seemed permanently closed these days into the only bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and removed the large gold hoops from her ears.
She could get up fifteen minutes early for a shower in the morning she decided, well and truly done for the day.
Greg’s jeans were on the floor at the foot of their bed, so Estelle picked them up, patting down the pockets for change he might have forgotten to spend before hanging them over the chair in the corner.
She was in luck tonight—two dollars and fifty-three cents to add to the baggie she kept taped behind the headboard.
Her dreams hidden from the greedy fingers in this place.
She got under the covers, her head finally sinking into the pillow as a deep sigh left her lips. She was thirty going on sixty, the weight of responsibility so firmly lodged on her shoulders that each day was a marathon. And in a few hours, it would start all over again.
She rolled onto her side, opened the drawer in her nightstand, and withdrew the well-thumbed photo from within. In it, she was sixteen with long, straight hair parted down the middle and standing on a stage with her eyes closed, a mic to her lips. Before life took a turn.
“It’s not forever,” she whispered to herself.
When she had enough money in her baggie, she’d get her guitar back from the pawn shop, get Greg to step up, and carve out time somehow to write, to sing, to get back up on that stage.
It was all she’d ever wanted, and as she drifted off to sleep, she clung to that dream with every ounce of conviction she could muster, knowing in her heart she’d do anything to make it happen. Even escape.