33. Day 278
Chapter 33
Day 278
LETTIE
L ettie’s Life Crisis Log: Day 278.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The bed has grown more uncomfortable, night by night. Not only because of the snoreless, frozen-toed female I share it with. It is believed by some that my tears have congealed in the cotton fibers of the mattress and rusted the metal coils, thus ruining the spring-like qualities it once had. Food sources are dwindling. At this rate, we’ll run out of sustenance by the weekend. Then what? I suppose I’ll eventually succumb to starvation. As long as irritation doesn’t end me sooner.
Stella and I have had approximately 4,222 arguments in the last 278 days. All because she keeps badmouthing my ex-boyfriend, and I keep stopping her.
Okay, fine. You caught me fibbing. It hasn’t been 278 days. It only feels like that. In truth, it’s probably been about four days.
However, my estimated argument count still stands.
Despite not telling Stella and Freya, my decision to move into the shelter has been made. Assuming I don’t hate it when we have our little tour tomorrow, I’m taking their first available room.
I’ll be exiting the boyfriend-bashing train post-haste.
As soon as I’m free from the man-hate over Tomer’s actions, I can focus on the hate I should be processing at the men who thought it would be cool to hold me captive for a few days. That’s where I need to put my ire.
The misdirection of energy in this apartment has me in a tizzy. You’d think they’d be more concerned with the more grievous situation. They aren’t bitching about anything other than Tomer. No one even talks about the other thing.
And sure, I wanted to forget it. I even told Stella that’s partly why we invited her to come down here. I needed a distraction. Turns out, ignoring it somehow feels... wrong.
Those horrible things happened to me. I don’t want to hide from them or pretend they didn’t. That’s avoidance; it isn’t healing.
When they aren’t spitting venom on Tomer’s name, Stella and Freya do their best to cheer me up. They’re practically tripping over each other to dote on me.
They need a hobby that doesn’t involve Lettie Holt.
I need them out of my immediate space. Not like... far away because I’m still a chicken shit. Somewhere around fifteen feet would be nice.
When I was a teenager back in Climax, I did a fair amount of babysitting. It was one of the few times I was allowed to leave the house and have some independence. Plus, I always loved kids, so it was a perfect hobby.
There was one family I babysat for that had an infant about four months old.
Oftentimes, I took the baby for walks in her fancy stroller. When I did, everybody would flock to the baby. They all wanted to hold and feed her. Everyone would take turns trying to make the little angel laugh or coo. Hell, some of them wanted to sniff her.
That’s me now. I’m the baby.
Incapable of feeding herself. Dressing herself. Remembering to get something to drink or to use the restroom.
I’m a big, fat, squishy baby. Please don’t sniff me.
Stella and Freya are all too eager to coo over me.
And I hate it.
It was so much better when Tomer coddled me. Perhaps because it felt like he was caring for me rather than smothering me.
I’d rather my friends just fuck off for a few hours.
Yes, I know that makes me sound like a horrible bitch. Unfortunately, I don’t care how I’m perceived right now. I love them, but I need to stop stewing in their negativity. I’m already clinging to the bottom rung of life, and they’re somehow bringing me down further.
Especially Stella.
Hell hath no fury like the best friend of a woman scorned.
Like clockwork, Freya comes bounding into the living room with a water bottle in hand. The stirrings of a smile make my cheek twitch when I recall what Kri told me about her boyfriend always bringing her water while she was recovering from her injury.
She sticks out the bottle. “Here you go.”
I glance up from my Southern Swears coloring book—the classiest and adultiest coloring book on the market—and grin. “Thanks. Would you leave it on the nightstand?”
“You know you actually have to drink it, right?”
I purse my lips and roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. I wasn’t aware how hydration worked.”
She sits on the bed beside me and juts her lower lip in a five-star pout. “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.”
Feeling a little bratty, I joke, “Oh really? I wonder why. Nothing bad has happened to me recently.”
Ignoring my knee-slapper, she starts, “Stella and I were talking.” There’s a hint of trepidation in her tone, which does wonders for my confidence in how this shit is gonna go.
Meeting her eyes, I stop coloring, leaving the P in the word Crapola only partially red. I’m sure you were expecting brown, but that’s gross.
“Out with it, Freya. Please . I’m not playing guessing games with you. That’s childish. And I really need to finish this coloring page before bedtime.” I offer a forced smile to accompany my forced joke.
She nibbles her lip. “We think it might be time for you to try to get out of the house.”
“I am out of the house. As you can see, this is an apartment,” I tease, feeling a swell of pride at how deftly I redirected her.
Although, I know it won’t last, and my attempt at diversion is as see-through as a freshly cleaned windowpane.
“Come on, Lettie. What do you say?”
“I say lots of things. It’s getting me to shut up that’s tricky.”
I’m hilarious.
She hits me with her best sourpuss expression. “What about leaving? We could get some dinner or go to a movie. Perhaps take a walk on the pier or stroll on the beach. Literally anything would be better than moping. Hell, I’d even settle for a Sunday drive.”
I bat my eyes at her. “Sounds lovely. Why don’t you go ahead and do that then?”
Snarky bitch. That’s me.
Freya’s clearly not amused by my pathetic attempt at humor if the narrow crescents that were formerly eyelids are anything to go by.
To be fair, I can admit my little quip wasn’t funny. But I’m sick and tired of feeling guilty for them being stuck in the apartment because of me. I have half a mind to send them away. Naturally, I can’t do such a thing since infants can’t be left alone.
Ga-ga goo-goo.
I wish I could find some hidden reserves of strength. Kind of like if you’re cleaning your room and you find an old purse you haven’t used for a few seasons, and you go through it and realize you had money in there. Maybe a gift card.
That’s the kind of hope I’m clinging to now—old purse money hope. Unfortunately, there’s never old purse money when you need it.
The people pleaser in me wishes I could give Freya and Stella what they want—me out of the house.
Sadly, I’m not ready. There’s too much shit in my head for me to handle being around strangers. Other than going to the therapy place, I don’t want to leave the safety of the apartment. Once I work through some of these burdensome thoughts, perhaps I can try.
My ADHD squirrel is having a field day with all these unanswered questions. My thoughts are stuck in a perpetual loop.
On one side of the curve, I think about Tomer and all the love we shared over the last year, coupled with how he tenderly cared for me this last week. And every day before that. It just doesn’t jive with someone who could conceal something so significant. That don’t make a lick of sense.
The other curve of my mental loop is loaded with thoughts about my mother. Not my grandma, but my real mother. I wonder if she thought my biological father was dead. If so, how did she cope? Or was all that bullshit? Maybe she hid it intentionally.
From there, my thoughts start spiraling faster and wilder than the death coaster Marie Evans and Rosie Lekatz made me go on at the Climax Corn Festival. Still shocked we lived to tell the tale of that disaster. People who go on coasters put together by drunk carnies are a whole other breed. That day, I learned I was not that breed.
Anyhow. Where was I?
Oh yeah. My crazy thoughts.
Did my grandparents believe my father died in the war? If not, how could they lie to me about that and who my mother was for so long?
Or perhaps my father lied to my mother? Maybe he didn’t want to be a dad, and when he found out she was knocked up, he had someone tell her he died in battle or something stupid like that.
Will I ever find out the truth?
At some point, I’ll need to confront my biological father. Hopefully, when I do, I’ll find out if the theory of him lying to my mother holds water. I don’t think it does, though. It’s as if I’m grasping for straws. If my father—Alan Lancaster—lied to my mother to get out of becoming a father, then he would know I exist, right? Whether he chose to be in my life wouldn’t change him knowing about me. Yet when I asked if my father knew about me, Tomer was clear that he did not .
Which means... yet again, the people who raised me and were supposed to love me more than anyone in this world deceived me.
Lies on top of lies.
Which begs the question, why would Papa only tell me half the truth on his deathbed?
Nothing I can fathom explains that stumper.
The only other option is that all of it is bullshit.
Maybe Violet Holt has been fooled again. Perhaps my father isn’t alive, and it’s a big misunderstanding.
My head hurts.
And the pinnacle of fucked-uped-ness out of this whole thing is that I’m not processing the horrible atrocities that happened to me last weekend because my mind is a viscous stew of all that other shit.
Ovarying up enough to leave the apartment is sooo far down on my list of things to tackle that it might as well not be there.
Freya nudges my thigh gingerly, recapturing my attention. “Lettie?”
I blink, shaking out of the haze. Now that my thoughts have journeyed again down that double-decker highway of confusion, I’m substantially less annoyed with my girl squad.
My expression softens when I meet her kind eyes. “Sorry. I zoned out for a second. Did you ask something?”
She offers me a pitying half-smile. “Wanna watch a movie?”
“Freya, I’m not ready to leave the house. Could we watch one here?”
A slow, solemn nod is her only response.
As we settle on the couch, my mind travels down a new road. The movie plays, but I don’t absorb any of it.
Oddly enough, with her no longer needling me to leave the house, I’m itching to go somewhere. But not to the movies or the beach.
Knowing my father is only a few miles away and that he has no idea I exist makes staying locked inside my apartment begin to feel stifling.
Claustrophobic.
If he really is my father, I want to know him.
I deserve to know him.
I don’t know if he deserves to know me, but I have to believe he does.
Despite my very first encounter with him on the night of my rescue being intimidating, to say the least, he seemed kind. And Tomer speaks highly of him.
That said, I’m not sure how much stock I should put on Tomer’s opinion of someone.
If only we knew where that building was. The place where he works. Redleg Security. My father’s company. That night, I was so out of it I only recall a few tiny details.
Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute.
My palm hits my forehead.
Duh, Lettie.
There’s a little invention called the internet that can tell me so much about him and the company. Including how to get there. Plus, there’s a Redleg guard outside who I could ask.
I bolt off the couch without saying anything, my phone in hand. Freya and Stella both mirror my movement. It’s comical how we’re all standing in a semi-circle looking at each other now. No one is speaking. They have no idea what’s going on in my head and yet they’re matching my energy.
So I laugh. Instead of having me committed, they join me.
When we’re done chuckling, I announce, “I changed my mind. How about we take that drive now?”
Can hearts really explode? Like right out of someone’s chest? Has that ever happened? If it’s theoretically possible, it might be happening to me.
Once I got the girls into the car—Stella and Freya, not my boobs—some of the excitement I was feeling about this little road trip began to wane. It was quickly replaced by utter terror.
Not on the off chance that he might be at work on a Sunday but simply because I’m out of the apartment.
Which reminds me of how fucked up I really am and how much therapy I need. Next thing I know, I’m considering asking them to drop me off at the women’s shelter. Might as well get me checked in immediately before my heart catapults clear out of my body.
I keep telling myself that everything is fine and dandy. There’s no reason to be alarmed, especially since we have a bodyguard following us, it’s broad daylight, and my two best friends are in the car with me. Plus, I’m not drinking anything, so I won’t be roofied. Although, I suppose a syringe to the side of the neck would be just as effective if movies are to be believed.
Related ADHD wondering... where do the criminals in all those movies get the drugs that they inject into their victims? Do they know someone who works in a hospital? Are they nurses? Doctors? Because that stuff is inventoried. They don’t just let you walk out with whatever you need to put someone under. What’s that stuff? Propofol? Yeah, hospitals don’t just let you leave with propofol.
Maybe criminals can make it. Is that something that you can cook in a bathtub? Like meth? What ingredients do you use for that? Why am I thinking about this shit?
At times like these, I miss my llama. Drunk llamas were a simpler time.
Where was I?
Ah yes. About to have a nervous breakdown or suffer an explosion of the heart because we are about two minutes away from the Redleg Security headquarters.
Once we were in the car, I told Stella and Freya where I wanted to go. As you would expect, they were concerned but ultimately supportive.
“Lettie, you know I love you.” Stella glares at me over her shoulder from the front passenger seat. “But if you brought us here so you could see that fucking lying snake, I’m gonna skin your ass.”
From the driver’s seat, Freya looks at Stella with a scrunched-up face as if she smelt something foul. “That is not an expression.”
“I just made it one,” Stella insists.
“You can’t skin an ass. It’s already skin. Isn’t the purpose of skinning something to remove the hair?”
“No. Skinning is when you remove the skin from the body. If there’s hair on the body, the hair comes too because you can’t have hair without skin.”
I watch their exchange from the backseat, my gaze fluttering between them. It’s hard to decipher whether they’re bickering like an old married couple or if this is foreplay. Their flirty antagonism is blossoming.
Lettie from a week ago would’ve been overjoyed at this development. Positively punch drunk. However, today’s version of Lettie wants to punch something.
And I don’t want to be that way.
A wave of sadness rocks through my chest, knocking me deep into the seat cushion.
I want to bicker with Tomer like we’re an old married couple.
I want flirty antagonism and bratty defiance.
I want my old life back.
Breakups are the pits. One day, I’m sure I’ll have that again. At least, I hope so. But it’ll never be the same. Because it won’t be with him.
That’s what I’m mourning.
The familiarity and comfort of being his brat. Of flirting and playing around with him . Of making him smile. Making him happy.
That’s what hurts the most.
While Stella and Freya have evolved from strangers to acquaintances to friends to possibly more right in front of my eyes, my life has moved in the opposite direction.
Their raucous laughter drags me back into the moment again, rescuing me from what was quickly becoming a one-way ticket to sad squirrel time.
“Anyway, I think we’re here,” Stella singsongs, all upbeat and cheery. “As previously stated before I was interrupted,” she side-eyes Freya, “I will do something questionable to your ass if you brought us here to see him instead of your father .” She puts up air quotes around the word father .
Why did she say it that way? Doesn’t she understand how air quotes work? He is my father. Allegedly.
Well, damn. Maybe I’m the one that doesn’t understand air quotes. She might be right. DNA hasn’t been confirmed yet.
Should I do that? Does anyone have a cotton swab? That’d be an interesting introductory meeting with my alleged father.
Hello, Big Daddy Alan. Remember me? Lettie Holt, trafficking survivor. Pleasure to meet you. I’ve got some news. Turns out, I’m allegedly your spawn. Surprise. Open wide so I can swab your cheek, and I’ll be back with the results in seven to ten business days. Toodle-oo!
Houston, we are a go for headache.
I wonder if my llama misses me as much as I miss him.
Freya puts her blinker on and turns into a parking lot driveway with a guard shack and gated entry. My heart seizes in my chest.
Oh no. What do we tell them?
Heart restarting, panic shoots through my veins like slivers of ice.
“Changed my mind.” Reaching into the front seat, I smack Freya’s right shoulder repeatedly. “Let’s go. I can’t do this right now.”
Stella whips her head around to meet my eyes. “It’s okay, Lettie bear. Breathe. We don’t have to stay.”
Freya nods markedly in silent agreement.
Stella continues. “You say the word, Lettie. If you don’t wanna see him now, we don’t have to do it now. There’s no rush.”
Relief starts to warm my veins, driving out the ice. “Yeah, I wanna go home. This was good, though. I got out of the apartment.” I throw up jazz hands ironically. “ Yay, Lettie .”
Essentially, my babysitters took me for a walk in the stroller today.