Chapter 3
Three
Lou
“Every place you land in life has a reason and a lesson.”
Tori Amos
Louisa,
I can’t believe you won’t give me your new phone number and have left us with only the option to email you. We’re your parents, for Heaven’s sake. We’ve been very worried since you chose to leave the hospital.
Emailing us that you’re safe is hardly enough to ease our minds. Where are you?
Pierre has been calling, too. He’s beside himself and says the police have been harassing him. What is going on between the two of you?
Call me.
Mom
Beside himself. I laughed when I got to that part of her short email. It was the first time I heard my own sound since the day I arrived in Stowaway and called Juliet. My laugh was hoarse. My voice is a stranger to me.
My mother can be as angry at me as she chooses. It won’t change my plans. Pierre has made himself a sympathetic character to the people in my life. He’s the victim. And me the villain.
Never mind that it was he who put me in the emergency room. I’m sure he says I did it to myself. Or he was only defending himself.
Clearly, my parents believe it. Even though he was arrested and spent two nights in jail because it was the weekend and he couldn’t post bail until Monday. Even though I left everything I have behind in Los Angeles to escape him.
It must be my fault.
Sometimes, I can’t help but agree.
I do not email her back. For two days, I have done nothing but rest my body and replay my life.
The bruising on my face has finally shifted to the sickly yellow shade that comes when purple and black leaves.
The handprints on my neck could probably now be covered up with a decent concealer, if I had one.
I don’t. All my makeup was left behind. All my beautiful designer clothes, my favorite books, the special pieces of art I picked up on all my travels. All my possessions are in his hands.
All I had with me when I got to Stowaway was a duffel bag of clothes that one of my nurses scrounged up for me.
She’s four sizes larger than me, especially since I’ve lost more weight this past year.
I swim in the clothes, but I couldn’t be more thankful for them.
For her and the lengths she went to in order to help me get out of that hospital.
This morning, I’m going through Irma’s closet. Juliet said she hadn’t taken the time, but that Irma had been something of a fashionista in the seventies, and I might find some gems. While she wasn’t a hoarder, she was a collector. Like her DVD shelves, her closet is stuffed.
Boy, do I find gems. I wish I could have met the woman who curated such an amazing wardrobe. Surely, this is where Juliet gets her own style from. Jules works for a high-end designer. It’s how we met. She was one of the first ones to hire me when I started modeling.
She has an exceptional eye. Just like her grandmother, apparently. I pull out a sunflower yellow jumpsuit, first, holding it up in front of the full-length mirror. The shade clashes with my bruised cheek and turns it more of an ugly green.
I put it back.
Instead, I grab the Pendleton plaid trousers and a graphic Led Zeppelin tee to pair with the only thing I still have that’s mine—my Doc Martens that I’d been wearing that last day with Pierre.
The nurses cleaned the blood off them for me; they look almost new, now.
After a long shower, I feel more like myself than I have in the week since I ended up in the hospital. Irma’s clothes help. They at least fit much better. Still too large, but if my new neighbor keeps cooking for me, I’ll gain some weight back quickly enough.
In the three days I’ve been here, Grady has delivered meals five times.
Each one accompanied by a text to let me know it’s there.
Each time I reply with the same two words.
A simple thank you. Nothing more. Also, nothing less.
I haven’t asked him to stop because he hasn’t crossed any unspoken line.
My boundaries are all intact. Besides, he’s a good cook.
Heading out into the world isn’t an option, yet. Not until I don’t look like a domestic abuse victim. There are questions I don’t want to be asked, ones I don’t know how to answer. I don’t want to lie. I’ll have to wait until the truth doesn’t hurt so much.
I need something to do with my time, though. Something more than romance movies and closet clean out. Something not as sad as a broken girl sitting in the sand wishing for a tidal wave to take her away.
Me:
Give me a list of tasks. Projects. Home improvements. I can’t promise I’ll be great at it, but I’m determined as hell and need something to do.
It’s early evening in Italy. Juliet is probably still working, finishing up her day before she heads to a fabulous restaurant with wonderful wine and delicious pasta. Italy was one of my favorite places, at one time.
Now, it’s hard to remember the good times.
The happy memories of my first trip, full of excitement and terrified that I’d fuck up my walk, trip over my own feet, fall off the runway, scowl awkwardly.
Modeling has a reputation, but it’s harder than it looks.
Stressful, fast-paced, and restrictive. Stand out but fit the mold.
Be pretty but not too pretty, not unobtainable pretty.
Make them want it, make them want you, make them believe they can have it, that they can have you.
Lies and lies and lies.
There’s a lot I miss about it. He’ll never let me go back. Not to how it was before him.
With a heavy exhale, I shake that thought away.
I’m not sure I want to go back, or that it’s even a good idea.
It’s likely not. The rumors will already be swirling, and though the industry is flooded with women, and is mostly for women, it’s still a man’s world when it comes down to it.
Pierre will land on top, his foot firmly on my neck as everyone steps upon me.
I had him arrested. I obtained a restraining order.
That’s probably all that will amount from this.
Sadly. Which means, he’ll be back at work, shooting the most exquisite photographs of the most beautiful women in the most glamorous fashion.
He’ll continue to be praised while he preys.
The industry is his hunting ground, and I opened the gate when I left.
Guilt creeps around my heart like vines trying to constrict my blood flow.
I have to remind myself that I can’t protect everyone else. Because I couldn’t even protect myself.
Juliet:
I give you full rein. Clean up, clean out, paint, whatever you’d like. Store anything that seems like it should be kept in the shed out back. I’ve already removed important documents and photos.
Me:
You’re putting a lot of faith in me.
Juliet:
That’s because I remember your apartment back in NY. I trust your skills and that you won’t erase Irma’s character.
When I first started making money, I rented a flat above a warehouse in Bushwick. The owner was an artist and gave me more leeway than I could have expected. It was my first opportunity to really express myself with décor, and I took advantage of it for the few years I was there.
Me:
Thanks, I’ll do you (and Irma) proud.
Juliet:
I don’t doubt it.
With a renewed sense of direction, I dig out a notebook from the pretty hand-painted desk in the bedroom at the end of the hall, brew a cup of tea, and take them both to the back deck to start brainstorming.
I have three pages full of nearly illegible notes due to my horrible handwriting, when I hear an excited squeal from next door.
A young girl whoops and hollers. Her happiness is so palpable I can’t help but grin, ignoring the tightness that still lingers under my eye when I do.
Whatever is happening next door, the Steele house is contaminating my melancholy with what feels like joy.
I’ve roughly sketched the floor plan of the house, drawing the furniture in positions that will open spaces up more, create a better flow, allow the natural light to be enjoyed in areas that would get the most use.
Before now, I hadn’t spent much time in the Pacific Northwest, but I know sunshine is a precious commodity here.
The architecture is what they call mid-century modern, a term I never particularly liked.
It feels contradictory. But I don’t make the rules.
The color palette, however, doesn’t allow the light from all the windows to properly brighten the place.
It’s darker than it should be, which lends to a gloominess that climate already has.
I can fix this house.
And in the process, maybe I can fix myself a little too. Shine some sun through my own cloud cover. Break through the fog that is my life.
Looking up while I think about new color schemes, I see a small face poking around the end of the fence that runs a line between the two houses.
When we make eye contact, she quickly ducks back to her side.
Again, I smile. Though, I do pull my hair around my shoulders to camouflage my bruises, in case she takes another peek.
A few minutes later, I hear rustling and look up to see that she’s back.
“Squid,” Grady warns. “I told you not to pry.”
“I’m admiring, Dad,” she protests, disappearing again.
“You’re snooping.”
“You’re Snoopy!” Infectious giggles erupt, and I laugh quietly. “I need more dirt.”
“We’ll get more tomorrow,” he tells her.
“But there’s a whole pile at Grandma Irma’s.”
“But there’s somebody staying there, now. I told you that already, remember?”
“She’s pretty. I bet she’s nice,” the girl says.
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“It’s just some dirt, Dad. I can be super quick!”
I set the notebook down and walk to the end of the fence.
On the other side is a small but well-kept yard with what might be the world’s smallest greenhouse.
The girl stands at the door of it, explaining how she needs to fill the orange five-gallon bucket.
I knock on the fence to get their attention.