Chapter 5
Five
Lou
“Life is a daring adventure or nothing.”
Helen Keller
Iwake in a pool of sweat. Sticky and sickly. I’m not ill. Not with a virus, anyhow. I’ve had panic attacks before. The first time, I didn’t know what was happening to me.
Pierre told me it was karma. My body punishing me for disobeying him. A sentence for the crime of not wearing the dress he’d told me to.
At work, I was a doll for the designer. The mannequin used to sell their clothes to the wealthy masses.
The people more concerned with brand names than real fashion.
They’d recognize a designer’s style before they’d recognize my face passing them on the street.
But that meant I was doing a good job. It was never about me; it was about making the garment stand out.
Shine. Sell. Sell. Sell.
At home, I was Pierre’s doll. Do this. Don’t do that.
Wear this, keep your hair down, that’s too much makeup, your hem isn’t short enough.
I was to be an extension of him. A possession.
Something to be desired. Something for other men to be jealous of him for.
I had to be wanted so he could say, “She’s mine. ” Sell. Sell. Sell.
In the beginning, he made me feel beautiful. He told me all the time. Until he didn’t.
I remember the first time I tried to go out with him to run errands without makeup. My hair up in a messy bun and I was wearing faded jeans and a plain tee. He told me to change. That I couldn’t be by his side looking like a teenage boy.
He convinced me that he had an image to maintain, and if I loved him, I’d want to protect it, too. Not once did he protect me from anything. Even when I begged. Which I did. All the time.
Still, I stayed.
Better jobs were offered to me because I was Pierre St. Germain’s girlfriend. My bank account was flourishing.
I was dying.
But I didn’t know it. I didn’t see. You don’t notice the small things they introduce one at a time, one after another. The rules change and you let them convince you that they haven’t. They were that way all along. You’re crazy. You’re losing your mind. Why are you acting so weird?
What is wrong with you?
Everything. I’m a loser. I can’t do anything right. I’ll never live up. I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never get the cover of Vogue. Never mind, I’ve had it three times, now. I need it again. What will everyone think of me if I can’t get it again?
You’re nothing.
He constantly told me about other models’ accomplishments, keeping me in an imaginary rivalry.
“Did you see so-and-so was at The Met Gala? You didn’t get invited.”
You’ll never be as good as her. Or her. Or her. Or her and her and her and her.
Staring at the ceiling, the morning light dancing around the room as the breeze outside sways the trees, I let my frustrated tears drain from the corners of my eyes. Little rivers of sorrow traveling to pool in my ears.
How have I let myself fall so far? Why do I continue to let myself?
After I left Grady’s last night, I curled up into a ball in the bathtub and let the hot water pelt the skin I wanted to crawl out of.
I was freezing cold. I know it was my anxiety but no matter how much I tell myself it’s a panic attack, I can’t help but feel like I’m dying.
Like the feeling is never going to leave me.
I’ll be like this forever.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe this will end.
I don’t know for certain how long I was in the shower. Long enough for the water to turn cold. From there, I moved to the bed, wrapped in every blanket I could find. Eventually, I passed out and slept so well that I didn’t even hear my cell ring on the nightstand.
A voicemail indication tells me it did, though.
“Hey, Lou. I’m sorry if I pushed too hard. Please let me know you’re okay.”
Grady didn’t push me to a panic attack. It was a memory. There are so many. Too many. At times, I can’t keep them straight or remember what’s real. Because how can one person have so many?
Me:
I’m okay. Sleep helped.
Grady:
Glad to hear it. Plans for the day?
Me:
I’m going out in search of paint.
Grady:
Talk to Sam at Ranko’s Hardware on 3rd and Orchard.
Me:
Will do, thanks.
After a shower, I raid Irma’s closet again.
Everything is too big for me. I was already thin, but the stress of the last month or two caused more weight loss.
Last night’s ice cream would have done me good, if only my mind would play along.
Luckily, she wore smaller sizes, and I can get away with some of the items, as long as there are beltloops.
I pull out another pair of pants—ones with a floral pattern of browns and greens—and pair it with a crewneck sweater in similar shades.
I open a map of the town on my phone and memorize where I’m heading.
GPS is a distraction I don’t like having.
It takes focus away from concentrating on my surroundings and people nearby.
Situational awareness is always important, especially for a woman.
Especially for a woman who has an abusive man dogging her every step.
There shouldn’t be any way that Pierre knows where I am. But he’s been surprisingly cunning in the past. This isn’t the first time I’ve run, after all.
Often, I wonder what my life would be like if I’d left him early on. Before it was clear that he was physically abusive, which came far later than the emotional abuse and manipulation. He worked up to the worst. Made sure I had less people on my side and fewer places to hide.
It’s what the people who ask “why didn’t you leave” don’t understand.
By the time you know you need to go, your options have been systematically limited.
I try not to make excuses for myself, though.
I had means that most others don’t. I kept a small savings account that Pierre never knew about.
While he doesn’t have full access to my checking account, he does have access.
The money in my savings will only last me so long.
Then what? If I’ve been blackballed from the industry, which I have no doubt he’s working on, what do I do for income when my stash is depleted?
The fear of that kept me in Pierre’s home longer than it should have.
By design, of course. He’s a meticulous planner and was always several steps ahead of me.
Situational awareness is more important now than ever, because I’m never going back. I’ll die first. Which might be his goal, anyway.
One thing I can get used to with small town living is the lack of traffic. I didn’t drive when I lived in New York. With the established public transit there, it wasn’t necessary. Most of my long-term jobs in other countries were in cities with similar systems.
Los Angeles was different. Pierre’s home is in the hills, so if I wanted to go anywhere, a car was necessary.
He wouldn’t let me drive his and encouraged me not to buy one for myself.
Instead, he put his rideshare account on my phone.
I thought it was sweet that he wanted to pay for me to get around town.
It never crossed my mind that he did it to keep track of me.
Infatuation made me stupid.
Downtown Stowaway is quaint. Reminiscent of settings used for Hallmark holiday movies. I can see it as a backdrop for a woman finding her way back home after being gone for years, only to fall in love with her childhood bully who is now the kindhearted local veterinarian and hot as fuck.
Ranko’s Hardware inhabits a building that looks like it’s been here since the country became a country. I envision a hitching post outside lined with bored horses waiting for their riders to come out and load their saddlebags with all the provisions their homesteads need.
A brass bell rings above me when I enter.
“How can I help you today?” a voice asks immediately.
An older man, perhaps in his mid-sixties, sits on a stool behind a counter that his feet are propped up on. Glasses ride down to the tip of his nose as he takes me in.
“I was told to ask for Sam,” I say, trying for a friendly smile.
“Well, hell, who told you that, Little Miss?” He sounds grumpy about it, but he winks as he drops his feet to the floor.
“Grady Steele,” I offer.
“That man is always here looking to find something for me to do. Gotta keep your mind busy in your golden years, he says, or some such nonsense.”
“I bet your mind is doing just fine.”
“Damn right it is,” he says, a smile tickled by his mustache. “What can I help you with?”
“Paint.”
“You know what color you want?”
“I have ideas, but I’d love to peruse some paint chips, if you could point me in that direction.”
“Follow me,” he says, coming around the corner. “It’s in the back on account of the mixer making such a god-awful noise. We only carry one brand. Limits you a little bit, but I can screw around with the formulas if you don’t like what you see. Gives my mind something to do.”
“They say that’s important,” I tease.
“They say a lot. You tell him I said that.”
“I will,” I say with a giggle.
“Here you go.” He gestures to a small section against the back wall of the store, lined with neatly placed paint chip strips. “Ring the bell, just there, when you know the colors you want and I’ll mosey on back.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Just doing my job, Little Miss.”
“Lou,” I say. “My name is Lou.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Lou.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Sam.”
Left to my own devices, I pick a couple dozen different slips of paper, spreading them out while I sit cross-legged on the floor so I can place different combinations next to each other. Mixing and matching until I have the combination I think will work wonderfully in Irma’s space.
Judging by her wardrobe and the eclectic mix of furniture throughout the house, I think she loved unconventional combinations. There’s a need in me to do her justice. Some kismet connection between her and I that needs to be honored. She’s provided me sanctuary, after all.
Something not even my own parents could do. Would do? Both, I suppose.