9. Love You, Bear
LOVE YOU, BEAR
A twenty-minute drive later, in the car I inherited from Mom, I make it to the room I rent above a detached garage.
A huge construction dumpster blocks the dirt driveway, but I get lucky and find a spot on the street one house away.
I got lucky finding this studio, too, after applying to work nights at a pub for extra cash.
The owner has a rental property that is considerably run down and was forced to renovate it after finding black mold.
Until the construction is done, it’s vacant.
No one wanted to rent the studio above the garage because of the massive renovation.
I happily jumped on it, or else I couldn’t even afford to live in this less-than-favorable part of Stamford.
The Ashfords only have four on-site staff.
The rest live outside of the wealthy area and drive in.
Most housekeepers wouldn’t move for a job unless they already have a place to live or are guaranteed on-site housing.
But then, most hospitality workers aren’t hiding from their criminal father, who’s threatened to murder them upon release—or before, if he can hire someone to do it for him.
It seems possible, considering he found someone to track me down and deliver personalized letters.
I don’t know how he’s able to, except that he still has connections to people in power.
Those contacts, along with his family lawyers, got him a lesser sentence after pleading not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, which landed him in a cushy psychiatric hospital where he’s able to write me letters and have them delivered somehow.
Six months after he was sentenced, I found a letter in his handwriting stuck to my door with a knife.
Dear daughter,
You will never be safe. As your father, it is my job to protect you and to punish you.
You’re the reason your mother turned against me and left.
She was the only person who loved me unconditionally and never abandoned me—until you filled her head with lies.
A child shouldn’t steal their mother from their father.
They should love and obey. Family isn’t supposed to turn on family.
I told your mother this before I sent her soul to Heaven.
Rest assured, I won’t turn my back on you or on the vow I made to your mother before the flames swallowed the life from her eyes.
“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll send Fable to you soon. ”
Your devoted Father
Shaking off the memory, I climb the wooden stairs to my studio, my gaze on the front door. I haven’t received another letter in five months. I don’t know how he found me before, but the two times he did, I immediately moved. Now I do it regularly just in case.
I give the area, dim with evening light, a quick scan. The garage is tucked back from the street, with a fence and overgrown hedges separating the backyard from a small plaza, yet I still feel exposed. I always do.
Quickly, I unlock the bolt and rush inside, locking the door behind me. When I turn to take in the small studio, something feels off.
A hint of bleach lingers in the air, and the space is clean like always, with nothing out of place.
I’m anal retentive about tidiness with my home and appearance—the only two things I can control in my life.
Even the old Toyota Corolla I drive is immaculate.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is different, as if my landlord stopped by while I was gone, even though he never has.
It could be the light rain making me more aware and paranoid, the way it often does.
Brushing it off, I focus on Bear, the stray cat I found under the stairs when I moved here. He lies in his usual place, curled into a ball on my comforter. The twin mattress came with the studio, thankfully, otherwise I would have had to use the inflatable I keep in my trunk.
Light filters through blinds on the only window, illuminating dust on the small kitchen table and two chairs.
This also came with the place, for which I was happy to have somewhere to eat.
I used to have belongings of my own and furniture from Mom, but I had to leave them—something I mourned for months.
With how quickly I relocate, it’s too expensive to keep moving the items with me, so I use boxes and bins that I can easily move myself.
I drop my bag by the door, hang my jacket on the hook, and dig the prescription from the pocket, setting it on the counter in the tiny kitchenette. With a wet paper towel, I wipe the dust from the wood table and toss it into the trash.
Bear staggers over, half asleep, his eyes squinty as he meows at me in his baby voice.
I pick him up and cuddle the creamy cat with blue eyes in my arms while I pet his furry head.
“Do you want your medicine?” I ask in a sweet tone.
With one hand, I dig out the new prescription inhaler that cost me a fortune, even with the discount, and sit on the chair with Bear on my lap.
I shake the bag upside down until the inhaler drops onto the table.
Once I secure it in the special aerosol chamber, I hold it over his little face and puff the device.
“Make sure to breathe in,” I tell him in a gentle tone, surprised at how well he takes the medicine.
The vet at the shelter, who diagnosed him with the worst rhinitis, allergies, and asthma she’s seen in a cat, gave me two options:
Leave him be and let him suffer, although with how bad the asthma is, he could die if left untreated.
Get him on an inhaler once a day, for the rest of his life.
He didn’t have a name when I brought him in because I didn’t plan to keep him.
The last thing I needed was a cat. But when the vet said he didn’t stand a chance of getting adopted and wouldn’t last long here for a middle-aged cat with all his medical issues, I had to save him.
When she asked me his name for the paperwork and prescription, I took one look at his bluebell-colored eyes and said, “Bear.”
The nickname of the gorgeous traitor who I hate now belongs to my cat. At least my new Bear will never hurt me the way the old Bear did.
After some serious petting, I clean and refill Bear’s bowls with fresh food and water.
While he eats, I grab peanut butter and crackers.
Even with the discount I get on rent from working at the pub, it’s still more than I’ve ever had to pay.
Add in Bear’s inhaler, and I don’t have much left for groceries.
Not that I eat a lot, but I have a soft spot for certain soups.
Butternut squash, coconut curry vegetable, French onion with Gruyere.
I learned to cook them from a chef at the first house Mom and I worked in after we moved back to America.
Assisting Chef Nina was one of the few bright spots during a stressful time.
Cooking gave me an escape from the constant worry of keeping a low profile and Dad finding us.
I miss the distraction and the delicious flavors.
For now, peanut butter and crackers will do.
I arrange little cracker sandwiches neatly on the plate and fill a cup with water.
It looks funny on the McKenzie-Childs dinnerware.
Mom ordered multiple sets during the brief time Dad still had money to burn.
It was the last nice thing she bought for herself.
It isn’t valuable, but the beautiful set has a garden with butterflies.
The pastel color palette matched Mom’s gentle demeanor.
I love them because the broken tiles remind me of the beauty I find in abandoned gardens and ruins.
I kept two from the set and sold the rest with the other stuff we once owned.
For the next hour, I snack while I work on my phone, editing pictures I took of abandoned gardens.
It’s hard to find historical remains in the US like they have in the UK, so I keep reinventing old pics to make them look different for new posts.
I’d love to photograph many places in Europe one day, but that’s just a dream.
My alarm goes off. I lift the sleeping cat from my lap and set him on the floor. He had meowed for me to hold him after he finished eating. “Sorry, buddy. Mama has to go to work again.” I pet his head, then clean up my mess.
He watches me move about in a flurry. I feel bad leaving him alone so much, but I can’t afford another cat to keep him company right now.
“Love you, bear,” I say from the door and blow him a kiss. “I’ll be back later. Be good.” I smile and slip outside. Rain drizzles as I scurry down the wooden steps to the long driveway. I get in my car, and the gas light comes on as I’m backing out.
“Great,” I huff. At least I have enough gas to get to the pub, then I can fill up on the way home.
It’s not until I’m halfway to work that I realize I forgot my jacket, and I’m still in my uniform—a knee-length black dress with a white apron and collar.
If I were waiting tables, Oliver, the manager and my landlord, would make me change.
But I’m working in the back for the next few weeks while the regular scheduler is on maternity leave, so he shouldn’t mind.
The rain falls heavier by the time I reach the pub.
I can’t be sure, but a black sports car with unique headlights seems to be following me.
It’s more likely it’s not, and I’m just being paranoid, but with the way Dad seems to find me, it’s better to be on guard.
A sense of relief hits me when I pull into the lot of Ray’s Tavern, and the sports car doesn’t turn with me.
Anyone who can afford a car like that doesn’t hang out at this pub.
I grab my umbrella and run to the back door, unable to keep from getting soaked thanks to the wind. Barreling inside, I almost plow into Oliver’s round belly as he leaves.
“Whoa.” He jumps back.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
He tilts his head to glance outside through the window in the door. “It’s coming down hard now, huh?”