Chapter 14
For the first time Rebecca can remember, she feels well rested. She awakens to the susurration of a gentle breeze moving through the Y-shaped pine outside. Bobbing branches and needle patterns wash the closed window shade.
She takes a long, hot shower, taking extra time with the handheld showerhead. She washes her hair, and then blow-dries it for the first time in over a year. She moisturizes her face, lotions her body, clips her nails. When she steps into the hall, the house smells of coffee.
Mr. Man is finishing cleaning out Bao-Bao’s cage. The dishes are put away, the counters spotless, and Maddy’s prescription refill bottle rests on Rebecca’s tiny work desk in the kitchen. Fresh coffee burbles in the pot.
Overcome with gratitude, she nods.
He serves her coffee and then steps outside to dispose of the trash bag.
She sits at the table. It is already set for dinner. She almost cannot believe it.
What is it she plans to do with her one wild and precious day?
She cannot remember the last time she went to a movie, read a magazine, a novel.
It’s astounding and shameful how busy she always is, given how many resources she has around her, an affluent mother in Brentwood with a single child and no need to hunt and gather, to start fires or raise barn frames, to fight off saber-toothed tigers or roving bands of pirates.
The more technology improves, the worse she seems to feel. But maybe this is the turning point.
She closes her eyes, breathes in the fresh-ground Kenyan blend. A tiny sip proves it is as delicious as she remembers from 368 days ago.
Her exhale keeps going, as if she is letting go of months of pressure, which perhaps she is. She takes another sip.
Her phone rings.
Caller ID shows it is Maddy’s emergency cell.
When she taps to answer, Maddy is screaming uncontrollably.