Joy Moore - Day Four
Joy Moore
Day Four
My room is simple. Plain white walls, one basic pine nightstand, one oak dresser, and a closet-sized bathroom with cream linoleum and a walk-in shower stall. My sheets are worn ivory cotton. The quilt is handsewn in various shades of blue: periwinkle florals, navy filigrees, cerulean stars.
From under these covers I listen to the morning shuffle—the buzz of an alarm clock, rushing water from a nearby shower, the whistle of a teakettle.
As the day progresses the noises will grow louder.
Doors slamming. A television at full volume.
Intermittent cries and shouts. The pattering and stomping of feet across my ceiling.
I’ve only left my room once, when I staggered out in the middle of the night with the equilibrium of a drunk, pressing my hand to the wall for balance as I tried to get my bearings.
My hallway has eight doors. At one end is a shared kitchen; it’s utilitarian and smells of fish, and most of the food is labeled. At the other end is a communal lounging area filled with mismatched couches, a television, a bookshelf packed with ex-library books, and a wall of colorful plastic toys.
I don’t know how many floors there are in this building, or how many rooms are full, or where in the city I am.
Four nights ago, I awoke on a faded sofa with an ice pack pressed to my cheek.
I had a lump the size of a walnut above my brow, and my eye was swollen shut.
A woman with fuchsia eyeglasses exhaled loudly and said, “Oh, thank god.”
I came around slowly and she helped me sit up.
Gave me juice. There were two other women in the room whose faces I didn’t commit to memory.
They asked if it would be all right to take pictures of my bruises.
I nodded, and they photographed me from several different angles.
When I was ready to walk, Fuchsia Eyeglasses brought me up two flights of stairs, through the fishy kitchen, and into my room.
It smelled like fabric softener and hair spray. “You’re safe now, honey,” she said.
I locked myself in, lay down on the bed, and immediately fell asleep.
The next morning, she returned to check on me. “It’s Gloria,” she called through the door. “I brought you some toiletries.”
It took me an eternity to answer. My legs wobbled as I unfastened the latch. “Thank you,” I said, accepting the proffered plastic bag.
“That doesn’t look good.” She was referring to my face. “Let me get you another ice pack.”
She let herself in when she returned. I was already back under the covers.
“You can have this room up to thirty days,” she said, sitting on my bed. “We can talk more about your options when you’re in better shape. In the meantime, there’s an open kitchen. And clothing downstairs. Plenty of items in your size.”
I nodded, as if this all made perfect sense. My head throbbed with the effort. “Thank you.”
“Joy?” She paused on her way out.
I rolled to face her. I didn’t remember giving her my name.
“I’m sorry you’re here.”
Pain and exhaustion had cut my defenses. My eyes welled with tears. “Thank you.”
I went back to sleep.
My memories from that night are scattered: running out the back door; feeling nauseated as I awoke on the faded sofa.
Despite the manic shuffling, my meds made it to my room.
I reach for them now. Seven days in a colorful plastic organizer separated by a.m. and p.m. Stimulants, antidepressants, birth control pills, nighttime sleep aids, vitamins.
Xander assembles them for me, and every day I dutifully take my doses at their designated times.
We’ve been doing it this way for years at Xander’s insistence.
It makes him feel useful, like we’re tackling my health “as a team.” When the color of my birth control pills switched from yellow to white three months ago, I thought it odd.
For years I’ve skipped the week-four nonhormonals and jumped straight to the next pack in order to forgo my period, so the tablet has never changed.
“No idea,” Xander said when I asked about it.
“Packaging is the same.” I found the empty box in the trash later that afternoon, and he was right. Same name, same pink cursive logo.
When my nipples grew sore a month later, a tiny warning bell rang in my subconscious.
When I started suffering from breakthrough exhaustion, I asked the internet.
One quick search confirmed it: Xander had been filling my pill boxes with placebos.
I wonder how long he’d been saving them.
How long he thought he could get away with it.
By my calculations, I’m eight weeks pregnant. Xander doesn’t know.
I’m bone-tired, and bruised to my core. Xander was fuming mad when I left. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him. But I’m safe now. That’s what Gloria keeps telling me.
I’m safe.
Sometimes, when I’m falling asleep or waking up, I hear his voice. He tells me he loves me. Promises he’ll find me. As far as I’m concerned, this is reason enough to stay right where I am.
A KNOCK AT the door. My muscles don’t work and the ceiling is spinning.
“I’m naked,” I lie. It comes out as a near inaudible slur. I lick my lips and raise my voice. “You can leave it in the hall.”
“I’ll wait,” Gloria’s voice calls out.
I sink deeper into the pillow.
SHE’S KNOCKING AGAIN.
“Coming, coming,” I mumble, rolling onto the floor. I crawl across the room and brace myself against the wall as I open the door.
Gloria holds out a pile of clothes. “These are roughly your size.”
I take them from her outstretched arms and hug them to my chest. They’re soft, and they smell of lavender, and this small kindness makes my throat swell. “Thank you.”
“There’s plenty more downstairs.” She doesn’t comment on my appearance, or the fact that I’ve filled my days here with sleep. My room probably smells. I probably smell. I remind myself to use the toiletries she left for me last time she was here.
“I wanted to check in,” she says. “And to let you know we have our weekly support group in an hour.”
Words are difficult right now. “Sport…” I try again. “Support group?”
“To help you plan your next steps.”
She tells me about the other services this place offers. Life skills classes. Job skill training. Individual counseling. “There’s also a computer lab down the hall.”
Hearing it spelled out like this, I fill with guilt because these are things I can afford, things I shouldn’t be taking for free.
There must be someone who needs this room more than I do.
Hanging my head, I try to summon the energy to gracefully exit the conversation when she adds, “We also have a legal advocate in case you decide to obtain a temporary protective order.”
“Protective order?” I seem to only be capable of parroting today.
She’s staring at my swollen eye. “Restraining order.”
I’m so tired I can’t think straight. It feels like a punishment, this exhaustion. What eventually comes out is, “Computer lab?”
“COMPUTER LAB” IS a generous term for a compact room with two desktop PCs.
At the newer model is a young woman wearing a maroon bindi, a navy sweatshirt, and skinny jeans.
She glances up at me, eyes widening at the sight of my face, my bruise.
She covers her surprise with a cough, and her expression shifts to a forced indifference.
I point to the black screen of the unemployed machine. “Is it working?”
She shrugs. “They’re not supposed to be off. They take forever to boot up.”
I sag into the empty chair. In front of me is a sign reminding users not to shut down the computers.
Another states that all IP addresses in the shelter are protected.
The last offers a sternly worded reminder to not share the shelter’s location for the safety of all staff and residents.
They’re written in English, Spanish, and Korean.
My computer comes to life with relatable slothfulness, and as it does I allow myself a moment to consider the measures Xander must have already taken to locate me.
He’ll have traced my phone back to the house and gone through all of my things.
He’ll have set up alerts on my credit cards.
Called hospitals. But what he won’t have done, I’m certain, is admit I’m missing.
Admitting I’m missing would mean admitting why, and he’s too proud for that.
Because by now, he’s been served with divorce papers.
Even though nothing went as planned, I assume this hasn’t changed.
When at long last the wheels stop turning, I load the browser for my email and then pause, realizing I don’t have my login info.
The auto-generated combination of random letters and numbers and symbols is stored in my password manager, and I’ve stored that master login info deep in a notebook I forgot to take in my hurry to leave.
There’s no way to reset any of these because I don’t have my phone.
I close the tab, awash with unexpected relief. I am truly unreachable.
Leaning hard against my chair, I cross my arms and tilt my head back as far as it will go, unsure what to do next.
“I’m almost done here if that one’s not working.”
There’s a dark brown water stain in one of the ceiling tiles. “It’s working fine.”
A few moments pass, enough for me to think the conversation is over. Then she blurts, “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to. But I have to tell you I subscribe to your podcast. I am a very big fan.”
I restore my head to its natural position, understanding anew the expression on her face when I arrived. She bites her lip and waits for my reaction. I know how I look. How this looks.
“Oh” is all I say.
“And I know I’m just a stranger to you, but … um…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap, and immediately hate myself. “I’m sorry, I just … don’t.”
She nods several times, clearly disappointed. And even though I barely have the energy to speak, I find myself asking, penitently, “Is this your first time here?”
She ducks her head slightly. “Third.” She can’t be more than twenty-five.
I learn that her name is Mitali. She doesn’t have any children, but she hopes for a gaggle one day.
“I just have to figure out a few things first.” She says this with resolve that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“There are moms here with three, four young ones. I don’t want to end up like them.
I don’t want my children to see this place. ”
A question forms on my lips that I have no right to ask. Because it’s true—she’s a stranger to me. But we do share one thing, the same terrible thing that brought us here. And for some reason I need to know. “You want children … with your husband?”
She blinks several times. More quietly, she says, “I do.”
Sadness permeates my entire person. I do my best not to react. “How did you meet him?”
Her shoulders relax; a slight smile plays at her lips. “My parents wanted me to marry someone else. A man who was twenty years older than me. We were strangers, but he was rich. My mother said, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you a house.’”
This I know to be true. “And?”
“And I said no. I moved to Los Angeles, and I met Arturo, who was not old enough to be my father, or rich, or even Indian. He is, some might say, nothing special. But he fills something inside of me.” She touches her chest. “And I am aware of how it sounds, me being here and saying these things. But he’s a good man. He just needs to grow up.”
“Does it help, you being here?”
She lets out a sad laugh. “You must think I’m a fool.”
I shake my head, wondering if anyone else has clued in to their secret. If they have the type of relationship people envy on social media. If she believes she’s happy. “I don’t think that.”
“I come to the shelter to give him a break from himself. When I return, he’s much better.” Averting her eyes, she adds quietly, “We’re much better.”
My queasiness has returned, and I don’t want her to have to explain herself further, so I say, simply, “Thank you. For your honesty.”
Nodding, she stands and stretches her back; it cracks twice. “I should go. It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Don’t forget to clear your data before you leave.”
The computer hums in the quiet room. Alone, my thoughts turn to Benny.
He’ll have read the memoir by now. He knows the secrets I’ve been too ashamed to share.
I’m not ready to talk, not yet, and I need to sleep.
But there is one thing I can do to let him know I’m all right.
I pull up our website and click through to the submissions page, then type in a few words.
A tingly rush of nerves floods through me as I press send. I stare at the screen, fingertips pressed to my lips. On impulse, I pull up another tab and type in my name. The loading icon spins and spins. I’m ready to give up when the page fills with words.
I am instantly lightheaded.
Famous podcaster Joy Moore still missing after husband found dead in Angeles National Forest …
Search continues for podcaster Joy Moore after producer husband found dead …
LAPD searching for missing podcaster Joy Moore; foul play suspected in husband’s recent death …
The words come at me in waves. Missing. Dead. Foul play. I’m trembling so violently I can barely click the first link. Blinking spots out of my eyes, I skim the article and close out of the browser. I barely make it to my private bathroom before I’m sick.