Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [77]
He gets this from his father, yet one more thing Michael will never know.
Currently, the History Channel is airing a show on digging the tunnel between Britain and France. There are images of heavy machinery and men in hard hats covered in mud. Evan picks up the first half of his sandwich and is transfixed.
I walk to the entryway, where I check the front door. Evan learned to work the bolt lock by age three, escaping at whim. He also mastered chain locks and the heavy glass sliders. As a result, my front door now features a key-in, key-out bolt lock. I also converted the glass sliders, meaning that every entry/exit in the house can only be accessed using the key I wear on a chain around my neck. If there’s ever a fire, and I lose said key, Evan and I will burn alive.
But at least he can’t escape while I’m showering.
Upstairs I strip in the master bath. I take a moment to look at my reflection in the mirror, though I know I shouldn’t. I was a beautiful girl once. The kind of lithe, silvery-blonde beauty that turns heads. I understood my power early on, and used it wisely. I lived in a mobile home with newspaper stuffed in the cracks for insulation. I wanted out, and my looks were just the ticket.
I started on the pageant circle, winning modest amounts of money, which my jealous mother stole from my bank account. I kept going, eventually securing a scholarship to college. That’s where I met Michael. I recognized him immediately as someone just like me. Attractive, driven, desperate. We’d been stomped on enough in life and we weren’t going to take it anymore.
I lost my virginity to him when I was twenty years old, though my mother had been calling me a slut for at least the past six years.
I cried that night. Michael held me, and I felt genuinely special. The pageants were just titles. It was Michael who made me feel like a princess.
I don’t look like a beauty queen anymore. My face is gaunt, my skin nearly translucent, stretched too thin across my bony ribs and jutting pelvis. There’s a giant green-and-yellow stain on my left side—I think Evan had pushed me down the stairs. Fresher purple bruises run up my right leg. Red welts mark my forearm. I look old and beaten, and for a moment, I want to cry.
For the beauty that faded too fast. For the youth that disappeared too quickly. For the dreams I thought I would fulfill.
There are pieces of yourself that once you give away …
But I want them back. Dear God, there are moments when I just want them back.
Two o’clock. Everything will be better at two o’clock. I turn on the shower, step in the spray, and begin to shave my legs.
I return downstairs nearly an hour later, an eternity in my world. I’ve taken the time to smooth my favorite rose-scented lotion into my skin. I’ve buffed my nails, loofahed my feet, used a special conditioner on my hair. If not prettier, at least I’m shinier than I used to be. It’s the best I can do.
Evan’s slouched into the sofa. The History Channel is blaring, the station having segued from the English tunnel to Boston’s Big Dig. The sandwich’s gone. Evan appears glassy-eyed. First the morning’s dose of Ativan, now this.
I sit next to Evan, feather back his blonde hair. He stirs enough to look at me.
“Pretty,” he says thickly, and it amazes me how I can smile and feel my heart break at the same time.
“I love you.”
“Tired,” he says.
“Would you like to rest?”
“TV!” he yells, not totally under the influence yet.
“After TV, then.”
He shifts away, his gaze riveted once more to the magic box. We sit side by side, my son sinking deeper into drugged oblivion, me fidgeting with my push-up bra.
The show breaks for a commercial. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to go. Now or never. I pick up the remote, turn off the TV. I wait for