Page 19 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Nine

I was sittingon the side of my bed, my body still damp from my late-afternoon shower, my neck bent at an awkward angle toward my chest, my arms limp at my sides, my hands resting on the towel wrapped around my torso, my bare legs as stationary and useless as tree stumps.

Without moving my head, I shifted my eyes toward the clock radio on the nightstand beside the bed, noting that I’d been sitting in this uncomfortable position for the better part of twenty minutes. Every part of me ached.Ten more minutes,I told myself.See if you can hold on another ten minutes.

“What on earth are you doing?” Harrison asked from the doorway.

I jumped, my arms shooting from my sides as my head snapped toward his voice. My towel became dislodged and fell toward my waist. “You scared me,” I said, securing it back around my naked breasts.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Daydreaming,” I said with a shrug. A lie. But it was easier—less crazy-sounding—than telling him the truth: that I was trying to imagine what it must be like for my mother, to understand what it felt like to be trapped inside your own body, scrunchedup like a piece of papier-mâché, unable to move for hours on end, twenty-four hours a day.

All day. Every day.

Year after endless year.

I hadn’t even lasted thirty minutes.

“Well, don’t you think you should get ready? They’ll be here in less than an hour.”

I forced myself to my feet, my wet hair dripping toward my shoulders.

“What are you going to wear?” he surprised me by asking.

“What?”

“What were you thinking of wearing?” he rephrased.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” I said honestly. “Maybe that orange-and-white-checkered dress I bought last month?”

Harrison made a face, as if he’d just smelled something bad. “No. Don’t wear that. Wear, I don’t know, something more…current.”

“More current than last month?”

“You know what I mean. Something a little hipper, more…with it.”

With what?I was tempted to ask. Instead, I said, “How about white pants and a top?”

“What top?”

Seriously?“Maybe my vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt, the one with the giant tongue. Is that hip enough?”

“That should work,” he said, taking my question at face value. “And maybe you could do something with your hair…”

“I just got out of the shower,” I reminded him. “It’s still wet.”

“Yeah. So you don’t have a lot of time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Did you remember to get the barbecue sauce I asked you to pick up?”

“It’s in the cupboard.”

“Okay. Good.” He turned to leave.

“You’re welcome,” I said.