Chapter 7
The bell over the diner door jingled when I pushed it open and the heat hit me all at once.
It was a 24-hour place on the county road, the kind with vinyl booths and a pie case and coffee that had been burning since sunset. My feet left wet prints on the linoleum. My dress clung to my legs and dripped onto the floor. Every head didn't turn, just one or two, a truck driver at the counter, a waitress filling creamers. The rain hammered the windows behind me and through the glass I could see Mark stopped at the entrance, one hand on the door frame, not coming in. Not yet.
I didn't look at him. I walked straight back toward the restrooms, past the hall with the gumball machine, my bare feet slapping. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the bathroom door handle.
Inside, the lock was a simple metal slide. I slid it. It clicked.
That sound was the first thing all night that had done what I asked it to.
I stood with my back against the door and breathed. The bathroom was small, white tile, one sink, one stall, a paper towel dispenser half empty. The light buzzed overhead. My breath fogged a little despite the heater vent blowing. I could hear my own inhale, shallow and uneven, and the rain on the small frosted window.
I stayed against the door for a count of ten before I moved to the sink.
My phone was in my hand. I hadn't realized I'd been clutching it since the steps. The screen was smeared with rain. I wiped it on the beaded fabric of my dress and pressed the side button.
8 percent. The battery icon was red.
I stared at it. Eight percent wasn't a plan. It was a countdown. I set it down on the edge of the sink, screen up, so I wouldn't waste it.
In the mirror I looked wrong. My hair hung in dark ropes, my mascara had run but not far, my lips were pale. The green dress was almost black where it was soaked through, beads catching the fluorescent light. I put both hands under my belly, the way I'd done on the steps.
A tightening moved across it, low and hard. Not sharp, but firm, like a band pulling. I held still and waited for it to pass. It eased after a few seconds, then came again, fainter. My teeth started to chatter even though the room was warm.
I turned on the warm water and stuck my hands under it just to feel something. I checked my arms, my legs, my feet. No cuts. My left foot had a thin scrape across the arch from the marble steps, already clean from the rain. No blood. Just cold. I was shaking so hard the water splashed.
Another tightening. I pressed my palm flat and breathed through it the way the nurse at my last appointment had shown me for Braxton Hicks, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It passed. I kept my hand there.
A knock came at the door.
I flinched.
"Hon? You okay in there?" It was the waitress. Her voice was middle-aged, even, not alarmed. "You came in soaked. I got a towel if you want it."
I didn't answer right away. My throat was tight.
"I'm okay," I said finally. My voice sounded thin.
"I left a towel by the door," she said. "You can crack it and grab it, no need to open all the way. No rush."
I heard paper or cloth rustle as she set it down.
"And hon, I won't call nobody unless you ask me to," she added, quieter. "You let me know what you need, okay? Coffee, phone charger, whatever. I'm Donna. I'll be at the counter."
Her shoes squeaked as she stepped away.
I didn't open the door right away. I looked at the towel, or where it would be on the other side, and at the lock, and at my phone at 8 percent. The tightening had faded but my whole body felt cold from the inside out. I grabbed a wad of paper towels and pressed them to my face, then to my neck. They came away damp and gray with makeup.
Outside the frosted window, headlights swept the parking lot. Through the thin walls I could hear the front door chime again but no one came down the hall. When I leaned close to the door I could hear Mark's voice, low, talking to Donna at the counter. I couldn't make out words, just his tone, that controlled, reasonable tone he used when he wanted someone to see things his way.
Then his phone buzzed. Loud in the quiet diner. He answered.
I heard him say, "She's here. County diner off Route 9," and a pause. Donna said something I couldn't hear. Then his phone buzzed again, a text tone, double ping.
He didn't come closer to the bathroom. The threshold held him. Public light, other people, Donna at the counter watching. He stayed out there by the entrance where the rain was still falling beyond the glass, and whoever was on the other end — Evelyn — was asking where I was.
May you like
I slid down until I sat on the cold tile with my back against the door, knees up, dress pooled around me. The towel was right outside and I needed it, but I didn't unlock the door yet. I put my hand back on my belly and felt it relax, then tighten again, small and warning. I picked up my phone, watched it drop to 7 percent, and set it back down.
I stayed locked in.
