Chapter 3: The Sink Would Not Wash It Away
The sink was already running when Richard told me to use it.
I hadn't turned it on. I must have, but I didn't remember doing it. My hands were under the water and the water was cold enough to make my wrists ache, and the red didn't move.
It wasn't coming off. I rubbed my palms together the way you're supposed to with soap, but there was no soap, just water, and the color stayed exactly where it was. Vivid, almost orange at the edges, settled deep into the lines of my skin. The heat came next, not from the water but from underneath it.
"Keep them under," Richard said from the doorway. He hadn't come inside the laundry room. He stood at the threshold with one hand on the white paneled door, as if he was keeping it open for me. "Cold water's best for a stain."
I didn't answer. My throat was still tight from crying and my breath was shallow. Vanessa was beside him, closer to the console with the white flowers, and Sophie was somewhere behind them. I could hear her Mary Janes scuffing the runner.
The water ran over my knuckles and down the drain and the red stayed. I lifted my right hand out to look, and the skin on two of my fingers had gone waxy. A small blister was forming at the base of my thumb, clear and tight, and I understood all at once that it wasn't dye at all.
That morning I'd found the new bottles on the shelf above the washer. Two white jugs without the blue label I was used to, with a handwritten note taped to the top that said use half cap. Extra strength. The housekeeper before me had left gloves in the supply closet, thick yellow ones that went to the elbow, but they'd been moved last week. I hadn't thought to ask.
I held my hands out under the light. The skin was starting to pucker.
"It's burning," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
Richard tilted his head. That slow, restrained way he had when he was deciding how concerned to look.
"Burning how?" he asked.
"Like a chemical burn. I think it's the concentrate. I didn't have gloves."
He glanced down the hallway, then back at me. "You probably just need to rinse longer. Ten minutes. That's what they say."
I tried to keep my hands under, but the pain was climbing now, sharp enough that I had to bite my lip. I looked at him directly.
"Can you call urgent care? Just to ask what to do."
He didn't move to get his phone. He leaned a little against the doorframe, his gold watch catching the warm light from the sconces.
"We don't need to call anyone yet," he said. "Let's not overreact. Put some aloe on it, take an antihistamine. If it's still red in the morning, we'll see."
Vanessa shifted behind him. She hadn't spoken since the hallway.
"Richard," I said, and I hated how much like a plea it sounded. "It blistered. In like three minutes."
He gave me a thin smile. "Claire, you're being dramatic again."
The words landed exactly the way they had in the hallway, and I felt Sophie go still. I didn't turn to look at her.
Vanessa stepped into the laundry room then, just one step past Richard, and crouched to be level with the shelf. She didn't look at me at first. She reached for the bleach jugs and turned them slightly, as if she was reading the instructions on the back. Her cream wrap dress brushed the dark wood floor.
While Richard kept talking, about how the estate couldn't have an incident report on file before the charity walk-through, about how I'd be fine if I just kept rinsing, Vanessa slipped her phone from the pocket of her dress.
She didn't announce it. She held it low, at waist height, and took a photo of my hands under the water. The click was soft, almost covered by the sink. Then she angled up and took two more of the shelf — the white jugs, the handwritten half cap note, the empty space where the gloves used to be.
I saw her do it. She saw me see her. Neither of us said anything.
Richard finally turned to her. "Vanessa, tell her. Cold water and aloe."
Vanessa slipped her phone back into her pocket. Her face was composed, but her hands shook a little.
"I think she should keep rinsing," she said quietly. "And we should keep the bottles where they are. Just in case."
Richard frowned. "In case of what?"
"In case she needs cream or something later," Vanessa said. She didn't look at me again, but she moved to the sink and, without touching my hands, turned the faucet pressure up slightly. The water hit harder, and I flinched.
When she stepped back, the blisters were bigger. There were three now, and the red had darkened at the edges, like it was settling deeper instead of washing out. My fingers throbbed in time with my pulse.
Richard checked his watch.
May you like
"Ten more minutes, then we'll get you some ointment from upstairs," he said. He finally let go of the door, but he didn't come closer. "You're alright, Claire. Just rinse."
He stayed in the doorway, and Vanessa stayed near the shelf with her phone in her pocket, and I stood at the sink with my hands under water that wouldn't wash anything away, feeling the burn climb up past my wrists while no one called for help.
