Staying Alive. Debra Webb
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Glancing down the block, first left then right, she was immensely glad no reporters had found out where she lived. She doubted that would last, but at least they weren’t here now.
She turned and faced her small bungalow. It wasn’t much. Just a one-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper she’d spent the last five years transforming, but it was home and she loved it.
As she took her time advancing along the sidewalk, she focused on the details of her home. Anything to clear her head of the ugliness. She loved the Craftsman-style bay window that looked out over her front yard. She’d just planted lots of flowers last weekend. With April coming to a close the colorful, lush annuals were starting to bloom, the reds, yellows and purples brilliant against the pale green of her house and the rich brown of the eucalyptus mulch.
She had a white picket fence, a detached garage and her own little garden toolshed in the back.
So far, she had done good, if she did say so herself.
Stepping up onto the covered porch, she admired her swing. She’d layered it with comfy cushions. She loved sitting out here reading with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings. Her house faced east, so she could watch the sunrise as well.
It was perfect for her. Felt like home in every way.
That was something she hadn’t expected when she moved here. She had missed Alabama so badly, but she’d needed a fresh start. When she’d found this place, it had been in pretty sad shape. Like her.
Claire unlocked the door and went inside. She’d spent all summer that year transforming the exterior into a showcase of curb appeal. Then, during those long dreary winter months that followed, she had, inch by inch, revitalized the interior. From the period crown molding to the rustic tile in the light-filled kitchen. She’d had to hire someone to do the wiring update. Most older homes didn’t meet the current code.
But that overwhelming kitchen renovation was all that had gotten her through her first Christmas alone.
“Enough.”
Claire sat her purse on the table next to the door and engaged the dead bolt. She allowed the familiar smells and textures of home to soothe her as she walked toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went. By the time she reached the bathroom she’d stripped down to her panties and bra.
While the original claw-foot tub filled with steaming hot water, she fashioned her unruly blond curls into the closest thing to a bun she could manage in this condition.
Big, dark smudges beneath her brown eyes made them look sunken. The first trace of bruises on her upper arms and throat had begun to surface. Good thing the weather was still cool enough for a long-sleeved turtleneck. Otherwise she’d look…just like her sister used to. She shivered at the images that resurrected.
Banishing the memories, Claire poured her favorite scented oil into the tub and inhaled deeply as the luxuriant lavender essence infused the rising steam.
She stepped into the tub and slowly lowered herself into the welcoming embrace of the hot water. After turning off the tap, she leaned back and let the neck-deep water do its work.
It felt so good. The heat penetrated her muscles and urged them to relax. The steam filled the room, creating a cozy cloud of thick, damp silence.
She didn’t need any music or candles. Just this glorious heat and the blessed silence.
The phone rang, the muffled sound reached beyond the barrier of the door, cut through her cozy cloud, but she refused to open her eyes. She was way too exhausted to care who might be calling.
Probably some of the other teachers checking up on her. The teachers were her family now. They had accepted her as one of their own. She received an invitation to every birthday, every wedding and funeral just as if she had always been here.
This was home.
The past was over and done with. No going back.
No looking back.
That was the hardest part. When things happened to provoke an old memory…like being forced to shoot that man today…she couldn’t help wondering. But going back was detrimental to her well-being. She could not think about the past and continue to be happy in her present.
End of story.
And just like that, the images of the terrorist she’d killed flashed one after the other in her head. His harsh words. His unflinching brutality. He would have killed little Peter Reimes with no compunction at all. How was that possible? How could anyone feel their cause so strongly that they would take the life of a child to further their own agenda?
It was insane. Beyond insane.
She forced the thoughts from her mind. This bath was supposed to be about relaxing. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to relax and just lie here in the water and soak up the incredible heat.
Eventually she drained some of the water and used the hand-held spray attachment to wash her hair. When she’d rinsed and conditioned and felt clean and relaxed, she climbed out of the tub, drained and rinsed it, then dried her skin. She took her time and completed all the usual grooming rituals, including clipping her nails and slathering her skin with lotion. Mostly she wanted to make sure her whole body was free of any hint of the evil she’d encountered this day.
By the time she wrapped herself in her ancient terry-cloth robe and emerged from the bathroom, she felt like a new woman. She gathered her dirty clothes, opted not to try and salvage them and tossed the whole lot into the garbage. She never wanted to see those clothes again, much less wear them.
In the kitchen she considered scrounging around for something to eat, but she didn’t really have an appetite. Her stomach still felt a little queasy from all the stress. Instead she poured herself a brimming stemmed glass of wine.
A couple of glasses of wine and she would feel totally relaxed. She padded into the living room and checked her machine. The red light on the message machine was flashing. Might as well see who had called. As the machine prepared to play the one message, she shuffled over to the sofa and dropped into the corner spot where she always sat.
“Miss Grant,” the male voice recorded on the machine said, “this is Paul Reimes.” A moment of silence passed. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my son’s life. I wanted to say this in person…” His voice quavered. “But the authorities felt I should stay with my family just now, and letting you know how much I am in your debt simply wouldn’t wait. Thank you. It’s not nearly enough…but it’s all I know to say.”
Claire grabbed a tissue and swiped at her eyes. And she’d thought she was going to be able to relax. She pulled the throw up around her and grabbed the remote. Time to vegetate with a program that had nothing to do with guns or killers. She skimmed through the channels, avoiding the stations where news would be showing. She wasn’t ready for that yet.
A game show captured her attention and she watched mindlessly for a while. She didn’t want to think—not about anything right now.
After watching three game shows in a row her stomach started to protest the lack of attention. She kicked off the throw and moseyed into the kitchen. Another glass of wine was first on the menu. She sipped the second glass as she surveyed the contents of her fridge.
A heat-and-serve frozen dinner just wasn’t going to do it tonight. She needed real sustenance. After prowling through all her usual hiding places, she found a chocolate bar and munched on it until she made a decision.
Her decision was that there simply wasn’t anything in the house that spoke to her taste buds. There was only one thing to do. Call for takeout.
That was one of the things she loved about urban living. Practically every restaurant in the area would deliver. Tonight, she had Italian on her mind. A nice salad, pasta and marinara along with garlic bread. Heaven on earth.
While she waited for the food to arrive, she finished drying her tangled hair and spent what felt like forever straightening