Previously on Haverbrook [read the full episode here]
There were no clothing resale shops near the courthouse square. But there were some on the outskirts of Haverbrook. I decided to wander around the well-manicured town center a while longer before ponying up for a carshare to take me to the less upmarket part of Haverbrook.
Before I left the central district, I sat on the courthouse lawn and ate my sandwich. Grey clouds started to roll in and block the sun. The wind picked up, and I began to regret not bringing my coat. I finished my sandwich and ordered the carshare.
By the time the carshare dropped me off at the thrift store, there was drizzle in the air dampening my hair and clothes. I hurried into the store. But I hesitated as I walked in. There was a sea of clothing all sorted by type and color. What did I need? I hadn’t bought clothes in a year, and now I was starting from scratch. Pants – yes. Shirts – yes. A dress would be nice. Having one would give me hope that I’d have an occasion to wear it.
Now the rows of tightly packed clothing were less daunting. It was a hunt and not like I was about to be buried in the musty castoffs of Haverbrook residents.
Two shirts, a sweater, two pairs of pants, and a passable dress found – all totaling $53. I caught a glimpse through the store window of the drizzly rain. Maybe look for a deal on a jacket? Ten more dollars and I found a snappy hunter green twill jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons. With my purchases in hand, I slid into the backseat of a carshare.
The carshare dropped me off at the grocery store by John’s apartment. I felt like I needed to pitch in some food. Plus, I needed hygiene supplies. The several-day-old film on my teeth told me that brushing was a habit I needed to get back to.
As I shopped, I realized that I should’ve taken a better inventory of John’s fridge before I tried to replenish supplies. But I did find a bottle of the wine we drank last night. I settled for that and my personal supplies, including a two-pack of white cotton granny panties. A total of $46.82. My cash was nearly blown.
When I arrived back at John’s apartment, he was still in his office working. I put my new clothes in the wash and installed my hygiene supplies in the bathroom. Maybe I’d wear my dress for dinner.
I decided to watch TV for news of the city. The press reported all of the fires were extinguished, and the police were allowing people back into Silverton Square. The city was starting to rebuild, and I guessed that needed to include me. My time in Haverbrook was a nice getaway, but I was crashing someone else’s life. Like I told my jealous colleague, Cynthia, that I was just staying with an old friend until it's safe to come back. I had only postponed the implosion of my life.
If there were nothing left of my apartment, I’d have to stay in victim housing until I went back to work. I would probably have to find a new job. That reminded me that I hadn’t talked to anyone from my work in a few days. I called Cynthia to see if she knew more about Tanya and our office, but her phone went straight to voicemail. “Hey, Cynthia, it’s Amy. I was calling to see how you were doing and if you’ve heard anything about Tanya. Call me when you get a chance. Bye.”
Just then, the pocket door on John’s office rolled open with a squeak. He came down the hall with a big smile and asked, “You hungry?”
“Yes, as a general rule,” I quipped, shifting out of my grim train of thought to a happier topic. “If you let me know what you like for dinner, I can shop and cook while I’m staying here.”
“Oh, no need, I have a meal delivery service. Dinners are taken care of,” John explained. “Let’s see what’s on the menu for tonight. It’s lasagna.”
“At least let me help cook,” I offered. “I’m not a total mooch.”
“You’re not a mooch,” he said as he gave me a furrowed brow and puppy dog eyes. “You’ve had a big upheaval. You need to feel safe now.”
I started to think he cared for me more than a stranger would. I stared blankly at him. I didn’t know how to respond. My brain kept switching between happy lasagna and squalid victim housing. He patted me on the shoulder and started making dinner.
As John was sliding the lasagna into the oven, he asked me about my adventures for the day. I told him about my visit to the central district and the thrift store to get some more clothes, which reminded me to take them out of the dryer.
“You can hang those in my closet if you want,” John offered unsolicited. I hesitated, I thought about bringing up my going back to the city. But instead, I turned and took my clothes to his bedroom.
I opened John’s closet to find his fondness for organizing the dirty silverware, also applied to his wardrobe. Button-down shirts, in various shades of blue and white, hung at the left. Then came an assortment of khaki slacks in various states of wear and tear and a couple of pairs of well-worn jeans. On the right was an eclectic collection of band tee shirts, all looking like they were well-loved. Bands like “Mars Landing” and “Eternal Sunshadow” intermixed with “Copperhead” and “The Brother’s Grimm.” And even an “Oingo Boingo,” how old was he? I had only seen him wear button-down shirts since we’d met; apparently, he had a playful side too.
I carved out some space next to his band tees for my few shirts and pants. I changed into my dress for dinner. It was pale gray-blue with tiny hints of yellow flowers printed all over. The waist was fitted, and the top had narrow vertical pleats along the front. It swung just below my knees as I twirled around, admiring myself in the mirror. A New-ish dress for a new-ish me. I put my dirty clothes in John’s laundry hamper.
I walked back out to the kitchen and asked, “How do I look?”
John turned around, and his face changed to a furrowed brow and exhausted frown.
“What’s the matter with the dress?” I asked with concern. This was the first time I’d seen John anything but cheery.
“Nothing. Sorry. You look really nice,” John answered with a lump in his throat. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
I was afraid to say much as we started eating, but I needed to tell him that I was planning to go back to the city.
“John, the news today said the police reopened Silverton Square. At some point, I need to check out my old apartment. See if it’s salvageable.” I said bluntly.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. They may have opened it, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe,” he replied again with puppy dog eyes and concern-furrowed brow. “I know it’s hard to accept that your old things are gone, but it’s not worth risking your safety to scrounge for them.”
“But I can’t stay here forever,” I countered. “I don’t belong in Haverbrook. I’ll have to go back eventually.”
John reached out his hand from across the kitchen island and rested it on mine. “I need you to stay here in Haverbrook with me. There’s no way to know if you’ll be safe if you leave.”
I didn’t say anything back. I couldn’t think of words to say. I pulled my hand back from John’s. I stared down at my lasagna while I finished eating. John didn’t offer any other words in my silence.
As I was clearing my dinner plate, I started to cry. No cry is not the right word. Tears came, and I tried to cry, but all sound was caught in my throat. I put my face in my shaking hands. It was hard to breathe. John wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. I heaved and blubbered into his shirt while his hand tried to soothe me with tender petting.
And there was the end of hope for reclaiming my former life. From here, I would have to decide to either go back to the city and start again alone. Living for months in shitty victim housing so I could maybe find a job half as good as my last one. Or I was staying here with John. Safe and warm, his life, and I was just tagging along.
I decided to sleep on it.