Imprint of Mate

Chapter 2

--I don't want to find your body--, she had said.

--I know--, I whispered to myself now, letting her words reverberate in my head.

I mashed the accelerator to the floor of the car.

Eloise was how I escaped. Eloise knew this day would come. Beyond her years, she cleaned up that day and dragged me to her cousin's used car dealership, where we traded my shiny silver Mercedes for the 4Runner. She helped me pack my things quickly and then handed me a key before I ran out the door. The key was for a cabin her brother had in the middle of the mountains. She said it was only used in the summer. She liked to fish for salmon. Fortunately for me, it was the off-season. Autumn had started, which meant I could be alone in the woods, where I could have a proper breakdown and let my bruises heal before figuring out what I was going to do with myself.

Jhon wouldn't suspect. He never even met Eloise.

He never cared. And she had no intention of saying a word.

Plus, this was Canada. Not exactly the territory of the perfect and faded Barbie of Jhon.

I tried to focus on something else. Like how my hands were sore from gripping the steering wheel for so long, or how my skin still stung from trying to remove the fake tan. I looked at the map spread out on the passenger seat. I had picked it up in Quesnel, once I realized how far I had to go before I could cross into Canada, and it surprised me how much it had comforted me in the last few days. I felt off the radar with the fragile paper. Indestructible. Safe.

But this car had damn silence, and the silence seeped into my worst fears. It didn't help that I had been driving all day through nothingness. You'd think the picturesque scenery would calm my fears.

Fortunately, I could see neon lights glowing ahead. The word --Diner-- flickered in a faded blue that had faded to something less abrasive than I imagined it once was.

Perfect.

I pulled into the cracked parking lot, looking at the weathered wooden platform in front. The windows were smudged with whatever, but at least the strange yellow canary frame of the door still had some life.

The inside was much more orderly, at least. It smelled of bacon grease and Lysol with a hint of lemon. I felt each gaze fall on me as I entered, and I focused on the two Hawaiian dolls dancing beside the counter on the long shiny bar to avoid the glances coming from the only table of men playing crossword in the corner. It was harder to ignore the cook's whispers, however, or the woman at the counter who almost broke my resolve with a single look.

Ignore them. Just eat and then get out of here.

I chose a booth in the back corner near the bright red exit sign. The seat creaked when I sat down. I put my backpack next to me and reached for one of the worn plastic menu covers. I hadn't had a real meal in days.

--Can I help you, sweetie?--

I tried not to jump.

Her name tag seemed to have absorbed something of the cigarette smoke that also sucked the softness from her voice. It said --Shirley--, but that was as far as my eyes went before guilt forced them back to the menu, as if now it was of even more importance.

My stained fingers gripped the worn menu, the tan patches around the paler skin showing me how poorly I had done removing the dye.

--Sweetie?--

Damn it, how long had I been standing there? I twisted in my seat as her eyes followed from the cut on my lip to the purpling and blue bruise embracing the corner of my eye.

--What's good?-- I asked. It was my turn to pull her from her thoughts. I tried to hide the bitterness, but there was no hiding the bite in my voice.

I adjusted the hoodie more around my bruised cheek, hoping it looked like I was cold, but the act fell apart. Her brown eyes, decorated with cheap blue eye shadow, saw through my desperate facade. Sympathy welled from those eyes, but her lips kept silent about my secret.

It was much easier before, but then, before there was something solemn women didn't even dare recognize between themselves. Recognizing it meant admitting there was a problem, and admitting it meant doing something, like leaving, which was easier said than done when Jhon had the keys to the cage he built for me with diamond earrings and tennis lessons. God, I hated tennis.

--Everything's good here. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.--

--I don't...-- I tried to control my breathing. --I didn't even know what to order.--

She nodded, eyes soft. --They can cook anything six different ways.--

My stained fingers gripped the worn plastic menu.

My hands began to tremble. Suddenly, what to order was a decision I couldn't make. I've had to make too many decisions recently.

--It's okay if you don't know--, she said with a shrug. --Blank slate, sweetie, means you've got lots of options.--

Damn if I knew. The only option I wanted was one where I could scream at the top of my lungs in a cabin alone.

--When you have options, and none of them are bad, the best thing you can do is pick one.--

I wanted one of her cigarettes. I looked at the menu again. The first words that stood out were in the bottom corner of the page. --Breakfast?--

--Always a good choice.--

--Uh, I like pancakes.-- I mean, who doesn't like pancakes.

--Eggs?--

--Can't go wrong with that, right?--

--Sure, you can't.-- She wrote it down in her notepad. --Also, what do you want to drink?--

I blinked. The sound of something oily sizzling in hot fat filled the air, dispelling the tension in the silence between us.

The vibration of a phone cut through the noise. I looked to see that the crossword game had paused briefly until the man ignored the call. I didn't know how he could ignore it because it sounded so loud, like my own phone vibrating, its name lighting up the screen with that photo I carefully chose when we started dating. It never changed over the years, unlike us.

The phone vibrated again. My fingers trembled, but it was already at the bottom of the Pacific, where it belonged. I stopped trusting myself with him, but even without him, I wondered how many miles I'd get before answering back.

Someone had changed the old TV in the corner into a football game. I heard the cheers and murmurs about how useless a team's defense was, but what I really heard in my mind was my own scream when his fist met my face.

--Coffee and water, please--, I managed to say.

Nobody tells you about this part.