Shatterproof

by Jo Chambliss

As soon as the door opens, everyone in the room stands and starts to scurry around the room. I’m pulled to the chair in front of the bright lights, and the technicians swarm like bees.

  A few times during the all-out assault, I attempt to describe how I usually wear my hair and makeup. Very quickly, I realize that no one cares or is even listening.

  For the duration of the beauty campaign, I keep my eyes closed except to occasionally peek at the monitor screen. When I’m not checking on Ari, I’m thinking about Chris.

  A smile comes to my face remembering our time in his bed. I had no idea that sex could be that good. I don’t even think that it’s because he’s some superhuman with almost unlimited strength. I think it was just that he was attentive. That somehow bringing me pleasure actually enhanced his own.

  “Open your eyes, please.”

  Instead of seeing the monitor or mirror when my eyes open, one of the technicians is standing in front of me with a mascara wand. She does her thing, and the chair is immediately turned around. I don’t even get to see what they’ve done to me.

  Come to think of it, I wish I had been paying a little more attention to what they were doing. I don’t want to end up being some over-made up, smoky-eyed doll.

  Growing up, I never put too much priority on makeup perfection, always too focused on taking pictures. As I got older and did try some of the styles that were popular, the looks seemed too heavy on me. It just felt unnatural… and I’m pretty sure that’s what I look like now that they’ve finished.

  Too late now, not that they would have listened to me anyway. I guess all I can do is hope for the best. When instructed, I stand to follow the team to the rack of dresses, all the while trying to preserve my modesty in the impossible robe.

  The first hanger gets pulled off the rack and held up to me. Seeing the dress makes my eyes go wide. “No. Absolutely not.” It’s evening-length, but there isn’t much there.

  The rack is so full, surely there’s one that isn’t so… shocking. The next one they pull out covers a reasonable amount up top but has a split that looks as though it ends above the hip. As in, no way she’s wearing underwear, above the hip.

  Dress number eighty-seven is a better color than several others but is even more revealing than the first. Each dress they’ve pulled out is as outrageous as the last, and no matter how much I object, they place the ones they like on a separate rack.

  When they’ve reached the end of the rack, they start over again on the ones they pulled out. Several of which are ones I vehemently objected to, but again, they’re all ignoring me.

  Injecting a little steel in my voice, I say, “Excuse me. I will not be wearing any of these. They show way too much skin. I have never dressed this way and don’t plan to start now.”

  “Mrs. Westbrook…”

  “CASTLE. My name is Willa Castle,” I interrupt.

  “Willa, these are all we have. There simply isn’t time to get anything else here in time.”

  “Who the hell picked these out anyway?”

  “Mr. Westbrook had his personal shopper deliver every dress in your size that she could find.”

  Oh, I can just imagine. He would have demanded every dress that fit within his idea of sexy.

  I press the back of my hand against my forehead as a memory of Jonathan comes to mind. I’m taking you out tonight to celebrate my tenure. Dress sexy for me. When I came out later wearing a new, what I thought was sexy, black dress, all he did was huff and say, “Come on, grandma. Let’s go.”

  My hand on my face makes the makeup artist gasp because I must be messing up her work.

  “Please, Willa. We’ve done your makeup to best complement your coloring. We need to do the same with the dress,” little miss perky pleads.

  “Fine.”

  I’m somewhat relieved when they pick a black dress with long sleeves… but only because I don’t realize which long-sleeved black dress they selected.

  “What underwear should I put on?”

  “Um, you won’t be wearing any.”

  “WHAT?”

  She carefully removes the gown from its hanger, and I get a good look at it. The hip slit is not just a slit but a cutout, a really wide cutout. Wide as in, no matter how I stand, you’re going to see all the way up. If that wasn’t enough, despite the dress having long sleeves and a high neckline, the fabric is sheer with just enough texture to cover some of the breast. That is to say, the parts of the breast that are covered at all. The biggest problem I have with the garment is the very wide cut out in the bodice.

  Ok, I was wrong. This isn’t a dress, it’s sideways apron. The only place on this entire dress where the left touches the right is the tiny connection at the top of the left shoulder. From there, a gap tapers to a width of four inches that sweeps between the breasts, down past the right hip, all the way to the hemline.

  This thing is going to need more glue than Jennifer Lopez’s green Oscar dress. I mean, the fabric will have applied like paper mâché. This is just great.

  When the stupid dress is glued in place and I have shoes on, I’m finally turned around to face a mirror.

  I gasp in horror at what they’ve done to me. I feel self-conscious, knowing it’ll be obvious to everyone that I have nothing on under the dress. A ridiculous amount of naked skin is visible, including side and underboob.

  My hair has none of the soft waves that are there naturally. It’s been flat ironed and is slick and shiny enough that it would reflect light.

  I can only imagine the damage that was done to it to get it this way.

  My face has painted on contours, shadowing, and highlights, and my lips are tinted a deep burgundy color. The look is extremely sultry and dramatic, but so not me.

  I hate it and am glad that Chris isn’t here to see it, or Ari, for that matter. I’m not a prude, but this is just way too over the top. I’m afraid that if I take too deep a breath, the whole glue situation is going to fail, and I’ll flash everyone in the room.

  At five minutes till seven, I hear a knock at the door, and Jonathan waltzes into the room without waiting for an invitation.

  When his eyes land on me, he inhales sharply. “Willa, you look absolutely stunning.”

  As much as I want to roll my eyes, I don’t. “Thank you. Is it time for the event?”

  He manages to pull his eyes away from the exposed parts of my breasts and reaches out his arm to me. I’m gracious enough to oblige him, and he leads me down the hall.

  Walking through the maze of hallways, I long to look in on Ari, but at the same time, I don’t want her to see me like this.

  Jonathan must sense my need to check on her and detours to her bedroom door.

  Sitting in a chair outside Ari’s room is a woman wearing scrubs. She stands to greet us, extending her hand to me. “I’m Mary. I work emergency at Children’s Hospital. Don’t worry about a thing. Mr. Westbrook told me about her strep throat. I’ll make sure she stays comfortable and drinks plenty of fluids. You two have a good time.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  Resuming our march to wherever this dinner is taking place, I catch myself wondering about Jonathan. It’s hard to imagine him attending something like this without a date… and I was only a recent addition. Knowing him, he had a date lined up but canceled on them when he was on his way to pick me up.

  “You really do look amazing, Willa.” Be gracious. Be gracious. I keep chanting in my head. “You always were handsome in a tuxedo.” Gesturing to the dress, I add, “I’m just not used to showing so much skin.”

  He scoffs. “These days, a dress like that is practically virginal.” The numerous responses coming to mind are bad enough that I decide to just keep quiet.

  Jonathan leads me to a heated banquet tent in the home’s sprawling back yard, I’m floored by the massive sprays of flowers lining the tent sides, exotic arrangements on the tables, the twelve-piece ensemble performing on stage, and the formal place settings on the numerous tables.

  It
makes me wonder how much money the charity is spending on this event to raise money. On the other hand, I suppose people that are capable of writing checks for tens of thousands of dollars would probably be less likely to do so at, say, a hotdog dinner.

  Over the next three hours, I’m shuffled around like the trophy Jonathan always wanted me to be. All during that time, I field non-stop condolences and curiosity about “my frightening ordeal” and “my poor, dear father” from these people.

  Surprisingly, throughout the entire evening, not once does Jonathan stray from my side. I’m thankful for that, at least. I’d hate to have to face these vultures alone. Before the divorce, he would’ve dumped me at the door as soon as we walked in.

  Once the evening winds down and the crowd starts to disperse, I hear one man lean over to Jonathan and whisper, “Your wife is even more lovely than I remember.”

  I wait for Jonathan to correct the man, but he doesn’t.

  When the last guest has gone, I’ve had enough of being the quiet arm candy. “Why didn’t you tell that man that we’re divorced?”

  “Oh, Gerald? He’s old, and I haven’t seen him in three years. I just didn’t want to embarrass him.”

  Oh… “Ok, well, I’m tired and want to go change and check on Ari. Goodnight.” As fast as these shoes will let me, I walk back to my room, pretending I didn’t hear his invitation for a nightcap.

  As soon as the door to my bedroom closes behind me, I kick off the shoes, not even caring where they land. Slowly and carefully, I work to remove the glue and garment from my skin. It’s painful and leaves my skin red and irritated. The worst part is where the glue overlaps my right nipple. I switch between holding my breath and squealing as I pull it off the sensitive area.

  Once the last bit of glue has been peeled off my skin, the dress is thrown to the floor in a fit of rage. Now completely naked, I start to panic being in the strange room. I rush to the bathroom, hoping my clothes are still there. Fortunately, they are.

  It takes several minutes and destroying a white face cloth to remove all the layers of makeup applied to my face. Choosing the least offensive lotion on the counter, I apply it to the skin irritated by the glue and dress quickly in my t-shirt and leggings.

  Feeling somewhat normal again, I return to the bedroom and decide there’s no way I’m sleeping in here. Carrying my shoes, I rush out the door on my way to Ari’s room.

  At her door, I check in with the nurse, genuinely thanking her for taking care of Ari. The nurse leaves, and I walk in Ari’s room to find her awake, sipping on some juice. “How are you feeling, munchkin?”

  “My throat still hurts, but my head feels better.”

  “Good. Now, move over. I’m going to sleep in here with you.”

  The next morning, Ari’s temperature seems to be lowering, and her appetite has returned. She and I venture out to find the kitchen so I can make us both some breakfast, and we somehow manage to find it without getting lost.

  Walking in the huge, chef’s kitchen, I’m surprised to see Jonathan’s butler standing at the range cooking. “Good morning. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

  Feeling awkward and out of place, I help Ari onto a seat at the bar and take the one beside her. A few minutes later, Jonathan comes strolling in. “There you guys are. I looked in both your rooms but couldn’t find you.”

  “I slept in Ari’s room last night, just to keep an eye on her.”

  He bends down to her. “How are you feeling this morning, Ariel?”

  “I’m ok,” she answers before burying her head in my side. Jonathan looks up at me, a resigned look on his face. I’m sorry. Give her time, I mouth to him. He nods sadly.

  Looking like he has bad news to deliver, he hesitates before saying, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run. The charity tournament wraps today, and I need to be there for the final games and to hand out trophies. I won’t be back until late this evening. Don’t worry about me for dinner. Charles here will take care of you. Oh, I almost forgot, I had swimsuits brought for both of you. There’s an indoor pool you can use if you like.”

  That perks Ari back up. “Can we, mama?”

  Touching her forehead again, I answer, “As long as you don’t have a fever, I guess it’s all right.”

  Ari and I spend the whole day in and out of the pool, watching movies, and eating the food prepared by the butler. The only issue I had was needing to wear a shirt to cover the skimpy bikini Jonathan supplied.

  We didn’t see Jonathan for dinner that night. If I were honest, I’d have to say that I was a little relieved.

  By bedtime, Ari is feeling much better and has a hard time going to sleep. I offer to let her watch a movie and am not surprised when she asks to watch Finding Nemo. What does surprise me is that I don’t turn the movie off as soon as she falls asleep.

  During breakfast the next morning, the young woman that didn’t care for my appearance blows through the kitchen, looking more than slightly frustrated. Ignoring Ari and me, she addresses Charles with a rude attitude. “Where is Mr. Westbrook?”

  “He hasn’t come down yet this morning.”

  She looks at her watch and huffs. Still without recognizing our existence, she lays some documents and a news page down on the table. “I have to run. Tell Mr. Westbrook that the final tallies and article for the fundraiser are right here.”

  “I will,” Charles answers.

  Article… there wasn’t supposed to be any press. Nervous about the possibility of my presence here being discussed in newsprint, I pick up the paper. I relax a little when I notice the name of the publication. At least it’s just a local paper.

  That relief is short-lived, though. What I find when I skim over the article boils my blood.

  It was a wonderful evening at the home of Jonathan and Willa Westbrook… Jonathan and Willa are the most gracious hosts… Willa looks to be recovering well from…

  I put the paper back down, staring at it in disbelief. He said no press. Not only was there press in attendance, they misinterpreted the nature of our relationship.

  I’m still fuming when Charles lets me know he’s leaving for his day off. So much so that I don’t even listen to what he says after that.

  When Jonathan shows his face around noon, Ari and I are in the kitchen having lunch. Telling myself that I should count to ten before speaking is a waste of brain cells. I’m furious. Before giving him a chance to greet us, I point to the paper and open my mouth, ready to start a holy war. His phone rings before I utter the first syllable. Surprisingly he ignores the call and picks up the paper.

  Reading the article, his eyes go wide. He glances nervously at me and his phone starts to ring again. Still staring at the paper, he barks into the phone, “What is it?”

  He listens to the caller for a second before yelling, “WHAT?”

  With panic written all over his face, he hands the phone to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Hello?”

  “Willa, this is Mike. I’m sorry to tell you this, especially over the phone, but your house was burnt down this morning. It appears to have been caused by the same chemical as the cabin. I don’t know what all Chris told you, but a similar message was painted on your chimney as Chris’s. This time, the message read, I bet your husband knows where you are.”

  “Chris didn’t tell me anything about a message at the cabin.”

  “Let me speak to Westbrook again,” Mike demands.

  I place the phone on the table and start to shiver. Jonathan picks it up, but I don’t listen to his side of the conversation.

  After he ends the call, my ex-husband jumps up and starts to pace. “Ok, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re getting out of here. Right now. We’ll go hide out somewhere. Maybe in the mountains. Horses… you liked horses. We’ll find one of those horse camping places. We can hide out, but it won’t be like we’re in a bomb shelter.”

  Jonathan… outdoors? That pulls me out of the twilight zone I was stuck in. “But you always hated
the idea of camping, hiking, or horses.”

  “Yeah, well, but this isn’t about me. I’m scared shitless and just want to get out of here before this asshole finds us. Do you guys have warm clothes?”

  “Yes, but we don’t have any gear, do you?”

  “No, but surely these places have stuff you can buy, right?” Not likely.

  He runs out of the room for a minute and comes back with an iPad. “Here, you find a place that sells or rents equipment while I go pack.”

  Thinking this is an impossible task, I begin a furious search. I don’t expect to find anything, but I have got to get my daughter to safety, so I look anyway. If I don’t find a horse camp with rental equipment, I’ll look for something else entirely.

  Whether it’s hiding in the mountains or walking across a desert, we’ve got to get away.

  After an extensive search, I’m shocked that I was actually able to find a single horse farm that sells and rents gear. When Jonathan returns with a packed bag, I show it to him and reveal that the place is five hours away. “I don’t care how far we have to go. Let’s just get out of here.”

  From that moment on, things hit a fever pitch. I’m bagging up my and Ari’s things, packing up some simple food and cooking items, and moving her car seat to the SUV.

  Jonathan and I both seem to be feeling the same sense of urgency when we finally climb in the vehicle to leave.

  After we’ve driven for about an hour, Jonathan begins strategizing out loud, “Somewhere along the way, I need to pick up a disposable phone. Since I was afraid of this guy tracing us, I left my phone at home.”

  I see his point, but I haven’t memorized Mike’s or Chris’s numbers. Wait. Mike is the Sheriff of Greene County. He’ll be easy to find.

  Thinking all my bases are covered, I stare out the window and allow myself to relax a fraction.

  Chapter 15

  Willa

  The closer we get to Ivanhoe, Virginia, the more I begin to worry that this is a bad idea. Yes, Ari’s feeling fine now, but that’s not it. Jonathan has never been camping.

  It’s sweet that he remembered how much I enjoyed growing up with horses and camping, but he’s more used to fine houses kept clean by housekeepers, elegant meals prepared by a chef, soft, warm beds, and indoor plumbing.