Obscured

by Tara Sue Me

  “How comfortable are you lying? It’s not exactly a talent needed by the clergy.”

  “I think ‘lying’ is a strong term. I keep things confidential. It’s totally different.”

  “If you were Catholic, I could tell you everything in confessional.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you know enough about me to know I would keep anything you told me in the strictest confidence.”

  “I do,” I said, not wanting him to think I didn’t trust him. “I mean, I’m staying here. I’m basically trusting you with my life.”

  “I know that. Trust me.”

  That’s been my problem. I’m always trusting the wrong people.

  Chapter Eleven

  A few days later, Isaiah presses some cash in my hand and tells me to go shopping. I push from my mind that I’m an impostor who doesn’t belong in a mall, buying clothes like a normal person. But Isaiah is insistent, and even I can’t argue with the fact that I need clothes. I’ve been wearing the same outfit over and over, washing it while Isaiah is at work.

  So far, I’ve seen no hint of Mike searching for me. I’m hoping he thinks I had money hiding somewhere else and that I left the city days ago. I drive to the mall in the car Isaiah left for me. When I protested over breakfast, he told me he was walking to work. I’m pleased I only look over my shoulder a few times on my way.

  I stand in front of a rack of sundresses shaking. It’s not because I see Mike or anyone else. It’s because I have no fucking clue what kind of clothes I like. What I like hasn’t ever factored into what I’ve bought. What Mike likes, yes. What my clients would like, certainly. Me? Who cares?

  I hold up a green dress. It’s nice enough, but is it me? Maybe black? Or navy?

  “May I help you?” A saleslady has managed to come up right next to me without my knowledge, and I jump at her voice.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?” It’s only taken her one look at my trembling hands, fingers clutched around colorful dresses for her to pick up on the fact that I’m way outside of where I belong.

  “I don’t know what color,” I say in what has to be the lamest answer possible.

  “Let’s see.” She holds up a gray one. “The color brings out your eyes, don’t you think?”

  Gray? I think it makes me look like a rock. Fitting, almost. I feel like a rock sometimes. Weighed down. Passed over. Cold. Dead.

  What did cold and dead have to do with bringing out the color of my eyes?

  She tilts her head and scrutinizes me more closely. “Hmmm. Maybe not. With your hair, I think a silver or ivory would be better.”

  My throat closes up at the mention of silver.

  “Do you have any idea what that color does to you?” Mike is standing behind me and we’re both looking in the mirror. I’m wearing a silver sheer nightgown and I’m scared for the first time since I’ve been with him.

  One of his fingers traces my arm from elbow to shoulder and seductively moves across my chest and teases a nipple until it forms a peak.

  “You’re trembling. There’s no need.” He catches my eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “You’re such a good girl, I just have to share you. I want him to see how good you are. You’ll do it for me, right? Because you love me?”

  They’re rhetorical questions. I’ve already told him I didn’t want to do it. But he becomes angry and quickly lets me know I have no choice.

  “I’ve done so much for you,” he says, still watching me in the mirror. “This is the least you can do for me.”

  “Fuck your friend?” I snap back. “That’s me doing something for you?”

  He slaps my face. “Yes. Now get out there.”

  “No silver,” I choke out. My closet back at the apartment is filled with silver, because Mike decided the color looked best on me after that night. Silver gowns, silver lingerie, silver scraps of fabric all tailor made for a man’s fantasies. “No way.”

  The sales lady politely ignores the terror in my voice and expression. “Ivory, then?”

  Angels wear white, surely that means the fallen among them would be appropriately attired in ivory. We aren’t as good as they are;we shouldn’t be in the same color. Ivory, though, represents a lesser white, right?

  The red is definitely out, though that’s probably more appropriate. Pink is too...pink.

  “There’s a lot of thought going on in your head to be thinking on color,” the lady says.

  “I don’t know, maybe this was a bad idea.” If I can’t even decide what color I like, how in the world am I going to function not being a prostitute?

  “Shopping is never a bad idea.”

  The group of young teenagers who appear beside us certainly agrees with her. Loud, boisterous laughter floats up from them as they discuss boys, clothes, boys, shoes, and boys.

  Watching them, I wonder if I had it to do over again, would I do it the same way? How had I gone on for so long living as I had? Why had I not seen before how my life had slowly been draining out of my body, as if some knife had pierced my heart and I walked around slowly bleeding to death? Perhaps when the wound’s small enough, you don’t notice it until it’s too late.

  “Ma’am?” the clerk asks. “Do you want to try those on?”

  I look down to see I’m still clutching the dresses in a death grip, and I give her a sheepish grin. Damn, she must think I’m an idiot. “I think I need some coffee.”

  “Okay, coffee’s always a good idea. My name’s Cathy if you want to find me when you return. Should I hold one of these for you?”

  That’s probably a good idea. Isaiah isn’t going to like it if I show up with nothing.

  “Yes, thank you. I think the green one.” I pass that one to her.

  “Green would go lovely with your coloring.”

  Green. Green is my new favorite color.

  I make my way to a busy coffee shop on the edge of the food court where I order a latte. I don’t notice her at first when I sit down. It’s only because of my relentless fear of seeing Mike that she happens to catch my eye as I glance around the seating area.

  Young, pretty, and fidgeting slightly in her micro mini, nothing much stands out about her. I doubt anyone who hasn’t been in her situation knows what she’s getting ready to do. She stops twisting her hands in her lap and looks up. I follow her gaze to where a lone man stands, watching.

  “Athena?”

  I knock my coffee over, because it’s Harris. He’s found me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I quickly calculate how close he is to me and guess whether or not I have enough time to run. It’s worth a shot, and I can always yell. I push my chair back and prepare to jump up and sprint away.

  He sighs and sits down. “I had no idea you’d be so stupid to be seen out in public this soon.”

  His words surprise me so much, I drop back down in my chair. “What?”

  “Someone might recognize you.”

  “You mean other than you?” I study him, watching for any signal he’s getting ready to touch me. I’m still poised to leap.

  “Yes. I’ve known where you’ve been since you left Theo’s bed.”

  “Of course you have.” And I’m an idiot to still be sitting here.

  He leans toward me. “Flipping Mike the bird and telling him to fuck off probably wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “You saw that, too?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re going to tell him you saw me here?”

  He smiles and settles back into his chair. His body language gives the impression he’s completely relaxed and wouldn’t harm a flea. I know differently. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “None of your business.”

  I’m not sure I believe he’s not going to tell Mike. He’s his second in command; it’s his job. But some part of me must believe him because I’m still sitting at the table with him. I
exhale deeply, but the girl I’d seen before Harris came over stands up and walks to a window.

  “Damn it,” I say.

  “Do you see someone you recognize?” Harris is suddenly on alert, looking around.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Me. Ten years ago.”

  “Here?”

  “Standing near the window at three o’clock.” I don’t want to point. Don’t want to bring attention to either the young girl or myself.

  “The one in the blue dress?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues on, “She’s young.”

  Bile rises in my throat. “More naïve that way. Try to start them much older and they know too much.”

  There’s a look of disgust on his face.

  I nod to the guy standing off by himself, the first one I noticed. “See the guy in the black jeans?”

  He shrugs. “Normal enough looking guy.”

  The worst ones usually look that way. They only grow ugly as you get to know them better. I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories.

  “That’s her Mike. She’s young,” I say, remembering, “fifteen maybe, no older than seventeen. Alone. That’s a certainty. He’s older, good-looking, and knows everything. She thinks she’s in love. He’s the solution to all her problems and has all the answers, even to questions she hasn’t asked yet.” Behind my closed eyelids, the girl in the mall becomes me and the guy with her becomes Mike. “He says if she loves him, she’ll do this and she’s too scared to say no. She’s scared she’ll lose him. Scared he’ll leave.”

  “She’ll do what?”

  My eyes open; Harris is all blurry. “He wants to share her. With a friend of his. And she’ll do it. But he won’t be the last friend he shares her with. Not by a long shot.” I sigh. “In the end, she’ll turn out just like me: ten years older, sitting in a food court coffee shop, wondering why she’s unable to decide by herself what color she likes.”

  Harris is silent, so I continue, “That’s only if she’s lucky, though.” Pictures of girls work their way into my subconscious, desperate to be remembered. “Otherwise, she’ll end up in an unmarked grave, collateral damage of a wild night, and no one will care. After all,” my voice cracks, “she’s just a whore. The world’s better off without her, right?”

  Across the table, Harris reaches his hand out, like he’s going to take hold of mine, but he sees the shock in my eyes and stops. I look at the girl again, she’s sat back down on the bench.

  I turn my attention back to Harris. “You’ve really known where I’ve been this entire time?”

  He nods. “It behooves me to know where you are.”

  “And yet, you haven’t told Mike?” I try to think about why he would want to know where I was if he wasn’t going to tell Mike.

  But when he shakes his head, I know exactly why he hasn’t told Mike. “You bastard. You think I’m going to thank you for not telling him? By sleeping with you. Let me guess, you have a car outside you want me to follow you to and then after, you can just drop me off on Mike’s doorstep.”

  For the first time since he sat down, he appears angry. “Jesus, Athena. How the hell do you come up with this stuff?”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.” I want to believe he’s wrong. He’s never looked at me with that look. The one men look at me with when they realize what I am. That’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still at the table with him.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Fine then.” I cross my arms. “Tell me why you sat at my table to begin with.”

  “Answer one question first.” At my nod, he continues. “Did Isaiah know you were coming here to shop?”

  It’s the most absurd question in the absolute most absurd conversation I’ve ever been in. It’s so absurd, I don’t hesitate to answer. “No. He just knew I was shopping. He didn’t know where.”

  “That’s why.”

  “Because Isaiah doesn’t know where I am?”

  “Exactly. Because I’m guessing it’d make him just a little upset to know you were in the same mall as the younger Mrs. Martin, his wife. Three tables away from her to be exact.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  He’s saying something else, but I can't make out what over the buzzing in my ears. I’m going to faint. I feel clammy, and spots dance before my eyes. The edge of my vision starts to go fuzzy, and someone is pushing my head down.

  “Damn it.” It’s Harris and he’s whispering. “Breathe. You better not pass out. That’s all we need is for you to call attention to us.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Little by little, things settle down a bit ,or at least I don't feel like I’m going to fall to the floor. anymore. Oh my God. Isaiah’s married. Fucking married. It can’t be true. I keep my head down for several more minutes, and when I look up, I’m furious.

  “How dare you make something like that up? Seriously? Who does that?”

  His lips tighten into a fine line. His blue eyes I once thought looked so good widen in surprise. “I’m not making it up. But I can understand why you might think I would.” He nods to my left. “She’s right there. In the yellow sundress.”

  I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I slyly turn and look at her, anxious to see the woman who shares Isaiah’s name. Supposedly.

  My first impression is wholesomeness. Everything about her screams the word with her- shiny brown hair and friendly brown eyes. She’s having lunch with someone, and she’s smiling at what the other woman is saying. Her skin has a faint tan, probably from sunbathing too frequently in the Vegas sun. I smile a little, the famous dry heat of the Southwest obviously took her by surprise. Not an uncommon occurrence for Southern belles. It’s clear that’s what she is. The food court isn’t that crowded. I can hear the faint cadence of the accent she shares with Isaiah.

  Everything about her brands her as the type of woman Isaiah wants. Which is everything I’m not. Hell, she was probably a virgin when they got married. I really want to hate her.

  She lifts her cup to her mouth and my gaze falls on her left hand. A small diamond and thin gold band grace her ring finger. I mutter a curse under my breath.

  “Her name’s Lydia. She’s a nurse. Works in the NICU at Valley,” Harris says.

  It’s too good to be true. She has to be the most perfect woman on the planet - beautiful, happily married, a pastor’s wife, and she cares for severely sick infants. She probably conducts cancer research in her garage during her off hours.

  But again, nothing he’s saying adds up. The dots don’t connect.

  I glare at Harris. “I know you’re lying. I’ve been at Isaiah’s condo for the last few days. He’s not married. His place has obviously never had a woman in it. I can’t imagine a more typical bachelor pad.”

  “Right, because he’s really going to take you to the house where he keeps his wife. Fuck, Athena, were you born yesterday?” He’s pleading with me. For some reason he desperately wants me to believe Isaiah’s married. I just can’t.

  Isaiah’s a pastor and he’s just starting out. Even though his family has money, he’s already told me his mother wasn’t happy about him moving to Vegas. No way would she support him enough for him to be able to afford two residences.

  Besides, I remember Mrs. Martin and there’s no way she would accept Isaiah’s wife working outside of the home. It’s not done in her world.

  “I don’t believe you,” I tell Harris.

  “Doesn’t make it untrue.”

  I stand up. I’ve had enough of Harris and his lies about Isaiah. “I have to go. There’s a saleslady holding a dress for me.”

  “I have no reason to lie to you, Athena.”

  “Wrong. You have every reason to lie to me. Isaiah has no reason to lie to me.” I stand up and leave the table before he can stop me. I start to walk back to the store, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the young girl and I change my mind.

  ***

  The first time I tried to leave Mike, I told him about it.
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br />   It’s late summer and I’m done. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life having sex with strangers and Mike’s an idiot if he thinks I am. I pull a short black wig on. It won’t disguise me, but for some reason it brings me a certain amount of security. He’s standing silently in the doorway, watching me pack.

  I don’t know where I’m going. To be honest, as long as it’s not here, I don’t care where it is. I have two hundred dollars in my pocket. It won’t last me long, but if I’m lucky I can find a cheap hotel room and maybe get a job sweeping floors or something. I’ll do anything that doesn’t involve sex or being naked.

  It’s embarrassing how little I have to pack in the battered suitcase. There’d probably be more, but I don’t want most of what is in my apartment. I slam the top of the suitcase down and march past Mike. His smug expression pisses me off.

  I’m early for the bus, which is a bad thing, because it gives me too much time to think. I keep doing the math in my head. I subtract how much the bus ticket will cost, and I’m afraid I won’t have enough money to live.

  What if I don’t get a job as quickly as I think I will? How long can I afford to keep looking? Not nearly as long as I’d like. The doubts taunt me. I push them to the back of my mind because I know if I don’t leave now, I won’t ever do it. But they don’t leave me alone.

  No one will hire you with zero job experience for the last year.

  When the money runs out, and it will, you’ll be right back doing what you do best.

  What kind of job do you think you’re qualified for anyway?

  The longer I sit, the louder they get, and the more I believe them.

  I revise my plan. Maybe I’ll just stay for another six months. No longer than a year. It’ll give me time to save more money. I weigh it out in my head. Is it better to do another six months and guarantee I never have to sell myself again or leave now knowing I might have to?

  When I leave, I’ll never have sex for money again. Tears fill my eyes as I realize that means I should stay for now. The bus pulls up, and I feel sick because I’m not leaving on it. I tell myself it’s better this way. This way I’ll be financially secure when I do leave. And I will leave. I promise myself I will.