Was he in love enough to forget? Was he logical enough to talk to her? All he wanted at this moment was to be savage enough to beat her at her own game.
Across town Teresa left the bar with a young guy. He was twenty something… she really didn’t remember or care the details of him. His name was Tim or Tom, something with a T—once again, she didn’t care. Teresa liked that he was tall. She liked that his hair flopped around all over his head and that he had a youthful gallop-like walk. They went back to his place, where he did as all young guys must do.
He came at her like a gleeful puppy, full of wonder at his lust. As if lust was a new toy that he tossed around and wanted to chew on. So happy was he that with every kiss Teresa gave him, he remained ambivalent to icicles that hung off her lips. Teresa allowed him to use her as a chew toy; he was, in her eyes, a puppy. When all was done, Teresa gave him a ‘good boy’ pat on the head and headed back to her apartment.
Walking home, she wondered—if she wasn’t a woman of The Grey—what their kids might look like. Would they be bouncing, happy children or sullen like her? As soon as those human-woman ideas popped up, Teresa let them go; she was a woman of The Grey. All children were girls. All looked exactly the same.
“All the same and none different,” she told the key to her apartment, “and never, ever wonder why.” For a second, just one, James blew into her head. She immediately shook him out. This wasn’t about him. It was about getting home to The Grey and completing her mission.
Teresa heard a knock on her door, and out of mere curiosity, went to open it. In walked James without saying a word. He grabbed her wrists, shoved her against the wall and slammed the door shut with his foot. Curiosity got the better of her. Should she be afraid? Teresa decided in milliseconds that, although she could end this and him at any time, she would let this scene with James play out.
Grabbing Teresa by the waist, James tossed her on the couch and settled himself nose to nose with her. He pressed himself against her, putting his full weight on her. It was an act of aggression, sending a clear message that he was bigger than her. Teresa knew all this, but again, curiosity got the better of her; she’d let it go on. Teresa could feel the pump of anger working James and she fed off it.
Pulling down her underwear, and pressing himself into her, James never moved his nose, never seemed to blink—only pinned her down and was clearly attempting to become the alpha. Teresa didn’t fight when James picked her up and took her to the bedroom. She didn’t say no when he tossed her onto her belly and grabbed her hips so tightly that she was sure she would be bruised. She never made a sound, never bothered to act distressed, because she wasn’t. She never protested when he grabbed her hair, put her on her knees, and told her in a grunt what was expected of her.
The first hour went by, with James entering, claiming the alpha from every angle, every corner he could. The second hour came, and he settled with grabbing her by the neck and handing out demands. Teresa did nothing but comply and moan. In the end, James got up, put his clothes on, and left. Not a word of ‘goodbye’. Not a word of ‘see you later’. It was a manic and disastrous show of ‘I wanted you to love me back’.
In the morning, Teresa woke up sore, bruised, and every single ounce of curiosity she had ever felt was now melted away in her sheets. Drinking her coffee, she felt less like a Woman of the Grey. She felt less fierce, more doe. She felt that James had somehow left the boy behind, forgot to become a man, and went beast. Slamming her hands on her table, Teresa knew that, all night, she’d made excuses for her accepting his actions. Taking his grabbing her again and again, never bothering to even whimper. She did all this because she felt she deserved such punishment; she had betrayed him and his revenge was just. This left a shame in Teresa that she didn’t believe would ever wane.
What would Superior Mother say of Teresa bowing to a man. The ‘tisk-tisk’ and the shaking of heads, all while leading her to secret rooms. Rooms that took care of the weaklings. Within the depth of her breath, Teresa grieved for it all.
Lisa
Lisa hadn’t left her couch for two days, maybe three—days were all mixed together now like soup. Day or night, it made no difference. Lisa was waiting patiently for the Mothers to arrive and take her back to the cell they called home. The TV was on, but what was playing was of no interest to her. She had sunk herself deep into the cushions of the couch, telling herself it was her nest, but knowing that it was much more her tomb.
Laying there hour after hour, sinking further into herself, her thoughts, and her complete lack of care. Lisa would hand herself over to the Mothers, go back to where the naughty girls go. She couldn’t force herself to comply; she couldn’t force herself to care. Sinking her head into the blanket, she only wished that Craig was there. He’d take her to the ocean again, and he’d be just the type of man to hold her head under. Lisa respected him for that, felt almost endeared by that.
Then, there was a knocking on the door. Someone was calling her name from the other side. The calling wasn’t welcome. The knocking wasn’t welcome. Lisa got up to open the door, not out of gratitude for company, but to end the annoyance of noise.
“Hi, haven’t seen you in a couple days…” Allison stood at Lisa’s doorstep— beauty with a pastry. It seemed absurd to Lisa to even bother responding. “I made this cake. Well, cakes…I bake when I need to relax…the thing is, I really shouldn’t eat it all…” Allison walked in and pretended not to notice the sofa looking like a bed, and Lisa smelling like a bed.
“Thanks…put it on the table I guess…” Lisa looked at Allison—really looked at her. She was so different from Lisa. Her arms looked strong. Her skin was the color of milky coffee. There was a warmth to her that Lisa could feel from across the room.
“Could I stay and chat? My daughter is with her grandma, and I’m a little lonely...” Allison sat on the couch next to Lisa. Lisa just looked at her the same way a person looks at a house plant. There was no lonely to this lady. Lonely was the opposite of her and Lisa knew it. It was more that she was feeling a little nosy.
“I guess we could eat cake…” Lisa got up and retrieved two forks. She wasn’t going to bother with plates. That would require more effort than she felt like putting out. Besides, there was a memory of cake at that restaurant on Feline Street that Lisa wanted to revisit. Taking her fork, Allison ate a piece of the store-bought cake; she hated baking. It tasted store bought, and chewing, Allison wondered if Lisa could tell.
“I’m thinking your new around here. Maybe when Melody is in school, I could show you around town…I could introduce you to some people…might even be able to get you a part-time job.” The words Allison had practiced saying came out smoother than she expected, especially given that all she really wanted to do was shake her and yell, “Tell me everything bitch! Now, tell me now!”
Lisa made eye contact with Allison, looking into her deep brown eyes. It was as if Lisa was back in The Black, when suddenly she felt this one hand reach out to her, pulling her towards light. Allison was extending a hand.
She never wanted to be pulled out of anything, ever, by someone else. Lisa was her own demon. She was her own angel. She was her own sister and best friend. There was no saving her or pulling her toward whatever heaven Allison was playing on.
“I’m guessing you want me to join your church? Be your best friend? You’re looking for a girlfriend?” Lisa sat distractingly close to Allison on purpose. She wanted Allison to feel her cold running into her pores. Allison rubbed her lips together, then put her face right in front of Lisa’s. “Nay lady…no church for me, already got a best friend…and I’m too busy raising my daughter for a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and I already had a husband…I’ve just been down, way down, in life and I thought I would let you know I see you.” Allison stood up and shook the crumbs off her shorts. “I see you Lisa. I see you and that’s all lady…that’s all.”
Allison got up and left the room, slamming the front door, which didn’t make Lisa angry. T
here was no point in being angry about it, but it did make her wonder why Allison had really shown up in the first place. Lisa looked at the cake, a little chocolate thing that was iced too perfectly to be homemade. The cake was a nice neighborly thing to do, but Allison’s attitude was a little forced. Her kindness was almost sticky and the fact that Allison’s hair bounced as she walked away annoyed the hell out of Lisa. She preferred Maggie’s grunts and growls.
Allison had warmth, beauty, and she was kind—all the things Lisa was not. Lisa put the fork in the cake, over and over again, stabbing the pretty dessert the way Lisa wished to stab Allison—and every other do-good, pretty-as-a-peach woman she came across. It wasn’t easy looking death-defyingly skinny with big eyes, and let’s not forget the constant frigid frost that circled around Lisa like a predator. Why all the same and none different? To Lisa, different equaled beautiful. Lisa realized that she was not, nor ever would be, beautiful.
She should be out looking for a mate, going along with the wishes of dear Superior Mother. Instead, she stabbed the cake to crumbs, grabbed her blanket, and crawled back into her tomb.
It did not go well with Lisa, and Allison knew it probably wouldn’t, but she didn’t care. “Fuck…fucking bitch…” Taking a moment to stop in front of her apartment, Allison took a breath and decided she would go in and calmly cook dinner for her daughter and mother, who would be back any minute. Allison needed to be happy with the fact that she told Lisa, “I see you. I see Lisa.” Allison saw more than Lisa; she saw her kind, or a hint of it. She had puzzle pieces to what these ladies were; it would take time, but she’d get them all. Eventually it would all come together, then she could see it all—not only Lisa, but all the Lisas out in the world. Allison aggressively cut the veggies and stirred the pot thinking that, next time, she’d tell Lisa more. She’d give Lisa bigger hints. ‘Not only do I see you, but I know you. I know your kind.’
Sitting down to eat dinner with her mother and daughter, Allison told herself that she could accept a simple life. She could accept a life of no travel, no money, no passion—all the things that make human life richer. Those things weren’t meant for her, and she was at peace with that. But, she couldn’t accept not getting any answers to her questions about these women. She needed to know. There was no other way. There was no route that would allow Allison to leave it alone. She was going to pick at it and pick at it until she knew who and what these women were.
Lisa pushed herself into her cushions and remembered the last woman she tried to be friends with. Maggie floated around Lisa’s memories and mixed into her eyes until she thought she could see Maggie standing across the room looking at her, pretending not to notice her, because that was her way. Lisa knew Maggie’s way, and Lisa knew she didn’t want to know Allison’s.
Abigail
Sitting in the bathtub, Abigail tried to peer out the window so she could see the trees. She tried to distract herself from wanting to run around the woods with bubbles. Palm print was giving her no peace. Abigail ran her hand over the bubbles. Palm print was probably bigger now…maybe a handprint. She had been very demanding of her mamma all weekend. Handprint pushed, shoved, and grabbed her mother’s insides. Abigail retreated to the bathtub hoping that surrounding her belly with hot water would sooth Sunny.
Abigail was sure the hot water was almost to a boil, but it wasn’t working for either of them. Abigail wanted out of the house, and Sunny wanted to be surrounded by blood not water. She blew the bubbles so they ran across the water. What to do with a murderous baby?
Abigail had spent Sunday cuddled up with Jacob; this seemed to calm Sunny. But now, Jacob was at work, and Abigail was alone with her. Anxiety over this was playing ping-pong in her chest.
Things were getting worse for Abigail; she was beginning to look beat up and bullied. Sunny had taken Abigail’s sleep now that she controlled her mamma’s dreams. Dreams that once were full of the sticks, leaves, and dirt from the woods were now nothing but random things dripping with blood. Sunny had a one-track-mind; nothing could sway her vision of always wanting more.
Last night, Abigail dreamt of the small creek a little ways from the cabin. She could see herself walking to the creek. The air was cool and breezy without being windy. The sky had fat chunks of clouds and she was wearing her favorite dress. In this dream, Abigail reached the creek wanting to walk along it and watch the water flow. Then, she saw a spot of red in the water. She ignored the red spot and kept walking. The red spot grew larger. Still, Abigail ignored it and kept walking. It grew until she could no longer resist and grabbed it. It was nothing but a large blood clot. A large slimy clot of blood, and when Abigail touched it, her belly and Sunny jumped. In this dream, she grabbed all the blood clots she could, shoving them into her pockets and trying to hold them in her skirt. Abigail held these blood clots as if they were her childhood teddy bear.
The last bit of dream Abigail could remember, was walking away from the creek holding her skirt open; it was full, almost spilling over, with blood clots.
Waking up, Abigail knew what Sunny wanted and needed, but this knowing filled her with the terror of where to get it. She lived in the country. She didn’t have access to many more animals. Abigail didn’t think she could get away with stealing another goat. Rabbits, cats, all critters just weren’t enough anymore. They weren’t enough for Sunny. Such a brat.
Grabbing a handful of bubbles, Abigail put them on her face. She wished she could cloud her thoughts this easily. She was now living in terror of her daughter. She had a stalker, an entity who desired harm buried inside her. There was no escaping the contempt of her daughter.
Abigail is terrorized by something she loved so deeply. How could those two emotions go so perfectly together? To love something that you are so frightened by. Maybe that is why The Grey have the Mothers hand in their babies and raise them apart. Abigail flicked the bubbles around. Could it be that Superior Mother took their daughters from them because she knew? She knew what wicked things they really were. Could the rules be in place to whisk that evil away? Abigail couldn’t really accept that, perhaps, there was a method to Superior Mother’s madness.
Did the babies grow to be blood-thirsty little fiends that must be controlled or otherwise drive their biological mothers insane, murderously insane? Abigail got out of the tub. She had no memory of her childhood until she started attending school in The Grey.
Her first memory was of her bed in the dormitory where she slept with all the other girls, under the constant watchful eye of a Mother. The girls spent their days in classes learning the school basics. The afternoons were where it got mixed up for Abigail. She remembered her afternoons working in The Grey’s gardens, but there were only a few girls there. Where were the others? What did they do in the afternoons?
In her dorm, there were at least twenty girls; but in the garden, there were how many? Drying herself with a towel and slipping on a pair of shorts, Abigail tried to remember the garden. How many girls were in the garden with her?
She thought she could remember just a few, maybe three who dug, seeded, planted alongside her. Where did the others go? Sitting on the back porch, Abigail tried to block out the tantrum that was beginning to stir in Sunny as she remembered her childhood.
There were classes and gardens. Abigail could barely see being small and listening to Superior Mother speak to them about doing as they are told and being a woman of The Grey one day. There were winks and smiles from the Mothers who were always icky sweet. An icky sweet that was usually filled with a hidden threat to behave. It was all so cloudy; she wanted desperately to remember it all, but Abigail felt defeated in a fight she believed had just started.
Then, the first bite came, and it knocked Abigail to her knees. Sunny had bitten her from within. Abigail had been bitten before by a girl who disappeared from The Grey. Naughty little girls disappeared, Abigail knew this, and did her best to behave. Because of that bite when she was young, she knew exactly how a bite felt; and this was it. Her da
ughter, in a fit of rage, bit her. The bite was small, a nibble even, but the pain of it seared through Abigail’s insides. It sent a clear message that her daughter was impatient and mean.
She laid down on the kitchen floor and tried to speak to her daughter. To tell her to be good, be patient, and most of all, to be kind to her mama. Abigail thankfully could not see the baby’s face pressed against her belly; there was a defiant smirk. Sunny would not be good, she would not be patient, and she would not think about being kind to her mama.
Across town, Mrs. Hanson sat in her car. She had been fidgeting with the idea of a drive all day. The idea of taking her old car out for a drive sparked with her coffee. It was almost lunch now, and yet the little spark wouldn’t go away; there was nothing left but to take that drive before her spark of an idea started a fire.
Mrs. Hanson had tried her best to mind her own business the last couple days, but the desire to go peek at that boy’s odd woman was too much. The desire sat in her head day and night, pawing at her. Between the spark of an idea, and the desire to check out the odd duck, Mrs. Hanson drove towards Jacob’s house without a second blink. Not caring who saw her go that way, and knowing that Jacob wasn’t there. She had seen him drive through town less than fifteen minutes ago. Mrs. Hanson had to go, she just had to.
There was enough coffee in her veins to give her just enough nerve to put her key in the ignition and go. Turning up the radio to the classic rock station, having the wind whip her hair all over, Mrs. Hanson almost felt twenty-two again.
For the first time since finding this guy with his quiet cabin in calm woods, Abigail felt despair. She sat at the kitchen table in Jacob’s little house, somewhat buried in the woods. It was fairy tale—quaint here. Even the kitchen table where Abigail now sat had characters that she cherished. The kitchen table was old, older than the guy; he must have gotten it off his grandparents or elders. There was wear where endless elbows hit the table and countless homework assignments were completed. Abigail sat there now, at her loved kitchen table, covered in despair. It clung to her, pushing inwards and trying to slowly choke out all hope.
Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy Page 31