Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ knew she had because after she’d locked it, she’d tested it twice.

      “How are you doing in there?”

      Greg. He sounded worried. Maybe she had spent an overly long time in the shower, but the need to feel clean, really clean, had pushed her to stay under the hot stream of water until it had run lukewarm.

      “Okay.”

      “You must be hungry. I’m making spaghetti.”

      At the mention of food her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

      “Good.”

      She scrambled into his jeans and gave a sigh of relief when they buttoned and zipped. Her butt was snug but that was to be expected when the owner of the jeans didn’t have one of those either. The T-shirt was a thick cotton and navy blue. She tucked it in and bloused it a little to create a loose effect. Satisfied she didn’t scream “here are my boobs, please look at them” she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom. She’d already used a comb to untangle her hair and tie it up into a knot that would hold as long as it was still wet.

      The two men were already in the kitchen. Greg was using prongs to dish out pasta and then handing Chuck a big bowl of what appeared to be sauce and meatballs. A green plastic container of cheese and a basket of white square bread she was pretty sure came out of a plastic bag sat on the table amongst the dishes.

      This was wrong. Dinner was not being served properly. Instinctively, she knew that.

      “You know if you pour the pasta back into the pot where the gravy is cooking, it will take on some of the flavor. Then you can serve it already mixed together.”

      They looked at her for a moment as if she was an alien, but then Greg nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try that next time.”

      She approached the table and sat down. She wanted to be grateful. She was grateful. The shower, the clothes, the feeling that there was a place in the world for her to be. She owed these two men everything.

      But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?

      Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.

      Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.

      Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.

      She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

      “You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”

      He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.

      “And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”

      He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.

      She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”

      Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”

      “Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.

      Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.

      After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.

      You used to eat pasta off of china.

      The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.

      Think! When? Where? With whom?

      “We need a name for you.”

      The question startled her out of her thoughts.

      “We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”

      She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”

      “What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”

      She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”

      “Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.

      “No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”

      “Maybe you know girls named Bunny and Cherry and they are strippers,” Greg allowed.

      “I hardly think I spend my time around strippers.” She was offended. Then she realized how snobbish that had sounded, as well. For all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.

      Oh my God! Do I have a child?

      “Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”

      It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.

      “For now we’ll call you Jane.”

      Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”

      Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.

      “Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”

      “What’s the other?”

      “You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      HE WATCHED AS JANE SCRUNCHED her face in rejection.

      “You can’t possibly know that.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ