The Wrong Way to Rock Bottom | UPDATES Fri/Mon

25

I don't tell Owen's mom what happened. I planned to, but then she pulled into the driveway looking so exhausted, and when she took Owen back without asking how everything went, I got the impression that she wouldn't want to hear it. She still hasn't told me why he doesn't speak. That, combined with the fact that she hasn't explained why I can't watch him at his house, makes me think that Hannah is a very private person. Whatever is going on with her and her son, she doesn't want me to know. I don't want her getting nervous and telling me I can't watch Owen again. It's silly, considering I'm volunteering for unpaid labor. But I'd miss him.

However, between dealing with his panic attack and coaxing Amanda down from her ledge, I'm completely exhausted. The moment Hannah's car pulls away, I drag myself back into the house and go straight for the aster bathroom. I need a hot bath. Maybe if I stay in long enough, my skin will shrivel so much that I'll actually turn into a raisin, and then I will have no problems, because raisins don't have to do anything except be raisins. There's a dream job.

It's not until after I've turned on the water in the tub that I remember, I spent the morning doing laundry in an effort to avoid my responsibilities and as a result, all of my towels are on my bed. Waiting to be folded. So, so far away.

Cursing my procrastinating nature, I stagger back to my room, and I'm just reaching for a towel when my phone buzzes. Naturally, I sit down to read the notification. This is my fatal mistake.

The bed is my own personal Alcatraz. Except in place of steel bars and miles of ocean water, I'm trapped by four year old pillows and a comforter I got from the Walmart clearance rack. I physically cannot get up. I tell myself, Lissa, get up, but instead my head sinks lower and lower. I could have sworn my pillows were lumpy this morning. Now they feel like heaven.

I will lie here for ten seconds, and then I will get up.

My eyes drift shut.

"Lissa!"

Someone shakes my shoulder roughly, jerking me awake.

"Huh. Wha?" I sit up and rub my eyes. Was I sleeping?

Jamie is still holding my shoulders. "Did you leave the bath on?"

I stare dumbly at him, trying to pull a coherent thought from the muddle of my brain. Why is he in my room? Why is he wet?

Then his question registers, and I gasp.

"No!" I throw off his grip and stumble out of bed. "No, no no no!"

Please don't be bad, please don't be bad, please don't be bad....

I reach the master bedroom and screech to a halt. There's water, everywhere. Flowing over the tub, pooling on the tile, soaking through the bathroom rugs and into the wooden bottom of the vanity. It's even slipped under the door and formed puddles on the bedroom's pine flooring.

"We have to stop the leaking." Jamie pushes past me from behind, his arms full of the towels that had lured me into the ambush. "It's coming through the ceiling in the living room."

I take the towels he thrusts at me and start stuffing them madly in the corners where the wall meets the floor. I know zilch about construction but my brain convinces me that this is the logical place for leaks to happen.

"What were you thinking?" Jamie demands, working furiously to mop up the spill outside the door. "Falling asleep with the water running?"

"It was an accident!" I squawk. It was the bed. It must have cast some sort of spell on me. I only closed my eyes for ten seconds, so clearly, there is sorcery involved here. It seems important for Jamie to know this.

But before I can warn him, he's saying sarcastically, "Of course it was. It's always an accident. You leave a trail of disasters everywhere you go but it's never your fault, is it? You're just the victim. Life's a gym and you're the punching bag."

I blink. "Well now that you put it that way, I do have this theory about a curse-"

"Tell it to someone who cares." He throws his last towel down and rocks back on his heels. For the first time, I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He's exhausted. "Do you have any idea how much work this is going to take to fix? I mean, not just the damage in here, but the living room ceiling, the drywall, the floor outside. Best case scenario, it's going to put me back a whole week."

My apology dies on my tongue. A delicious, diabolical idea takes shape in my mind. If I were a cartoon character, there'd be a lightbulb over my head right about now.

I know how to save this house.