Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

XIII

Sliding open my wardrobe doors, I randomly pick out a tanned shawl, which happens to be the first material staring at me in the face. I quickly wrap it around my neck, so it droops down like a big, knitted necklace. It might be cramping my style a bit, but I don't have time to figure out anything else. At least, it would perform the function of protecting me from random stares since my dress is revealing.

Goodness knows I wouldn't want to be a centre of attraction in a convenience store. Most certainly not after drudging through the ordeal of receiving the most unfavourable scrutiny I've had in a while, by the generosity of my husband.

I slip into the bathroom to check my hair, which I haven't paid any attention since the start of the day. Surprisingly, it is still in the braided ponytail I arranged it in more than a day ago. Since I'm a still-sleeper—usually able to sleep all through the night in one or two positions, rarely turning or rolling on the bed—my braids or hairstyles hardly get ruined during the night. Nonetheless, I run a small brush over my crown, pressing any stray hairs down to put any doubts out of my mind.

He is seated comfortably on the sofa with a channel broadcasting news on the TV by the time I emerge with my purse and a mental list of items to purchase. I feel his eyes on me when I bend to grab my phone on the chair opposite his, but I'm out the door without a word from either of us. He probably wouldn't have said anything at all.

A stale, dry breeze sweeps by as soon as I step into the open, and I wrinkle my nose, registering the tart brittleness of the air compared to the humid one in the house. I pull out my purse to ensure the presence of some bills and my debit card. It would be the height of humiliation if I began to check out all that I needed to buy at the supermarket but then realised that I had no means of paying.

My body quakes brittlely to envision the embarrassment that would, without contention, cloak me like a blanket. I take my imagination further by playing out the convo that might occur afterward with the salesperson wearing a pitiful look on his/her face. "Ma'am, would you like me to take back all the items?" Yikes? Yes, yikes.

To my relief, the red shimmering card is right where it is supposed to be in the middle compartment of my clutch. I grimace, swallowing emptiness as running my thumb over its sharp edges brings back an unfond recollection.

My mind runs back to the first time I visited California, which was also when I opened the bank account I am presently using. I recall how long the arguments for what state in the US we—my supposed family and I—should visit had been. It would be impossible to forget how badly I had insisted on not going to New York.

There were, and still are, way too many painful memories hanging like grey, stormy clouds over the city I spent chunks of my childhood in. It, so, had been obvious that I couldn't face any of them yet.

Going to Florida had not been an option either; everyone knew that. It was an unspoken law, especially among my progenitors, that we would never step foot in that wretched place where our ménage was torn apart—even though they were the ones who ripped out the very foundations of our family. I would have pointed this truth out if Ma had not forced me to be on my best behaviour and strive for peace. That was the purpose of the stupid family vacation in the first place.

We chose California at last. I can still sense the smug look that had glued itself to my face when the destination was finalised, being the one who had made the suggestion.

My twin sister had been livid, but I could not bring myself to care, as there was a part of me that had always wanted to visit California. It was the place Savannah, the single genuine friend I had in my younger years, had been in such a hurry to flee to and, in the long run, abandon me for.