Terrified (4 page)
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Seattle—May 18, 2000
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he pretty, twentyish barista with her light brown hair pulled back into a scrunchie was wearing too much makeup today. Even with two people in front of her in line for coffee, Megan could tell the young woman at the counter was trying to conceal a black eye and a bruised chin. Those who weren’t in the know about such things probably didn’t really notice. They just wanted their morning caffeine fix.
he pretty, twentyish barista with her light brown hair pulled back into a scrunchie was wearing too much makeup today. Even with two people in front of her in line for coffee, Megan could tell the young woman at the counter was trying to conceal a black eye and a bruised chin. Those who weren’t in the know about such things probably didn’t really notice. They just wanted their morning caffeine fix.
Café Z was an espresso stand in the lobby of a modern, thirty-four-story building in downtown Seattle. A few café tables with chairs were in close proximity to the counter, where the overworked barista served up coffee and espresso, as well as sandwiches, sweets, and snacks, “delivered fresh daily” according to the sign. The little stand was tucked between a Kinko’s and the awful mini-mart Megan was boycotting—after she’d been charged $1.91 for a lousy twelve-ounce can of Diet Coke.
She worked as a clerk at Camper, George and White Law Partners, a small firm on the seventeenth floor. She’d started at the firm almost two years ago, answering phones, working the Xerox machine, and running a ton of errands, which included fetching people’s coffee from Café Z in the lobby. It had been her brainstorm to install a Mr. Coffee machine in the tiny lunchroom. Once she arrived at 8:30 every morning, she saw to it there was always fresh brew for everyone in the firm. Only Megan—and an occasional early bird in the office—still fueled up at Café Z in the morning. Mr. Camper had mentioned at the last staff meeting that the firm would “fold up and die” without her. She’d been happy to hear that. It meant job security. Plus it made those days and occasional overtime nights away from Josh almost worth it.
Almost.
Almost.
Megan hated having to hear from Cara, Beth, Lilly, or one of the other staff members at Alphabet Junction Daycare about the little milestones in Josh’s life. Back when he’d been fifteen months old, Josh walked for the first time—for Lilly. He waited another two weeks before taking a few steps for her. It was Beth who taught him to raise his hands over his head in response to the question, “How big is Josh?” Megan watched Beth demonstrate the routine for her. Josh was so cute when he giggled in his Alphabet Junction Daycare high chair and raised his chubby little arms in response to Beth’s cue. In awe, Megan laughed and cried at the same time.
Later that night, she just cried.
The “How big is Josh?” routine was just one more thing someone else had shared with Josh before her. Megan did the routine with him, too, and she loved his gleeful response. Yet the little banter felt borrowed from the day care center worker who had originated it.
Filling in for the part of Beth in “How Big Is Josh?” is Josh’s mother, Megan.
Filling in for the part of Beth in “How Big Is Josh?” is Josh’s mother, Megan.
Still, she was grateful for Alphabet Junction Daycare—and the staff, who all adored Josh. Around his first birthday, Megan had realized the money she’d set aside was running out. She had to find a job. She also had to find a sitter for Josh. She interviewed about twenty candidates, and settled on Hildy, a sturdy Russian woman who spoke little English and lived only five blocks away. Her apartment smelled like boiled cabbage and sweat, and it was kind of a mess. Plus for some reason, after changing Josh, she almost always dressed him with his clothes inside-out or backwards. Megan could never figure out why. But Josh seemed to like her. Hildy lasted five weeks—until she was arrested for some food-stamps scam. Then Megan found Alphabet Junction Daycare.
She also found a new place to live: a recently renovated two-bedroom basement apartment in a big old, white-shingle Capitol Hill mansion with four other units. Her apartment was cute, and surprisingly bright for a basement. And at last, Josh had his own room. The building was three blocks from Group Health Hospital, a Safeway, and the bus stop. Megan became nodding acquaintances with all her neighbors: a lesbian couple, an elderly widower who fawned over Josh, newlyweds in law school together, and a single, thirtyish man who lived above Megan and traveled a lot.
Hers was the only unit in the basement. The laundry and storage rooms were across the hall. Megan still couldn’t get used to her neighbors using the basement entrance to wash their laundry. The sound of someone unlocking the outside basement door always sent her into a panic. She’d automatically think it was the police or a private detective—or as far-fetched as it seemed, maybe even a hired killer sent there to settle an old score.
Megan never forgot that she was on the run. And she always expected the worst to happen. Occasionally someone knocked on her door to borrow quarters for the washing machine, and it gave her a start—until she realized it was just a neighbor.
She and Josh weren’t used to visitors
She’d become friendly with certain people at work, but never invited them over. It wasn’t as if a guest would ever find clues to her personal past in the apartment. No, all the photos and mementos from her life before were well hidden—in an old Nordstrom box in the back of her closet. Just the same, Megan still didn’t feel comfortable letting people into her home.
But she was about to make an exception to that.
She knew the pretty barista at Café Z by name. This wasn’t the first time Jade had come to work with poorly concealed bruises. It was easier to see them with her limp, unwashed hair pulled back in a scrunchie. Megan remembered those nights when her head was so sore from a beating that she couldn’t wash or even brush her hair. She imagined that was why Jade sported the pink scrunchie this morning.
In her brief chats with Jade, Megan had heard about Wes: “Wes has a baseball game this weekend” and “I couldn’t work all last week, because Wes was sick, the poor baby,” and “Wes got into a fight with the neighbor’s kid.” For the longest time, Megan had thought Wes was Jade’s son, and he played baseball with a Little League team. But no, he was a big boy, her boyfriend—and a total scumbag, so Megan deduced. The neighbor’s son was college age, and apparently, Wes had been drunk or high when the fight had broken out.
Megan had no idea what condition Wes was in whenever he started in on Jade—if he had to be drunk or angry or just bored. She knew from her own experiences that anything could trigger a beating. She also knew Jade didn’t want to talk about it. She’d hear other customers ask Jade about her bruises—sometimes the purplish marks were on her face, sometimes there were defense bruises on her arms. Jade would always tell the same lies that Mrs. Glenn Swann had told about tripping over something or walking into a door.
Megan was next in line. She watched Jade at work behind the counter, as slow as molasses in January, as Megan’s mother used to say. Jade moved sluggishly on her bruised days. And she wasn’t her usual bubbly, chatty, flirty self. Half the guys in the firm were hot for Jade. She was indeed quite pretty with a creamy complexion, long-lashed blue eyes, and—when it was clean—wavy, lustrous light brown, shoulder-length hair. The burgundy apron she wore didn’t quite cover up her gorgeous figure. Whenever Megan heard someone mention she looked like Jade, she took it as a compliment. Jade had even once told her that a customer had asked her if she had a sister who worked in the law firm on the seventeenth floor. Megan might have been flattered, but the notion of some stranger asking questions about her—even the most innocuous questions—worried her. The man in front of Megan stuffed a dollar in Jade’s tip jar and walked away with his latte. Jade threw her a crooked smile. “Hey, Meg, the usual?”
Nodding, she leaned against the counter. “Thanks.”
“Could you do me a favor?” Jade asked, working the espresso machine. “Could you phone in a bomb threat on this building—so they’ll evacuate the place? Then maybe I could lock up and go home. I really, really don’t want to be here today.”
“Rough night last night?” Megan asked.
“You could say that,” Jade sighed, over the hissing of the espresso machine.
“Wes giving you trouble again?” she pressed.
Jade didn’t answer. Megan figured she was pretending not to hear the question. She dug a five-dollar bill and a pen out of her purse, then scribbled her phone number on a napkin. As Jade put her drink on the counter, Megan gave her the napkin. “That’s my phone number,” she whispered. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was behind her. “If it becomes really bad at home, get out of there and call me. I’ll put you up for as long you need. You should have someplace to go where he can’t possibly find you.”
Jade frowned at her, and set down the napkin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—and neither do you.” She turned to the register, stuck the five in the drawer, and counted out Megan’s change. She pushed it at her on the countertop. “Thanks anyway,” she grumbled.
Megan rolled up her sleeve to reveal three faint white scratches across her forearm. “I was with someone for over a year. He did this to me with a belt buckle. I’ve got other scars, too. I know what I’m talking about, Jade—and so do you.” Megan rolled down her sleeve. Stuffing the change in the tip jar, she picked up her espresso cup, and then nodded at the napkin on the counter. “Just tuck that phone number away someplace safe for the next rough night.”
Jade was still scowling at her. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t need any advice.”
“Yes, you do,” Megan said. “If you don’t get any help, at least switch to Cover FX, and use a sponge-tip applicator. It hides the bruises better. I used to swear by it.” She worked up a smile. “I’m sorry I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ll shut up now.”
With a sigh, Jade grabbed the napkin and scrunched it in her fist. “Have a nice day,” she said tonelessly.
Megan nodded. She retreated toward the elevators with her espresso. She knew exactly what Jade was going through. She knew the mortification and shame, that feeling of failure—because someone saw through the lies. They saw the bruises through the carefully applied makeup. She knew Jade resented her right now. But at least the poor girl now had an out—someone she could turn to if things got too bad.
Toward the end, Mrs. Glenn Swann hadn’t had anyone like that.
The elevator bell rang, and the light went on above the last door on the right. Megan glanced back toward the Café Z stand. She saw Jade begrudgingly stuff the wadded-up napkin in the pocket of her burgundy apron. Megan felt better—for about a second. Then she suddenly realized all her good-intentioned meddling could get her in trouble. What if Jade took her up on her offer—and somehow the police got involved? Could she risk that happening?
Any brush with the law—even a peripheral involvement in some domestic abuse case—was dangerous for her. And she didn’t know Jade very well. The barista could be a total flake. Megan imagined Jade telling her brute of a boyfriend about the woman at the law firm who had offered her asylum. Megan could just see him getting pissed off and coming after her—and Josh. Was she putting her little boy in danger too?
Stepping into the elevator with her espresso, Megan had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. She pressed 17. As the doors closed, she glanced toward Café Z again—at Jade behind the counter. She glimpsed the back of a man in a red sweater as he approached the coffee stand. Then the elevator door shut.
Megan hadn’t recognized the man in the red sweater.
But she should have.
The napkin dispenser had shiny tin sides like mirrors. Jade bent toward the counter and gazed at it. She could see her reflection in the tin, and she could see exactly what Megan had been talking about. She hadn’t done such a great job camouflaging the bruises on her eye and her chin, which were still smarting despite the four ibuprofens she’d swallowed this morning.
She shouldn’t have gotten all snippy and defensive with Megan. The poor woman was just trying to help. Jade decided to keep the phone number—just in case.
Glancing up from the napkin dispenser, she noticed one of her pain-in-the-ass regulars swaggering toward the counter. There were nice return customers like Megan, and there were losers like Lyle, who always made her cringe inside. At first glance, she might have thought Lyle was cute. He must have had a lot of money, because he used to put a five- or ten-dollar bill in her tip jar as if it were nothing. Plus he always wore these slightly garish, expensive-looking sweaters. This morning, it was this red number—with a yellow and purple swirl design in front. She stared at him, thinking:
Hey, Lyle. Bill Cosby called. He wants his sweater back.
Hey, Lyle. Bill Cosby called. He wants his sweater back.
Jade cracked a tiny smile. Lyle must have thought she was smiling at him, because he broke into a cocky grin. “Well, how’s the most beautiful barista in Seattle?”
Her smile faded. He gave her the creeps. He’d asked her out twice, and Jade had refused him both times, explaining she had a boyfriend. After that, the tips weren’t so generous. Plus he started commenting on the bruises she couldn’t quite conceal. Another regular might have asked, “Oh, did you hurt yourself?” But Lyle was so tactless—and nosy. “What happened to your face?” he’d asked one morning a few weeks back. “Did somebody hit you? Was it your boyfriend? Why are you with him? You deserve better… .”
You mean someone like you? Some loser?
she’d wanted to ask. But Jade had just made up some lie about an accident while playing tennis, and then she’d asked for his order.
she’d wanted to ask. But Jade had just made up some lie about an accident while playing tennis, and then she’d asked for his order.
She could see he was studying her face right now. Like Megan, he seemed to detect the bruises under the layer of CoverGirl. Jade didn’t quite look him in the eye. “What can I get for you?” she asked.
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