Page 78 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Outside the sounds of the hammer continue. Five sharp hits before a reprieve, during which I can assume he picks up another nail to start the process all over again.
With a sigh I lift the makeup-remover towelette and wipe it over one eye. And then the other. I rub and scrub and remove the mascara and eyeliner as best as I can. Try to rid myself of the face of the weak woman I no longer want to be.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
When I open my eyes to my reflection, my lids are clean, but traces of black shadow remain under my eyes. A smoky black stain telling me she will never leave me. That I’ll always be that woman until I can erase the darkness that still lingers. The shame. The insecurity.
So I scrub harder. The pounding noise becomes a sound track to my burgeoning panic as I wipe and scrub to rid my face of every last reminder. Of the past I desperately wish I could forget.
Before I’m done, my movements have grown frantic and my emotions run haywire as the tears that I’ve held back all night slowly slide down my face. Some of the black makeup smears and makes trails down my cheeks. Visual reminders when all I want to do is get in the car and drive. To somewhere new. Away from the pain. Away from the hurt.
But I can’t.
Zander proved that tonight with the truths he threw in my father’s face. I showed it too. I stood up to him for the first time in my life. And God yes, it was hard and it hurt, but at the same time it felt so damn good. To finally have a voice, a way to assert myself, and prove not only to him but to myself that I am earning my new place in life. That the meek, scared Gertrude no longer exists. Sure, her memories remain, but I will try to use them as fuel to encourage me to succeed rather than as a fear preventing me from doing something.
Rising from the vanity, I pick up my discarded dress on the bed. I rub my fingers over the expensive fabric and place it in the laundry with the knowledge that I’ll never wear it again. To Mable’s it will go.
A symbol of my past sold for pennies on the dollar. I wish my memories were as easy to get rid of.
With a grumbling stomach, I head toward the kitchen. I’m hungry but don’t have any desire to eat. That sick-to-my-stomach feeling I had listening to my father’s disdain still lingers.
When I glance out the kitchen window, I see that Zander didn’t even bother to change. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, cuffs rolled up at the sleeves. His shoes are off, bare feet sticking out beneath his trousers. But it’s the etched look of concentration and anger that holds my gaze.
He moves to a rhythm only he knows and I can’t help but watch and wonder why he’s so upset. Because he is upset. On the way home, I thought his silence was just a courtesy so I could work through how I was feeling. But now as I watch him, shoulders squared, body tense, face reflecting the civil war of emotions going on inside him, I know his silence has nothing to do with being respectful and everything to do with him.
I just wish I knew what it was.
There’s a precision to his actions that’s mesmerizing and probably best explained as control
led fury. And I’m not sure how long I stand there and watch him, but the more time that passes, the need to do something for him after all he’s done for me tonight develops to the point where I can’t ignore it.
Food. Food helps and comforts. He skipped dinner like I did, so I’m sure he’s hungry, but more than anything, it gives me something to do and will ease my restlessness. Normally I’d lock myself in my room and paint, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel inspired. I’m drained and not sure I can handle any more emotion being thrown into the mix.
So I’ll attempt to cook.
The flashbacks come out of nowhere while I’m rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator to see what ingredients we have on hand.
The beef bourguignon I had to prepare every Monday and the herb-crusted chicken that was mandatory on Wednesdays and all the other particular preparations Ethan required when our house staff had the night off. The plates upended in my lap because the beef was too tough or the sauce wasn’t thick enough. My answering scramble to hopefully fix what I could so I didn’t have to give him the proper apology he’d deem fitting for the infraction.
The sound of the hammer pulls me back to the present. Never again, Getty. Never. Again.
I look back to all the offerings in the kitchen and struggle with what to make, slightly amused that while I can cook four rather complicated meals to perfection, I really have no idea how to cook anything else, since Ethan never accepted any variation.
Settling on the one meal I can’t screw up too horribly, I opt for eggs, bacon, and toast. Simple. Almost error-proof. And with the hopes that the same meal we had this morning will bring us back to that feeling of contentment we found at the Treehouse.
Soon I’m lost in the easy preparation, but when I reemerge, the hammering triggers thoughts I don’t want to acknowledge. How I want him to slow down, take a night off . . . because the faster he finishes the repairs on the house, the sooner he’ll return to his everyday life.
Away from here.
Once the food is cooked, I load the plates and head toward the sliding glass door just as Zander comes in.
“I figured you were hungry. . . . We skipped dinner. . . . So I made you something.” Suddenly I’m stumbling over the words, feeling ridiculous that I’m nervous about it. “It’s nothing special.”
His eyes widen at the sight of the food. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m hungry.” Somehow it seems the words are just as hard for him to come by too. “Let me go wash up. Thank you.”
When Zander returns to the kitchen, a strange look flickers over his features as he sits down. “Breakfast for dinner, huh?”
I fight the inherent need to apologize. “Yes. Is that okay?”
