Page 23 of Kill For Me Kill For You
He closed the fridge, knelt and opened the little cupboard beside it.
‘Nope, looks like you went through the pretzels too, honey.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ruth.
‘It’s okay. I’ll go get us some in a second,’ he said.
‘But you’ll miss the show,’ said Ruth. She didn’t want anything. She still felt a little sick from the snacks she had eaten for lunch.
‘It’s fine. I’ll go to the vending machine at the end of the hallway.’
‘There’s a vending machine?’ said Ruth.
‘Yeah, we passed it when we checked in.’
Ruth had not left the room since they’d checked in. Nor had she let anyone in. The maid left fresh towels on a tray outside the room, as per Ruth’s note. Ruth left the used ones outside the door each morning. Twice a week she asked for fresh bedding. Scott didn’t like her changing the sheets. She said it was light work. She was fine.
Ruth was far from fine. She thought back to the day they’d checked in here, at the Paramount Hotel. Having to pass strangers on the street as she moved from the car to the hotel, then the lobby, and all of those people just standing and sitting around. There was nothing untoward about them – just guests and tourists going about their business. And yet the thought of it made her skin crawl. She remembered the vending machine now. They’d got out of the elevator, walked down a long hallway, turned left and found themselves in another chamber, with elevators at one end and the vending machine, then straight through, past four doors, to their room at the far end.
She looked at Scott, handsome, well built. Strong. She felt much better when he was with her. He had to work during the day, and his boss was understanding after the attack – letting him have some time off. He’d returned fulltime now. Some nights Scott wouldn’t get back to the hotel until past seven or eight. Those were the worst times. She wanted him with her before it got dark.
He toweled his hair, shaking droplets of water everywhere. She heard the hollow patter of those drops falling on the stack of pill boxes piled up on the dresser. Another new addition to her life. Ruth now had to take pills every day. Two in the morning – anti-depressants, to fight off the demons. One pill in the afternoon, a mild anti-psychotic, and one at night to help her sleep.
‘I’ll go to the machine in a second. What would you like?’ he said.
Ruth thought about the vending machine. In the hallway. Forty, maybe fifty feet from their room. The hallways would be quiet. Not like the morning rush down to breakfast. Room service and Scott bringing in pizza or Chinese food was all that Ruth was eating these days.
The vending machine was just outside. She could keep the door open with her novel. Be able to see the light from the room.
Forty feet.
A minute at the vending machine. Tops.
Ruth got up and put on her loose, high-waisted sweatpants – the ones Scott bought for her at Macy’s so she could have something comfortable to wear leaving the hospital. She put on one of Scott’s T-shirts, then the white toweling bath slippers.
‘Do you have some ones?’ she asked. ‘I’ll go to the machine.’
Scott stopped rubbing the top of his head with the towel, looked at Ruth. He smiled, then tried to hide it. He knew it was a big thing for her. Her first steps outside of the comfort of this room in two weeks. Important. Very important. But he shouldn’t play it that way. If he built it up too much, Ruth might lose her nerve. All these thoughts played out on his face like a movie screen. After five years of marriage, Ruth knew how to read him.
‘Sure, in my jeans,’ he said.
Ruth found his jeans in the bottom of the wardrobe, fished in the pockets and found twelve bucks in singles. She turned to the door.
Her book. She almost forgot. She retrieved the Patricia Highsmith novel from the bed, stood in front of the door. Money in one hand. Folded. Book in the other.
Ruth knew every grain of wood in that door. The dark swirls in the oak veneer just below the peephole. The evacuation notice pinned above that, framed in gold-painted plastic. The selection of door signs that hung on the handle.
She had studied that door like a prisoner looks at the door of their cell. Only Ruth didn’t want freedom. She didn’t want to step beyond. She loved the door, how solid it felt. And she hated it.
Ruth took a breath. Let it out slowly. Then she opened the door, took two steps forward and peered out. No one in the hallway. She turned, placed her book at the base of the frame, so the door couldn’t close, then quickly straightened up and turned round, fixing her eyes on the hallway, fearful in case the situation had changed.
There was no one.
The patterned carpet was richer here. Deeper. Her toweling slippers sank into it. Another breath in.
Out.
She stepped forward, knowing that at some point Scott would probably come to the door and watch her through the gap. That made her nervous, but also slightly braver. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
