Ginger Fox

“He was already lying there.” I see her curling up, hugging her own body as she sits next to me on the couch in the living room. “Do you believe me?”
I don’t know who to believe. My eyes are fixed on my fingers, stained with blood. Bob’s agonizing eyes are still stuck in my mind. I saw the paramedics’ helicopter lift off from the vast garden of the property, and Bob inside, uncertain whether he would arrive alive or dead at the hospital. I saw Lorane, her face twisted with grief, holding the boy’s hand before the aircraft departed. I can still see the two of them at the top of the stairs when I close my eyes. Baby said that when she arrived, Lorane was lying on the ground, crying and looking at the boy who had fallen down the stairs. When Roy confronted Lorane’s version, she also claimed that Bob was already there when she arrived, and that Baby appeared at the top of the stairs shortly after. I didn’t look up the stairs when I came in; I was so in shock from seeing Bob in that state that he was the only thing in my field of vision. Only later did I turn to where he had left his lost gaze.
“Gim, please, believe me. I didn’t push that boy.” I look at her as she cries back, her face red, pushing her hair back.
The only thing I can believe is that one of them is lying. I know Lorane would lie to the last strand of her hair to protect Baby; her obsession with James makes her more loyal to her past love than to the affair she’s having with her nephew. But Baby? I don’t know. I have no idea how far James/Baby might go to protect Lorane. My suspicions only grew when Mr. Roy asked if the fatal blonde had anything to say, but Baby stayed silent. She didn’t tell him about the suspicions that Bob was molesting Jon.
“Why didn’t you tell Jonathan the truth?” Baby sobs, covering her face and resuming her crying.
“You don’t understand. There’s no way to tell Roy about our suspicions.”
“Baby, Bob is between life and death. He didn’t fall from those stairs; he was pushed. Don’t you realize that there can’t be any more lies at this point? You need to tell Roy the truth.”
“NO!” She lifts her face and grabs my fingers with hers as she shouts, terrified. Her eyes close and she shakes her head in denial. “We can’t talk about this with Jonathan; just believe me. There are things that need to stay in the past… Please, believe me! I didn’t push Bob, and I’m protecting Roy.”
“Protecting Jonathan?” I pull my fingers away from hers, feeling even more confused. “I thought it was Jon who needed to be protected.”
“Gim, just trust…”
“Baby, I believe you didn’t push Bob down those stairs. I just don’t understand why you’re protecting Lorane. Why did you omit the truth about Bob to Roy? Can you see how many questions are unanswered?”
“Gim…”
“I got a call saying Bob is in surgery.” Baby falls silent, looking over my shoulder. I see her face as she turns to Roy, who lets out a sigh of relief upon hearing that the young man is still alive. Her gaze is truly worried. “Apparently, besides the fractured leg, he broke two ribs, one of which punctured a lung.”
“God…” Baby rubs her face, looking lost at me. I lower my gaze to my fingers, stained with dried blood. “Will he be okay, Roy?”
“We don’t know. Bob is in critical condition. I think it would be good to go there and stay with Lorane.” Baby’s eyes shine with fear, pleading with me for silence as she looks at me.
I exhale. I nod my head in agreement, giving her my response. She squeezes my fingers in return, planting a kiss on my forehead before getting up.
“How’s Auntie?” I drag myself out of the room, passing by Jonathan without the courage to look into his blue eyes.
I feel like I’m being dragged into a tar pit, full of lies, secrets, and rapid events, one crushing the other. The breakfast with Lorane’s shouting, the argument with Bob by the pool, James’s true face, the loss of control with Jonathan in that room, the moment I had with Baby in my bed, Bob’s condemning eyes as he fought to breathe. It all engulfs me. I want to run, escape, hide somewhere until my mind is my own again and I can sort through all this information.

“How are you?” The firm grip, just enough to stop me without hurting, rests on my shoulder. I inhale his scent, which makes me more clouded than I already am. I can feel Roy’s warm breath close to me as he examines me.
I’m adrift; I want to tell him that I’m swimming aimlessly in dark waters, filled with mysteries I can’t escape.
“I need to clean myself,” I whisper cowardly, still looking at my fingers. “Jon must be arriving soon…”
Too weak to endure the weight of his blue eyes, I shrink away, disentangling myself from his touch. I close my eyes as I approach the stairs, only opening them when I step on the first tread. The image of Baby and Lorane is still vividly present, at the top of the stairs: delicate, trapped in webs of dubious stories that connect them. I raise my arm, rubbing my face on the sleeve of my shirt, and quicken my pace down the hallway.
I pull the key to my room from my bag and open the door when I reach it. I sigh as I lean against the wooden door after entering and locking it. I look at the room, just as I left it before going to the pharmacy. I drop my bag at the foot of the bed. I hurry to the bathroom, needing to wash the blood off. I scrub vigorously, distressed. I still see Bob’s face contorting in pain. I scrub with more brutality until my skin burns, even after my fingers are clean and the sink is filled with red water. Hot tears stream down my face, mingling with the sobs escaping from my throat. I don’t care about the pain that sears my skin with every rough movement I make. I try to get clean, but I still feel dirty. Dirty from the lie I’ve kept. I throw my shirt away, as if that would lighten the emotional burden consuming me. I don’t want to look in the mirror. I can’t bear to see the state of my body, which I inflicted on myself. I can’t close my eyes because it’s Bob’s face that’s there, in the darkness of my eyelids, so I limit my view to the bloodied sink. I’m sure, I’m losing myself. I came here escaping the monotony of my stable life, searching for something I didn’t even know what it was, but I needed to get away, only now what’s tearing me apart is three times worse than what I felt in that Columbia apartment. It’s aggressive, uncontrolled, unreasoned, just feelings locked away inside me for too long, and I don’t know how to deal with them. I open my hands, cupping them under the faucet. I bring my face close to my hands, rubbing with the same distress with which I washed my fingers. I grab the towel, drying my face. I compose myself and, as I lift my head, my eyes go to the mirror. I let out a scream of panic, clutching the towel in front of my chest, hiding it from the eyes that watch.