I walked out of the bathroom and into the room again, past the bed, dresser, and sitting area, and opened the two doors there, which led to a walk-in closet the same size as the bathroom. Hanging in the closet were three black garment bags and sitting beneath, one pair of black heels and white, fluffy slippers. I unzipped the first garment bag and found a black sequin dress with a modest neckline that would hit me right at the collarbone. When I turned it over, I found the entire back was exposed and also hanging from the hanger was a black mask that I knew wouldn’t cover my face fully. The next garment bag had a white robe. The other, a red robe. I remembered the first on-campus party I’d attended with Aisha and how we’d been spooked by people wearing red robes and hoods. I zipped the bag back up, unpacked the clothes in the suitcase, and set up the phone Dr. Thompson had given me.
As promised, Dr. Thompson’s number was saved under “Dr. Russel Thompson,” as well as Detective Barry’s number and Stella Thompson’s. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of her name. I pushed the number and dialed. It went straight to voicemail, but upon hearing her voice, my own breath held.
“Hey, this is Stella. Don’t leave a message. I won’t get it. Please text me. Spanx!”
I called again and played it again. It didn’t sound like my voice. I hated my voice. Hers sounded nice. She enunciated every letter in every word the way a proper lady would. I practiced it.
“Hey, this is Stella.”
“Hey, this is Stella.”
“This is Stella.”
I said it over and over, until I thought there was a chance I might convince myself of the fact that I was no longer Eva Guerra, but Stella Thompson. Then, I stood and practiced it in front of the floor-length mirror. There was a knock at the door, which interrupted my rehearsal. When I opened it, I saw an older lady who looked like she could be someone’s grandmother, wearing blue scrubs.
“Um. Hi?”
“Your dinner, Miss Thompson.”
“Sure.” I opened the door wider and let her come in with the tray in her hands. “Do you want me to get that for you?”
“Do no such thing.” Her tone made me shut my mouth.
She was short, with wide hips and dark eyes that looked like they’d lost their light long ago. It killed me to see that in older people. Karen wasn’t as old as this woman, but her eyes were like that too. Faraway looks that made me wonder what this was all for. All of this life and experience we gain through the years that seem to amount to the loss we bear.
“You may shut the door,” she said, setting the tray down on the table in the sitting area.
“Oh.” I did as I was told and shut the door quietly.
“You may approach.” Her eyebrow rose. “I don’t bite.”
I laughed lightly, walking over to her and taking a seat on one of the two chairs. She sat in the other. I didn’t know what was underneath the silver bowl, but I was starving and whatever it was smelled good.
“Grilled cheese and tomato bisque.” She nodded at the tray. “It’ll get cold if you don’t start eating. I’m only here because I don’t like it when people eat alone.”
“Oh.” I uncovered the plate and began eating, then stopped mid-chew and raised the plate, with the other half of the grilled cheese to offer it to her.
“I’m fine.” She smiled. “Thank you.”
I kept eating, too hungry to speak; I dipped the grilled cheese into the soup and devoured the meal as if it was my last, and then it hit me, I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. Had Dr. Thompson fed me? I didn’t think so. I had water and champagne at the hair salon, but that was it. They definitely didn’t feed me at the jail. I couldn’t remember anything prior to that so it was no use. I thought hard, squeezed my eyes shut as I chewed to try to remember the last time I had something in my stomach, but it was no use.
“Slow down,” she said. “You’ll get a stomachache.”
I slowed my chewing and swallowed. “So you work here?”
“I do. Otherwise, these boys would starve, though I will say a few of them know their way around a kitchen.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Forty-three years.”
“Forty . . . what?” I blinked. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Sixty-five and it’s a rude question.” She shot me a pointed look. “I feel fifty-five most days.”
“You look younger than sixty-five.” I continued eating.
“That’s why I keep working. It keeps my mind sharp and my muscles tight.” She flexed her arm.