Goldie and the Three Wisconsin Bears

It’s a nice one—stainless steel and enormous. But my shoulders droop with disappointment when I find it empty. Figures, considering there’s no electricity. I should have thought of that before getting my hopes up.

Dumb, dumb, I’m so dumb. Sometimes it feels like me and the girl who made it into Emory are two totally separate people.

I check the cabinets. Nothing there except plates. But then, jackpot! When I open the double pantry, I find all manner of dry goods: beans, canned vegetables, and several packages of pasta. Not only that, when I turn on the tap, water comes out. Hot water, which means there must be a gas heater in play somewhere on the property.

I only need one more thing to make this work.

“Please let it be a gas stove,” I beg whoever is up there, watching over me.

And…jackpot number two, it totally is! I grab the pasta and a saucepan from the cabinet below the range. Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m plating up the first home cooked meal I’ve had in…

Wow, I think it might be years. Tommy liked to eat out at restaurants. And I was expected to be at the door, ready and waiting for him whenever he came off his shift, dressed to slay in full hair and makeup.

Let me tell you, after years of restaurants and a week of scarfing gas station food in my car, eating a meal I made at a kitchen table feels like a dream come true. The only things that could make this dinner any better would be some overhead light and a nice glass of wine.

Not that I can have wine these days.

The thought of the baby growing inside of me takes some delight out of eating my first proper meal in years. I’d always dreamed of having a child, but not with Tommy. And not like this.

I pause, even though I’m only halfway done with my plate of spaghetti. I’m no longer hungry, and suddenly the day is catching up with me. I feel tired and weak. So, so weak.

But I can’t take good food for granted. And who knows when I’ll get my next meal? I force the rest of the spaghetti down, then rinse off the plate. There’s a dusty bottle of dish soap but no dishwasher or drying off towel that I can discern.

I do the best I can and leave the plate to dry on the counter. I’ll put it back tomorrow morning…and figure out how to make it the rest of the way to Canada without a car.

But tonight I’ve got to get some rest. It’s been a week since I slept in a proper bed.

I go back through the living room and feel my way around until I come to a hallway. I open the first door to find a larger than expected room. If I’m reading the room’s shadow play right, there’s a gigantic bed standing against the back wall.

Okay, I’m sure there’s a bathroom somewhere in here, but it feels all kinds of wrong to not only break into a cabin but also make myself right at home in what’s obviously the master bedroom.

I close the door and open the next one, hoping for a smaller bedroom. But the second room is the first one’s complete opposite. Super small, like a storage space with just enough room for an extra-long cot. I’m not choosy at this point, but there’s definitely no bathroom in here.

Okay, I’ll try the last door, and if that’s a bust, I’ll just have to tamp down my guilt and go back to the enormous master bedroom.

But to my pleasant surprise, the room behind door number three is perfect. Regular queen-sized bed. A small bathroom with a door I can close. Please let there be hot water in here too, I beg whoever’s watching over me again.

And I must be on a roll. The shower turns on with no problem, and after a few moments, the water warms up. I waste no time, stripping out of my grimy dress and jumping into the shower. God, the hot water feels so good on my skin. It makes me wish I could get my hair wet too.

But washing and conditioning my hair in the dark probably isn’t a good idea either. Pretty much the only thing I was allowed to keep from my time at Magic Peaches after Tommy made me quit was my long blond weave. It makes me look and feel as beautiful as Beyonce, but washing the golden extensions is a job. Plus, all the products I’d bought to maintain my weave at my last appointment were in the car that disappeared.

With a sigh, I grab the first bottle my hands find after fumbling around the dark shower. Maybe it’s body wash. Maybe it’s shampoo. Whatever it is, it smells good. Like pine needles and wood, same as the cabin. I gratefully soap up my body, then rinse off, careful to keep my hair out of the water as I do.