tray and push the door closed with my elbow. The hot tray threatens to burn my hands, so I set it on the floor. The rising steam smells sweet, like apples. And something else. Mint?
There are two possibilities. One, he’s trying to poison me. Or two, he’s actually trying to be nice. If option one is true, I am a sitting duck. I’m stuck in his house, and he’s going to get me one way or another. But it’s hard to believe he would poison me with an herbal bath when he could have easily let those people kill me today. Unless that was all a setup to lure me here, and he wants the satisfaction of killing me himself. But he’s had so many other opportunities. There’s no need to go to this trouble.
As for option two, maybe he feels guilty about ruining my life and he’s trying to redeem himself. If I don’t use the herbal bath, his feelings might be hurt. Do I care about his feelings? Hardly. Maybe it’s a test. If I pass, he doesn’t kill me. If I fail, he kills me. I’m not offended at his disregard for my medical knowledge to heal my own leg. He let me treat his brow, so he must think my experience is good for something. I could dump it in the toilet and pretend I used it. But why bother lying?
Holy shit I’m neurotic.
I get in the tub. The herbal liquid sits there demanding my attention.
Surely something that smells like a mixture of sweet herbs must be harmless. The drying flowers and herbs hanging on the eaves on the back porch pop into my mind. Modern medicine began with folk remedies such as these.
I lie in the tub and soak but it doesn’t last. The brew’s heady smell has permeated the room and won me over. His intentions make no difference. If he poisons me, so be it. No one will miss me.
I drain the tub and set the tray inside. I dip my shin into the tray until the water covers my entire leg. The warmth of the water itself offers instant relief since I’m soaking wet and cold. Although it might be a placebo effect, the soreness in my leg seems to ease. I let it soak for as long as I can stay in position before I dump and rinse the tray.
It’s hard to deny my leg feels better, but it’s impossible to know if it was the herbal bath and not just the warm water. Regardless, I tried. He can’t expect any more than that, and I don’t really care if he does.
I dry off and get dressed in a flannel shirt and cotton pants. Putting weight on my leg seems easier, but it still could be my imagination. I take my things back to the bedroom. The bed has been made up with clean sheets and an old quilt. Everything smells fresh from the laundry.
Hearing no sign of him in the house, I follow the smell of food into the kitchen. I let out my breath, relieved to find him absent from the room. A pot of rice sits steaming on the stove next to a pan full of mixed vegetables. I open the lid of a third pan. Scrambled eggs, bright yellow and fluffy. A clean plate and silverware wait beside the stove. My attention zones in on my hollow stomach. It seems like weeks since I’ve eaten a real dinner. I said I didn’t want him doing me any more favors, but I already ruined that pledge with the herbal bath. This meal is impossible to turn down, and much easier to accept if I don’t have to eat it with him.
I help myself and sit down at the table shoved against the wall with no better place to go in this small room. The vegetables taste so fresh they must have just been picked from the garden outside. I’m too caught up savoring the food to hear him come in but suddenly he’s here, shrinking the room even smaller. Either he needs to go, or the refrigerator. These are quarters too close for strangers to be comfortable. Riding in the truck with him was bad enough.
“If I make you some tea for your stomach, will you drink it?” His face seems sheepish. Or is he hiding something?
My stomach twists in reply. “Yes,” I hear myself say around a mouthful of rice. My hunger won’t let me escape this cramped room, or say
There are two possibilities. One, he’s trying to poison me. Or two, he’s actually trying to be nice. If option one is true, I am a sitting duck. I’m stuck in his house, and he’s going to get me one way or another. But it’s hard to believe he would poison me with an herbal bath when he could have easily let those people kill me today. Unless that was all a setup to lure me here, and he wants the satisfaction of killing me himself. But he’s had so many other opportunities. There’s no need to go to this trouble.
As for option two, maybe he feels guilty about ruining my life and he’s trying to redeem himself. If I don’t use the herbal bath, his feelings might be hurt. Do I care about his feelings? Hardly. Maybe it’s a test. If I pass, he doesn’t kill me. If I fail, he kills me. I’m not offended at his disregard for my medical knowledge to heal my own leg. He let me treat his brow, so he must think my experience is good for something. I could dump it in the toilet and pretend I used it. But why bother lying?
Holy shit I’m neurotic.
I get in the tub. The herbal liquid sits there demanding my attention.
Surely something that smells like a mixture of sweet herbs must be harmless. The drying flowers and herbs hanging on the eaves on the back porch pop into my mind. Modern medicine began with folk remedies such as these.
I lie in the tub and soak but it doesn’t last. The brew’s heady smell has permeated the room and won me over. His intentions make no difference. If he poisons me, so be it. No one will miss me.
I drain the tub and set the tray inside. I dip my shin into the tray until the water covers my entire leg. The warmth of the water itself offers instant relief since I’m soaking wet and cold. Although it might be a placebo effect, the soreness in my leg seems to ease. I let it soak for as long as I can stay in position before I dump and rinse the tray.
It’s hard to deny my leg feels better, but it’s impossible to know if it was the herbal bath and not just the warm water. Regardless, I tried. He can’t expect any more than that, and I don’t really care if he does.
I dry off and get dressed in a flannel shirt and cotton pants. Putting weight on my leg seems easier, but it still could be my imagination. I take my things back to the bedroom. The bed has been made up with clean sheets and an old quilt. Everything smells fresh from the laundry.
Hearing no sign of him in the house, I follow the smell of food into the kitchen. I let out my breath, relieved to find him absent from the room. A pot of rice sits steaming on the stove next to a pan full of mixed vegetables. I open the lid of a third pan. Scrambled eggs, bright yellow and fluffy. A clean plate and silverware wait beside the stove. My attention zones in on my hollow stomach. It seems like weeks since I’ve eaten a real dinner. I said I didn’t want him doing me any more favors, but I already ruined that pledge with the herbal bath. This meal is impossible to turn down, and much easier to accept if I don’t have to eat it with him.
I help myself and sit down at the table shoved against the wall with no better place to go in this small room. The vegetables taste so fresh they must have just been picked from the garden outside. I’m too caught up savoring the food to hear him come in but suddenly he’s here, shrinking the room even smaller. Either he needs to go, or the refrigerator. These are quarters too close for strangers to be comfortable. Riding in the truck with him was bad enough.
“If I make you some tea for your stomach, will you drink it?” His face seems sheepish. Or is he hiding something?
My stomach twists in reply. “Yes,” I hear myself say around a mouthful of rice. My hunger won’t let me escape this cramped room, or say
Similar Books
