An elderly couple approached down the corridor. They entered the elevator car with me still in it. It struck me—what I’d done. A raw wave of panic, anxiety, rose inside me. What had just happened here? I caught sight of myself in the elevator mirror. A distorted Ellie. Smudged eye makeup. Mussed hair. Kiss-swollen lips. Rumpled dress.
The other Ellie—the new Ellie, the chameleon Ellie, the powerful Ellie Tyler—had been let out, and I wasn’t quite ready to deal with the collateral damage she could cause to my old self.
I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace, suddenly both terrified and emboldened by my reckless behavior. I needed to digest what I’d just done. The elderly gentleman pressed the button for the lobby. He glanced at me.
“I . . . I need to get an early start,” I said to Martin, who stood waiting outside the elevator, his hand out to me. The doors started to slide closed.
“El—”
The doors closed.
I heard him yell and slap the door. “Call me!”
The elevator car descended. Going down, down, down. I could smell him on me. Smell sex in the elevator. The mirror was still misted from my steamy touch. The couple exchanged a glance and moved farther away from me. The elevator stopped on a lower floor. A man got on. He stared at me. I was filled with a sudden self-revulsion. Shame. He could smell sex on me—I was sure of it. He was giving me a lewd look. Claustrophobia tightened. An old sensation of paranoia resurfaced in me. Like everyone was watching me, knowing things, voices whispering behind my back, susurrations in the wind . . . mocking . . .
Bad mother.
Slut.
Siren.
Passive.
Aggressive.
Mad.
Mentally unstable.
Do you know she stabbed her ex?
Two faces of Ellie. Good Ellie. Bad Ellie. Weak Ellie. Strong Ellie.
The car stopped, and the doors started to open on the ground floor. I squeezed out the crack before they could even open fully. I hurried for the exit.
“Hey!” the man called from behind me.
I turned.
“You dropped something.” He came loping toward me holding something out in the palm of his hand. Gold glinted. Martin’s cuff link. With the letters MCS.
I snatched it from his hand without a word and rushed toward the hotel doors.
By the time I got home I felt a bit better. I ran a scalding bubble bath and took an Ativan. Just to calm the noises that had started up in my head again. I blamed my dad for that. He’d triggered me. I wouldn’t take any more pills after this one.
I sank into the bubbles and let the heat swallow me. I closed my eyes and relived sex with Martin.
I touched myself between my legs. I felt a smile. There was no need to feel ashamed.
Change the narrative, Ellie.
I was no longer Doug’s wife. This was not going to be my house. I was not Chloe’s mother. I was moving to the city. Single city girl.
“I travel a lot. But I can make long distance work.”
I could be Martin’s lover. His girlfriend.
But will you actually give me a second thought, Martin Cresswell-Smith, or is this just what you do when you travel, a lot?
I sank down under the hot water and held my breath. As I had done so often after Chloe drowned, just trying to imagine what my poor baby had felt.
Until I came up gasping, flailing for air, my hair streaming down my face.
THEN
ELLIE
Just over two years ago, January 10. Vancouver, BC.
I woke with a sense of something . . . different. My head felt thick, my mouth fuzzy with the taste of stale alcohol. It took a second for the sharp, bright reality to cut in.
I sat upright.
Martin. A stranger. Sex in a hotel elevator.
I got up hurriedly and made coffee with the Nespresso machine I’d left unpacked. I sipped my coffee, watching the garden. The heavy green trees twisting and swaying. The dead heads in the flower beds. The leafless blueberry scrub. The berry bushes made me think of the time the bear had come. Thoughts of sex with Martin folded into a memory of Doug holding Chloe up to the window, him pointing to the bear. Chloe’s giggle.
Sucked in deep by the image, I smiled sadly into my reflection on the windowpane. The memory was soft. Like a heavy cashmere coat. Familiar. Comforting. And it struck me—I could handle the memories. I could feel sad but smile at the same time. I didn’t need the medication. I’d truly, finally, come