given a birthday present and is terrified to let anyone touch it, in case the giver might change his mind and take it away from her, I couldn’t risk it. I had always felt that Juan was mine only by a hair’s breadth, and I didn’t want to jinx my luck by letting him see how consumed with jealousy I was.
But I had my suspicions about what my husband was up to. My guess was he didn’t want to rub it in my face. Wanted to be discreet about his affair. Hotel bills and restaurants would be a dead giveaway showing up on a credit card statement. Especially romantic places. Better to pay in cash. No paper trail. No questions. No drama. My pulse pounded at the thought of him being unfaithful. There was no proof, whatsoever, just my wandering mind. If I said something, he’d deny it. He wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings. He believed in marriage. He was Catholic. But like many men, I guessed, he had double standards.
I wondered who she was.
Then again, perhaps it was safer I didn’t know.
Safer for her.
Thirty-One
I woke up in a start, panting. The room felt unbearably hot and stifling, as if I were encased in a box. I lunged sideways to turn on my bedside light, but it wasn’t there. In a panic, I hauled my achy body out of bed—but even that felt different. I was on a mattress on the floor! Where the hell was I? I stumbled around the room in the dark and felt myself smash into an alien piece of furniture. The shooting pain in my ankle made me remember I could hardly walk.
Then everything fell into place. I was in the laundry room! I had collided into the washing machine. I walked my fingers around the walls until they fell upon the light switch. I flicked it on then made straight for the door. It was locked fast. They’d found the key in one of the tins? Of course they had. I supported my lollopy head with cupped hands and surveyed the room. My double mattress took up most of the space.
The triplets had brought me down here without my waking up. Set up this bed for me, with my usual comforter. Knowing about my claustrophobia, they had castigated me with the worst possible punishment.
How had I been oblivious to all this? How had I not woken up? Why were they doing this to me? What did they or didn’t they know?
Fine, I thought. Take a deep breath. Calm down. There was a landline down here. I grabbed the phone. Nothing. The line dead. I searched the room for my cell phone, or anything to link me to the outside world. Clean laundry everywhere, but nothing of any use for my present predicament. I pummeled on the door and screamed for someone to let me out, but the chilling silence from above warned me I was quite alone. Cliffside sounded empty, and all I could hear was my own blood ringing in my ears, and my intake of breath, and the gasp of air I let out from my lungs filling the eerie silence.
A Spanish expression Juan had taught me popped into my mind: Más solo que la una, or in my case, being a woman, Más sola que la una. Lonelier than number one. I pictured myself as the digit number one on a big ticking clock, the minute hands going round and round and me, as ONE, just sitting there, the big hand never moving, the clock set at one o’clock forever more. Más sola que la una. What if they left me in here to rot? Nobody would ever guess I was down here.
There was a window up high, but no more than a horizontal slit, enough to let some fresh air into the room, but there was no way I could squeeze myself through it. Maybe a tiny ten-year-old could fit their head through, but I didn’t stand a chance. Panic slammed in my chest, the walls closing in on me, my knees buckling. I collapsed back on the bed. I was woozy still from my sleeping pills. I felt so feeble. Judging from the light, it was dusk. I prayed my captors would be home from work soon and they’d pity me and set me free. Was this some kind of warped joke?