Free Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough by Isabel Sharpe Page A

God.
      "Upstairs. Run my bath."
      No. No .
      "What about dinner? You must be hungry." She drew him into the house, speaking gently, wanting to hold her nose at the way he smelled. Alcohol, cigarettes, and the smell of meat that clung to his hair and skin. Wanting to run out of the house, into the woods, far away until she died of exhaustion and freedom.
      "Did I say I's hungry?" He grabbed her arm, yanked her up against him, peered down at her. " Did I?"
      "No." She shook her head. "You didn't."
      "What'd I say?"
      "You said to—"
      "Run my bath. I wan' be clean." His words slid out, oozy, misshapen, as if the syllables were melting together. "That Vivian woman was at th' bar. She's dirty, Erin. She made me feel dirty. I have to be clean b'fore I can touch you."
      Her empty stomach filled with acid and the dark, burning fear of this man she'd once thought she loved. Sometimes she still thought she did. Or could.
      But the nights he wanted a bath were always the worst.
    Letter home from Sarah
Cornell College
October, freshman year

    Dear Mom and Daddy,

    I barely have time to write, I've got three ten - page papers due Monday, can you believe it? It's Friday now, I won't sleep until Monday night.
       Everything is great, my classes are tough but totally fun, esp. Western Dance History—the prof is completely cool. Everyone claps after each lecture, it's like a performance!
       And (drumroll) I met a guy in my Art and Ideology class. His name is Ben Gilchrist. I can't say more right now in case I jinx it, but you know how you said you looked into Dad's eyes and knew, Mom? I think this is it for me. Shhh. Not another word!
       Debby just got home, we're going to the library to study, gotta go, sorry this is so short! I'll write again soon.

    Love you! Miss you! Sarah

    Sarah glanced up from her copy of Architectural Digest, and over at the clock next to her and Ben's bed. Ten -thirty, the news was over, Ben would be coming up soon.
      What a day. After that dreadful visit with Vivian this morning, Sarah had scarcely known what to do with herself. She'd gone to the Pick 'n Save out on Highway J, and bought way too many groceries. Filling the house with food felt important, as if she would soon be under siege. She'd bought things she didn't usually buy, too, like sausages, though she bought the lower-fat variety made with turkey. Maybe with cold weather coming, some ancient human instinct was telling her to put on extra pounds for the rough winter ahead.
      On some strange impulse, she'd even bought Ben that beer Sarah had this morning, with the red label, Leinen . . . something. Ben had been drinking Budweiser forever because that's what he liked and that's what she bought him. But today she thought maybe he'd like to try a new variety. Of course Ben claimed he'd tried it already, that either she bought it for him before, which she was sure she hadn't, or he'd had one at someone's house, or maybe at Harris's Tavern.
      Ben had just nodded at the six -pack she took into his study, where he was immersed in writing some scene of his novel about a monstrous killer who tore children up and drank their blood, and who would want to read that? But Ben said it was a deeply symbolic work, about plundering the planet at the expense of future generations. Even Sarah knew it was all the rage to dwell on violence and misery for entertainment, as if there wasn't enough of the real thing cluttering up the newspapers.
      She supposed it was silly of her to want Ben to be excited or grateful that she bought beer she thought he'd like. It was just beer, after all. And Sarah knew she got more excited and grateful about things than most people did.
    In any case, it didn't matter.
      After she'd put the groceries away, she had her lunch— lower-fat braunschweiger on whole wheat bread, with cucumber and onion. Oh, she'd forgotten how good that sandwich was; she generally had turkey or sliced chicken