I stand outside the DIY shop, my arms crossed over my body, waiting for it to open. It’s out of town, so I had to take the bus here. I could feel panic rising inside me as the bus became fuller at each stop, everyday people going about their everyday lives.
On paper, my own life has changed from nightmare to fairy tale in the space of a few weeks. I’m no longer a prisoner, I am safe, I have money. But it is still a nightmare. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. And when I’m awake, my mind is so full that I find it hard to focus on anything. If only I could stop thinking about the kidnapping, about my abductor, the man I fought and scratched and bit.
Twice now, when I’ve been out shopping, I was so sure that he was close by that I actually spun around, thinking I would find him standing behind me. It was only my imagination, but it had felt so real. I will never be rid of him, I realize. For the rest of my life, I will imagine him walking toward me in a pitch-black room with a boarded-up window.
A man unlocks the doors to the shop.
“You’re eager,” he says, giving me a smile. He has an orange name tag clipped onto his black T-shirt, the name Scott embossed on it.
“Do you sell chipboard?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Let me show you.”
I follow him through the store, its high ceilings echoing our footsteps.
“What’s it for?” he asks.
The question throws me. “Sorry?”
“The chipboard. What are you making?”
“I just need it,” I say.
We arrive at an area of divided sections, with different sizes of chipboard leaning against each other.
“What size?” he asks.
I tell him and he drags one out.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, I’ll need a hammer and nails.”
“To put the chipboard up?”
“Yes.”
“This way.”
He lifts the sheet of chipboard and I follow him to another aisle where he picks out a black-handled hammer, and farther along, a box of nails.
“Two-inch nails,” he says. “That should do it.”
“Great, thanks.”
We walk to the register, I pay, put the hammer and nails into my bag, and pick up the chipboard.
He looks at me doubtfully. “Sure you can manage?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He nods. “Have a nice day.”
The chipboard isn’t heavy, but its size makes it awkward to carry between my hands. I make it to the bus stop, and when the bus comes, I maneuver it down the aisle and slide it into a seat, then sit down, my knees jammed awkwardly against it. Back at home, I push it through the front door and lean it against the wall while I catch my breath, then drag it up the stairs into Papa’s bedroom. A company came yesterday and took away the bed, the chest of drawers, and the single wardrobe, so the room is completely empty of furniture.
I take the hammer and nails from my bag, lift the chipboard off the ground, and hold it into place. But every time I let go with one hand to reach for the hammer and nail, the board slips down.
“Damn!” I shout, as it falls for the third time and lands on my foot.
I slump to the ground, my arms aching. I’m not going to be able to do it without help. But I have no one to help me; there is only me.
I think for a moment, then reach for my bag and take out my phone.
“Thank you so much for coming, for doing this. I know it’s an odd request,” I say to Mr. Barriston, an hour later. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
He’s standing in Papa’s bedroom, his shirtsleeves rolled up. There are beads of sweat along his hairline.
“I’ve never been asked to do this for a client, I have to say,” he replies with a smile. “But I have a daughter and if she needed help with a job like this, I’d want someone to give her a hand. It was lucky you called when you did. And it’s good for me to get out during lunchtime.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He looks around the room.
“You’re … decorating?” he asks.
I feel a flush of embarrassment. “Yes. I feel like I need a change.”
He nods. “Right.”
I walk behind him down the stairs.
“Well, good luck with everything,” he says.
“Thank you again,” I say gratefully, and he leaves with a wave.
I return to the bedroom and work until dusk, pulling up the threadbare carpet and stripping off the wallpaper. When I’ve finished, I go to my bedroom, strip the bed, drag the mattress through to Papa’s room, and place it in the far corner, against the wall. And then I close the door. With the window boarded up, the room is completely dark. Moving to the mattress, I lie down, pull my blanket over me, and close my eyes. And for the first time in weeks, I sleep.