“These are yours,” I say, handing her the bag. “There are basic toiletries in the bathroom, including a new toothbrush. Feel free to do what you need. Once you’re good to go, we can figure out your next steps.”
Her eyes downcast, she accepts the bag and nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
While she’s locked away in the bathroom, I sit at the table and pull the laptop near…but can’t bring myself to open it and give a SITREP yet. I know I have to tell Douglas I have Marilee and I know it’s my responsibility to let her parents know we’ve completed our task.
There’s just something wrong with the situation and I need more information before making my next move.
I don’t have much time to think about it because it’s ten minutes, tops, when Marilee emerges from the bathroom again.
When she exits, she’s cleaned up even though the shower never ran, with her previously braided hair now unplaited, hanging long and wavy over her left shoulder. Her face is rosy from scrubbing–she must have washed with just the sink–and she’s wearing the clothes her parents supplied but they’re clearly not the right size. The jeans are short, and not in a fashionable way, and her shirt is, surprisingly, too big. It’s a strange combination.
I can understand losing weight in the year she was locked away in the religious compound, but at nineteen, she certainly didn’t grow three inches.
With her arms wrapped around her stomach, I’m willing to bet she’s feeling a mix of discomfort from being in a new situation and being in clothes that are ill-fitting.
But as I sit at the nearby table, she holds eye contact with me, which feels like a small win.
“I washed the dress the best I could in the sink, and it’s drying over the tub.” She strings together more words now than she has the entire hour I’ve been in her company. It seems to take all the courage she has though, as her next words falter. “I don’t… I should… I don’t really know what to do with it.”
“We can trash it, or you can keep it. Not sure you’d like that kind of reminder though,” I try keeping my words light with a small grin. Anything to try and get an emotion on the girl’s face that isn’t fear.
Because fuck, that’s the look on her face.
She’s afraid.
She was nervous at the compound but I’m pretty sure those nerves morphed into fear, and I’m having a hard time understanding why.
“You didn’t want to shower or anything?”
Her face grows pink and, shit, her eyes once again drop to the ground. “I cleaned up.”
An-n-nd we’re back to short answers.
