Ruth hated this bathroom since they moved in. The salmon-colored walls and seafoam green shower curtain made her feel sick. The coyote painting, with a demented-looking eye and whiskers that looked like a ‘stash, had always made Ruth feel a little embarrassed to undress. The coyote was always watching from its place on the wall above the toilet.
“What if we had to stay in this room forever?” She mumbled from the tub.
“That would get boring,” Fynn said, standing up with a towel in his hand. “And pose a pretty significant sanitary issue.” He held the towel up as proof which she didn’t need since the vomit was hers.
“But then all the things we don’t know we wouldn’t have to know.”
He put the towel in the laundry basket and sat on the edge of the tub. Then he dipped a washcloth in the water and started gently washing the vomit off of her.
“We could just stay here and be safe and happy forever.”
“But it would be boring and lonely.”
“Just give me some books and I’ll be ok.” she said.
He laughed. “We could order room service and sleep in the tub.”
“Yeah. You understand.”
He washed her in silence for a while. The faulty drain groaned and slurped a little water from the tub. She looked again at the coyote, whose little eye was now wild, shining with condensation.
“How long do you think before it starts talking to us?” She motioned to the coyote.
After a pause, Fynn said, “He would wait until we’re trying to sleep,”
“Ew.” She said and shivered. He patted her on the top of her head, probably the only place the vomit hadn’t touched.
“I’m going to put these towels in the washing machine,” He said. “Will you be okay if I leave?”
When they first started renting the basement of Fynn’s mother’s best friend’s grandmother’s house, Ruth asked if they could repaint the bathroom. Ms. Jean brought Ruth into the bathroom and explained in painstaking detail, why the bathroom had to stay like this.
“Oh, my coyote!” Ms. Jean said, tottering to the edge of the sink. “I painted this guy with my first grandson, over thirty years ago. Now, I’m not going to erase my precious memories just because the coyote’s not artsy enough for you. Alright?”
“Ms. Jean, I don’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that he, well, he makes me uncomfortable– and it’s been thirty years, don’t you think the bathroom needs repainted anyway.”
“Sure Ruth, it could use repainting.” Jean waved her stubby hand at Ruth. “When I’m good and ready and dead.” And off she went to waddle up the stairs.
Ruth still hated it but later she would tell Fynn it was growing on her –especially for the price.
Ruth’s catatonic state had grown worse since Fynn left the bathroom. She sat with her shoulders slumped and her arms tucked uncomfortably at her sides. She stared at the coyote for a few seconds and then looked at her reflection in the tap. Her body looked like two long sticks with a blob on top and it felt like it too. The sides of the tub were a tight white casing against her thighs and hips.
I love you. Please don’t betray me.
For years she didn’t take baths because she couldn’t look at herself. She hated her curves. But now, she thought, if she did get sick and lost the fullness of her body, she would be sad. She wouldn’t be exactly herself if sickness took part of her like that.
She hugged her legs to her chest.
“I’m sorry,” She whispered, her voice shaking. “I love you. Please don’t betray me.”
Fynn knocked on the door and entered. “Hey,” He said, sitting on the edge of the tub. He examined her face and said, “Hey,” again softer, and reached out to wipe away the tears running down the sides of her face.
“What if I am really sick? What if it is something really bad? What are we going to do?”
They considered the options. Maybe she had cancer or tuberculosis or chickenpox or a parasite hidden somewhere deep in her flesh. Maybe she was a hypochondriac who was convincing everyone she was sick. Or maybe she would never get diagnosed and she would spend years in hospitals being observed by doctors with mousey hands and ceramic grins.
“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” Fynn said at last. “And honestly, sweetheart, I think you just ate something that didn’t agree with you.”
She shook her head. “But I’ve been sick for so long. I’m like a shitty old car, there’s always something wrong. I’m not even old!”
“Oh, Ruthie.” He patted her head. He splashed around in the water with his hand for a few moments, inadvertently brushing her thigh with his fingertips.
“Do you remember when we were getting ready for that awful costume party?”
“Yeah,” she sniffled.
“When you were sitting right here on the edge of the tub taking the rollers out of your hair and I was standing at the mirror, smudging black eyeliner in my eyes. We were planning on being just a little late because it was Britney’s party, right? No, maybe it was Travis and Lucy? Anyways, you looked so beautiful I almost cried the eyeliner out of my eyes right there. You had that long red dress and your hair was curly and you were talking about the Barbie Cinematic Universe.” He took her hand in his. “And I was like wow. This is her. This weird little woman who clings so tightly to the pieces of her life without holding back. If you do get really sick I will warm up your chicken soup every day and turn on whatever Barbie movie you want.
“Cross my heart,” He said. “But for now, we can focus on cleaning you up and getting you tucked into bed.”
And that is what they did. Together they washed Ruth’s limbs and scrubbed the food scraps from her hair. Then Fynn helped her into her threadbare bathrobe. When she was wrapped, he smiled and hugged her like a reunion. As Fynn turned out the light, he gently took her hand and led her out of the room.
Main Squeeze Literary Journal 