Grace looked mortified.
Adrian glanced toward her.
“She hasn’t had a proper shower in days.”
Then he looked at me.
“I want you to help her get settled.”
I almost laughed again.
“You want me to bathe a stranger?”
“No.”
“I want you to show her the guest room.”
“Get clean clothes.”
“Help if she needs help.”
“And behave like she entered your home as a human being.”
That sentence struck exactly where he intended.
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I turned toward the stairs.
“Fine.”
Grace followed me.
I hated how aware I was of her shoes against the runner.
Of the smell.
Of the tiny flakes of dried mud falling from the hem of her coat.
Upstairs, I opened the guest bathroom.
I put towels on the counter.
A robe.
Soap.
Then, because I was still the worst version of myself, I pulled disposable cleaning gloves from a cabinet.
Grace saw them.
She said nothing.
That was worse than if she had called me cruel.
“I can manage,” she said.
“Good.”
I turned to leave.
Then she struggled with the zipper of her coat.
Her fingers shook badly.
I hesitated.
“Do you need help?”
She looked embarrassed.
“My hands don’t always cooperate.”
I stepped closer.
Slowly, I helped remove the coat.
Then an old sweater.
Underneath, her shoulder was exposed where the collar of her undershirt had stretched.
There was dirt along the skin.
I reached for a damp cloth.
One wipe.
Then another.
And everything in my life split open.
Near the back of her right shoulder was a birthmark.
Not dramatic.
Small.
A curved brown mark shaped almost like a crescent moon.
The cloth slipped from my hand.
Grace startled.
“What?”
I could not answer.
I grabbed her shoulder.
Too hard.
She winced.
“Claire?”
“Turn.”
“What?”
“Please turn around.”
She did.
I wiped dirt from the mark again.
