The Leftover Perfume

A week is seven days.

In seven days, a person's skin can change color. If you do not sleep, dark circles form under your eyes. You start to look like someone punched you, carrying a bruise that no one else can see. 

The corporate office of Ford Luxury Hotels called my personal number three times this morning.

"Dr. Ford," the secretary said. She used a very polite, expensive-sounding voice.  "We cannot reach the Vice President. The board meeting for the Siargao permits started twenty minutes ago. Her phone is off."

"She is unwell," I said. I did not use big medical words. I just held the hospital phone tightly against my ear.  "Tell the chairman she is resting."

I leave the hospital before my afternoon work is finished. 

Outside BGC, the heat is thick and smells like diesel and wet construction dust. I drive home to Forbes Park with the windows up and the AC blasted to the highest setting, but the air feels thin and smells like nothing. 

The house is quiet when I pull into the driveway.

The silver Mercedes is not in the garage. Tito Robert hid it in our hotel basement three days ago so the public could not see it. Instead, my Father's black SUV sits there, it is completely clean and shiny. 

I find my mother sitting by the pool. She is watching a worker clean the water. 

"She won't open the door, Snow," my mother says without looking at me. She is holding a glass of iced tea, but she hasn't taken a single drink. The mint leaf on top is old and brown. "She has been locked inside since Tuesday.  She told Manang Teresa to leave the food trays  on the floor outside."

"Did she take her heart medicine, Ma?"

My mom’s shoulders drop heavily.  "She threw the bottle at the wall yesterday. I heard the glass break. She told me to leave her alone. She said if I call her doctor she will jump from the roof."

"Where is Papa?"

"In Singapore," she says in a small voice. Her expensive, tight skin looks dry in the sun. "Business with the banks. He had to go, Snow. The stock launch can't wait."

I turn around. I walk up the stairs.

The tray outside Scarlet’s room is still there. The chicken soup is cold and greasy. A fly is buzzing around the spoon. 

I do not knock. I use the emergency spare key from the closet. 

I unlock the door and walk in. The room is completely dark. The thick curtains are pinned shut so no sunlight can get inside. The room smells terrible. It smells like old sweat mixed with the heavy, sweet vanilla perfume Scarlet uses to hide her own scent. 

Scarlet is sitting on the floor in the space between her bed and the wall.

She is hugging her knees. She is wearing the same white shirt she had on three days ago, and the collar is stained yellow. Her hair is a messy, tangled bird's nest against her neck. 

"Get out," she says.

She does not look up. She is picking at the skin around her thumbnail. She has peeled the skin back until it is raw and bleeding. 

"Scarlet," I say. I drop my bag and kneel on the floor near her. The perfume smell is so strong it burns my eyes.  "We need to check your blood  pressure. Your face looks grey."

"I told you to get out," she says. Her voice sounds dry and rough. "They’re outside, Snow. I can hear them."

"Who is outside, Scarlet?"

"The cars," she whispers, looking at the window with wide, scared eyes. "The police cars. They have been driving around our gate all day. They know what I did."

"Nobody knows," I say. It is a lie, and it makes my throat feel heavy.  "Tito Robert took all the security footage. The newspapers only have a tiny paragraph on page twelve about a hit-and-run in Makati. They don't have a name."

Scarlet tries to laugh, but it sounds like a wet cough. She hits the back of her head against the wall. 

"They don't need a name," she cries, breathing way too fast. I can see her heart beating wildly under her shirt. "I saw her, Snow. I didn't tell you everything on the phone. I didn't... I couldn't say it."

I try to hold her wrist, but she pulls away and hits her hand on the table. 

"Listen to me," she cries. Tears run down her dirty face, leaving clean streaks on her skin. "I didn't just drive away. I stopped. I stopped for three seconds. I put the car in reverse because I wanted to look."

The room becomes completely silent. 

"The rain stopped for a second," Scarlet whispers. She starts tearing at the carpet with her fingers. "The streetlamp was broken but my headlights were on. She was lying on her side. Her skirt was caught under her hip. She had... she had this black hair. Long. Like mine."

Scarlet takes a shaky, painful breath. 

"She turned her head, Snow. She looked right at my car. She was alive. I saw her hand move, scratching at the asphalt, trying to stand up.  She looked right at me through the window. "

"Oh my God, Scarlet," I say. My hands and face go completely cold. 

"I panicked," she screams, covering her ears and shaking her head. "I saw her mouth open. She was saying something. There was blood coming out of her nose. So much blood, Snow. It looked like ink in the water. I thought about the launch. I thought about Papa. I thought about what Mom would say if I went to jail. So, I stepped on the gas."

She leans forward until her forehead touches my knee, her entire body shaking violently. 

"I ran her over again," she whispers into my clothes. "With the back tires. I felt the car go over her body. Like running over a log. I killed her, Snow. I stopped, I looked at her, and then I killed her on purpose. ."

I do not move. I do not hug her. 

My body goes completely stiff. I am looking at my twin sister, but she feels like a total stranger. She is a monster who left a woman to die in the mud. 

"What was her name?" I ask. My voice sounds dead and empty. 

"Ana," Scarlet gasps. "Tito Robert found it out from the hospital. Ana Del Rico. She was twenty-four. She worked at a call center in Pasay. She was just walking to the bus stop."

Twenty-four.

The same age as the nurses on my floor. The ones who bring me coffee and talk about their boyfriends while they wash the plastic charts.

"I can't take it," Scarlet cries, pulling away from me and curling into a ball on the floor. She sucks her thumb like a baby.  "I can't take it, Snow. Tell Papa to fix it. Tell him to pay her family five million pesos. Buy them a house. Just make her eyes stop staring at me. "

I stand up slowly. My knees pop in the quiet room.

I look down at her. She looks so small and broken in her dirty clothes.

The cover-up didn't work. Tito Robert could steal the hard drives, buy off the local officials with envelopes of cash, and swap the broken bumper before sunrise. But he couldn't fix her mind. The girl named Ana is still right here in this bedroom, waiting for the tires to run her over. 

I walk to the door.

"Snow," Scarlet calls out weakly. She doesn't look at me. "Are you going to tell the police?"

I put my hand on the doorknob. The metal is cold and perfectly clean. 

"Take your medicine, Scarlet," I say.

I step out into the hallway and lock the door behind me. The heavy lock clicks into place. 

Outside the window, the dark sky opens up. The heavy rain starts falling again, hitting the glass loudly, like someone banging on the window with their fists.