1/2986 by Annelie Wendeberg Page A

to react. He moves closer, pulls my socks down, takes my feet, and splashes them with water. I’m very ticklish there, but not today. I guess one needs a trace of humour left for that.
    ‘Why are you washing my feet?’ I croak.
    ‘It’s a custom…’ he explains without looking up, ‘…I learned at a place where people don’t use words to ask for forgiveness. They believe that words have little weight.’
    He takes the soap and lathers the soles of my feet. ‘I was angry at you last night,’ he continues. ‘To be honest, I almost burned a fuse, because I couldn’t fathom how anyone could think I would abuse a child. My own daughter!’ He freezes for a moment and stares at his hands. ‘I should have known better, considering…’ He clears his throat. ‘Kaissa set me straight, helped me understand your reaction. I’m an idiot, because it was evident.’
    Seeing my nonplussed stare, he adds, ‘Kaissa is the woman I slept with.’
    My feet twitch in his hands. Too much information for my taste.
    ‘I thought that was obvious.’ He cocks his head. ‘I’m apologising for my ignorance.’
    ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I croak. My feet feel like they are wilting off my ankles.
    ‘You’ve been abused, probably even raped.’
    ‘No, it wasn’t… I wasn’t… ’ I exhale a growl of embarrassment. ‘I’m a virgin. No one raped me. I want my feet back.’
    Puzzled, he looks up at me. Then he rinses the soap off my feet, dries them with a towel, and puts my socks back on a second before I bolt from the kitchen.

    ———

    I haven’t been myself since Runner washed my feet. I’m not even sure if I’ve ever been myself, and have only now come to notice. How can a friendly and humble gesture hurt more than violence?
    I’ve seen Kaissa and apologised. It wasn’t easy, because I can’t remember the last time I said “I’m sorry” to anyone but my dead brother. I’ve met Ezra, and her resemblance to Runner, her boldness and honesty, hurt even more. It took me a while to realise what it is that I find so disturbing about her. She’s not bent. And she’s beautiful.
    When I look at myself now, I realise that the ugliness I’ve seen all these years is probably not ugly at all, and what I thought is making me special is only making me crooked. I’m like a gnarled old tree that wants to stretch to the light and doesn’t quite know how to do it. Meanwhile, I feel sorry for myself, and always only for myself.
    I haven’t talked to Runner since. When I see him at mealtimes, we barely acknowledge one another. I don’t know what to say. I’m growing smaller by the hour.
    Now, with everyone assembling for dinner, I stand with my back to the wall, watching. This small group of people is so different in many ways. The touching that I find hard to accept. The kissing and hugging. It gives me goosebumps.
    And then there’s all the stuff that makes my heart heavy. Never does a child weep alone, there’s always an adult kneeling next to her or him, hugging, or another child walking up and offering a dried pear or a wet kiss. The small gestures of respect are everywhere, gestures one can only notice if one takes the time to look.
    I feel myself sinking into self-pity, wondering why I grew up with so little love and respect. Then I realise that I don’t have much respect for people, either. I don’t love anybody. The others aren’t the problem. It’s only me being judgmental.
    And then I know what I need to do.
    Runner’s face looks like it’s carved in stone when I approach him with a bowl, a towel, and a piece of soap. The room falls silent. People wait for me to speak. But I don’t. I don’t know the right words to say.  
    I kneel and look up at Runner, who blinks when I pull off his thick woollen socks.

Today is our last day here, and in a way, I’m relieved. The kitchen always seems crammed and Runner’s gaze too inspecting or grave. I’m longing to walk through the silent