pale I am.
Rowe sits a couple of feet away on a futon, hands laced behind his head, surveying me. Then he bursts out into laughter. I want to cry, but I don’t. I just wonder what could possibly be so funny about a naked girl.
“It was a long time ago,” I said finally.
“I’m here, Althea. I’d like to be a friend to you, if you’ll let me.”
I’d never told anyone the whole story. In spite of the dozens of doctors and therapists, counselors and facilitators who’d tried to get it out of me, I’d kept that information to myself. I’d shared versions of it, of course—meandering, pathetic half-truths that got me more meds, papers signed, files closed, whatever I needed at the time. But my story—the real story—was mine alone, like the cigar box, a precious possession belonging only to my mother and me.
The bathtub was empty, and I shivered. Jay jumped up and pulled a towel from the bar, handed it to me. I wrapped it around me and stood, face to face with him. I reached one arm around his neck and kissed him.
He pulled back, gently removed my arm. “Althea, don’t. You’ve got to talk to me.”
Suddenly, the bathroom wall shook. It was Rowe, pounding on the door. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey!”
I stumbled back, my heart thumping.
“I know you guys can hear me! Listen. You guys are going to have to let me go soon or my wife’s going to completely lose her mind. I’m just warning you, she will call the police in a heartbeat. She loves 9-1-1. The dispatchers all know her by name. Listen, she calls 9-1-1 when she chips her manicure. She calls 9-1-1 when we run out of toilet paper. You guys hearing me?”
Jay leapt up and ran out. I could hear the muffled yelling, back and forth from between the rooms.
I slumped down on the toilet seat. The pills were in my purse in the room, practically calling to me. I closed my eyes. Two or three, and I’d feel weightless. Four, five, or six, and I’d be gone for hours. I’d just have to be careful, but I knew how to avoid overdosing. It was one of my many worthless talents.
Or I could go back in the room and face Jay. Tell him what Rowe had done to me all those years ago. And watch for him to get that blank look in his eye that told me he saw me for the woman I really was. That he thought I was dirty and disgusting, and he’d prefer to start his life over with somebody more suitable. A woman less damaged.
After Jay had gotten Rowe calmed down, I dressed in the unlikely flowered Target pajamas and slipped into our room. Jay was sitting on one of the chairs by the window, murmuring into his phone. I sat on the far bed, pulled a pillow onto my lap, and wrapped my arms around it. He hung up, laid the phone on the dresser.
“Friend of mine. A lawyer. I just left my name and number. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
I nodded.
“Are you okay?”
“I wanted to tell you what Rowe did. If you still want to hear.”
His expression didn’t change. “I do.”
I was quiet a moment. I had the crazy thought that the words of the story, when I let them out, would cut me. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Speaking words didn’t hurt; it was keeping them in that did that. I just hoped I could get through the story without an imaginary, gold-dust-covered red raven dive-bombing my head.
“He didn’t touch me at first,” I began. “He just looked. Which was bad enough. Sometimes I have to remind myself that.” I dropped my gaze to the ugly patterned carpet, suddenly aware of the way my heart seemed to be trembling inside my chest. Trembling instead of beating. I inhaled. “He just looked until I turned sixteen.”
Chapter Twelve
October 1937
Sybil Valley, Alabama
This time Jinn’s mama was discovered doing so poorly, none of the church ladies brought casseroles to the Alford house. And Jinn’s daddy didn’t shed a tear over what he’d let happen to his wife.
Howell went over to Vernon’s house that night and made sure
Rowe sits a couple of feet away on a futon, hands laced behind his head, surveying me. Then he bursts out into laughter. I want to cry, but I don’t. I just wonder what could possibly be so funny about a naked girl.
“It was a long time ago,” I said finally.
“I’m here, Althea. I’d like to be a friend to you, if you’ll let me.”
I’d never told anyone the whole story. In spite of the dozens of doctors and therapists, counselors and facilitators who’d tried to get it out of me, I’d kept that information to myself. I’d shared versions of it, of course—meandering, pathetic half-truths that got me more meds, papers signed, files closed, whatever I needed at the time. But my story—the real story—was mine alone, like the cigar box, a precious possession belonging only to my mother and me.
The bathtub was empty, and I shivered. Jay jumped up and pulled a towel from the bar, handed it to me. I wrapped it around me and stood, face to face with him. I reached one arm around his neck and kissed him.
He pulled back, gently removed my arm. “Althea, don’t. You’ve got to talk to me.”
Suddenly, the bathroom wall shook. It was Rowe, pounding on the door. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey!”
I stumbled back, my heart thumping.
“I know you guys can hear me! Listen. You guys are going to have to let me go soon or my wife’s going to completely lose her mind. I’m just warning you, she will call the police in a heartbeat. She loves 9-1-1. The dispatchers all know her by name. Listen, she calls 9-1-1 when she chips her manicure. She calls 9-1-1 when we run out of toilet paper. You guys hearing me?”
Jay leapt up and ran out. I could hear the muffled yelling, back and forth from between the rooms.
I slumped down on the toilet seat. The pills were in my purse in the room, practically calling to me. I closed my eyes. Two or three, and I’d feel weightless. Four, five, or six, and I’d be gone for hours. I’d just have to be careful, but I knew how to avoid overdosing. It was one of my many worthless talents.
Or I could go back in the room and face Jay. Tell him what Rowe had done to me all those years ago. And watch for him to get that blank look in his eye that told me he saw me for the woman I really was. That he thought I was dirty and disgusting, and he’d prefer to start his life over with somebody more suitable. A woman less damaged.
After Jay had gotten Rowe calmed down, I dressed in the unlikely flowered Target pajamas and slipped into our room. Jay was sitting on one of the chairs by the window, murmuring into his phone. I sat on the far bed, pulled a pillow onto my lap, and wrapped my arms around it. He hung up, laid the phone on the dresser.
“Friend of mine. A lawyer. I just left my name and number. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
I nodded.
“Are you okay?”
“I wanted to tell you what Rowe did. If you still want to hear.”
His expression didn’t change. “I do.”
I was quiet a moment. I had the crazy thought that the words of the story, when I let them out, would cut me. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Speaking words didn’t hurt; it was keeping them in that did that. I just hoped I could get through the story without an imaginary, gold-dust-covered red raven dive-bombing my head.
“He didn’t touch me at first,” I began. “He just looked. Which was bad enough. Sometimes I have to remind myself that.” I dropped my gaze to the ugly patterned carpet, suddenly aware of the way my heart seemed to be trembling inside my chest. Trembling instead of beating. I inhaled. “He just looked until I turned sixteen.”
Chapter Twelve
October 1937
Sybil Valley, Alabama
This time Jinn’s mama was discovered doing so poorly, none of the church ladies brought casseroles to the Alford house. And Jinn’s daddy didn’t shed a tear over what he’d let happen to his wife.
Howell went over to Vernon’s house that night and made sure
Similar Books
