“One of the reasons I think we get along so well is because we both know that. We’re kind of alike.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I know we had different childhoods—way different—but we both learned to…you know. Not count on other people.”
Finn thought for a moment, careful not to look at her. He could see her poison-green Doc Martins, the black tights with the holes ripped through, revealing the prominent shin bones beneath, swinging back and forth at the joints of her knobby knees, like a child sitting on a chair, too small for her feet to reach the floor.
“So you haven’t really said much about how you learned that lesson,” he said, trying not to spook her.
Her legs stopped pumping, and one foot slowly twisted around the ankle of her other leg, tying her up in a knot.
She said nothing, and he let her. He had no need to push—if she wanted to tell him anything, she would. He thought it might help, but ultimately that decision was hers.
“You know I went into foster care when I was five, right?” she finally said, her voice pitched so low he barely heard the question.
“Yeah, you did tell me that. That your mom was a meth addict, and your dad in and out of your lives—more out than in.”
“Yes. Well. I was pretty little when the state put me in the first foster home and…I don’t remember much. Just that I was afraid, and learned to be quiet. Always quiet.”
Finn felt a buzzing in his ears as he tried to imagine Bizzy as a small child, the frailty and the trust, the utter dependence on adults for mere survival, let alone love and affection.
“I got moved around a lot the first few years. Some of the families were nice, but you never really belong. Then when I was seven I was placed with a family that had two kids, both girls. One was my age, the other one a couple years younger.”
Bizzy’s legs were swinging again, pumping a little harder, a little faster than they had been before. Finn could feel the muscles in his abdomen tighten, and he was conscious of forcing himself to breathe evenly, slowly. He didn’t know what was coming, but it wasn’t going to be good, or easy.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but the gist of it is that the dad had been molesting the older daughter for a while. At the trial it came out that when he started showing interest in the younger one, the mom suggested getting a foster kid.”
Bizzy studied her chewed-down fingernails, her legs moving, running in place and getting nowhere. “I’ve thought about it a lot, you know, now that I’m older, and I think she just wasn’t able to save her own kid, for whatever reason, and she saw this as a chance to keep him away from the little one. And me—well, I was a stranger, I wasn’t hers, and maybe I could distract him. Keep him occupied so he’d leave her kids alone.”
“Bizzy. Jesus .” Finn could barely speak.
She shrugged, her face expressionless, her voice easy, dismissive. “As strategies go, it wasn’t a bad one. It worked. For almost a year he…focused on me, and the other girls were safe. You know, relatively.”
Finn wanted to hurt someone—bad. He wanted to punch and tear and gouge, to beat the man who’d hurt Bizzy until there was nothing left of him but a mass of wet pulp on the ground. He couldn’t see, or hear, or think beyond that rage until a small sound from Bizzy, still sitting right next to him, brought him back. The rage was gone as quickly as it came, and he did the only thing he really could do that might help: he reached around her and put his hand on the side of her head and gently pulled her into him until her head was on his shoulder, his arm holding her in tight. This wasn’t about him, or what would make him feel better.
Finally she sighed—there had been no tears—and sat up straight, so that his arm fell back down to his side. “It was a long time ago,” she said, able to look at him now. “I can’t remember a lot of it—which makes me
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I know we had different childhoods—way different—but we both learned to…you know. Not count on other people.”
Finn thought for a moment, careful not to look at her. He could see her poison-green Doc Martins, the black tights with the holes ripped through, revealing the prominent shin bones beneath, swinging back and forth at the joints of her knobby knees, like a child sitting on a chair, too small for her feet to reach the floor.
“So you haven’t really said much about how you learned that lesson,” he said, trying not to spook her.
Her legs stopped pumping, and one foot slowly twisted around the ankle of her other leg, tying her up in a knot.
She said nothing, and he let her. He had no need to push—if she wanted to tell him anything, she would. He thought it might help, but ultimately that decision was hers.
“You know I went into foster care when I was five, right?” she finally said, her voice pitched so low he barely heard the question.
“Yeah, you did tell me that. That your mom was a meth addict, and your dad in and out of your lives—more out than in.”
“Yes. Well. I was pretty little when the state put me in the first foster home and…I don’t remember much. Just that I was afraid, and learned to be quiet. Always quiet.”
Finn felt a buzzing in his ears as he tried to imagine Bizzy as a small child, the frailty and the trust, the utter dependence on adults for mere survival, let alone love and affection.
“I got moved around a lot the first few years. Some of the families were nice, but you never really belong. Then when I was seven I was placed with a family that had two kids, both girls. One was my age, the other one a couple years younger.”
Bizzy’s legs were swinging again, pumping a little harder, a little faster than they had been before. Finn could feel the muscles in his abdomen tighten, and he was conscious of forcing himself to breathe evenly, slowly. He didn’t know what was coming, but it wasn’t going to be good, or easy.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but the gist of it is that the dad had been molesting the older daughter for a while. At the trial it came out that when he started showing interest in the younger one, the mom suggested getting a foster kid.”
Bizzy studied her chewed-down fingernails, her legs moving, running in place and getting nowhere. “I’ve thought about it a lot, you know, now that I’m older, and I think she just wasn’t able to save her own kid, for whatever reason, and she saw this as a chance to keep him away from the little one. And me—well, I was a stranger, I wasn’t hers, and maybe I could distract him. Keep him occupied so he’d leave her kids alone.”
“Bizzy. Jesus .” Finn could barely speak.
She shrugged, her face expressionless, her voice easy, dismissive. “As strategies go, it wasn’t a bad one. It worked. For almost a year he…focused on me, and the other girls were safe. You know, relatively.”
Finn wanted to hurt someone—bad. He wanted to punch and tear and gouge, to beat the man who’d hurt Bizzy until there was nothing left of him but a mass of wet pulp on the ground. He couldn’t see, or hear, or think beyond that rage until a small sound from Bizzy, still sitting right next to him, brought him back. The rage was gone as quickly as it came, and he did the only thing he really could do that might help: he reached around her and put his hand on the side of her head and gently pulled her into him until her head was on his shoulder, his arm holding her in tight. This wasn’t about him, or what would make him feel better.
Finally she sighed—there had been no tears—and sat up straight, so that his arm fell back down to his side. “It was a long time ago,” she said, able to look at him now. “I can’t remember a lot of it—which makes me
Similar Books
