“Can you get up? I’ll help you.”
I tuck my shoulder under his arm and push upward, urging him to his feet. I wrap my arm around his back and lead him through his bedroom. He walks haltingly, as if each step is almost too much for his legs. In the bathroom, he looks in the mirror for a long moment. I try to see what’s in his mind, but his face is so stoic. So blank.
I look around, hoping to find a comfortable spot, but the leather couches are firm and cold—I remember that—and the plush rugs covering the floor look both clean and soft.
I ease him down, and he settles cross-legged, lids low, head slightly bowed.
“Edgar?” His eyelids flutter just a little, then slide shut. I touch his knee. “Hey—um, can you help me get your shirt off?”
He doesn’t move, so I look in the First Aid kit and pull out a tiny pair of sharp scissors. I consider the shirt a moment: white, and stained with crimson, before cutting up the back and pulling it down his big, hard arms in the front.
It falls to the floor, and he peeks one eye open, holding my gaze for an unknowable second before shutting his eyes again.
I run my gaze down him, stunned by the number of bruises.
“Harder. Do it harder.”
Something cool and fluttery settles at the bottom of my throat. I can’t look at his face as I check each of the bruises. I lift his arm and find a neat tear high up on his side, near the top of his ribcage. It’s at least three inches long, and…really…open. I suck back a breath and rifle in the kit, coming out with a neat square of gauze. I rip it open, press it over the wound, then move it off and rustle for a disinfectant. The next few minutes, while I doctor the wound and worry over whether it needs stitches, Hansel is quiet and still, sitting up but clearly somewhere else.
The moment that I’m finished, he lays down on his unhurt side, his cheek on the inside of his bicep, his body slightly curled, the way I think he always was when he would talk to me. He doesn’t even open his eyes again before he starts getting sick.
“Shit!”
I roll him further his side and grab some towels. Then I hold his head.
“Shelly. Shelly,” he moans, “don’t leave me.” His voice cracks on her name. “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be good.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucas
Twenty-two years ago
I’m watching by the bushes. Watching for her car. It’s a white Cambry. It smells like fruit inside of it. It smells like her.
Her name is Shelly Powers. She’s my social worker.
Usually I want to see her all the time, but…not this time. It’s at night.
I wrap the top of the trash bag around my hand and look down at it. It kind of hurts. I slip my hand out, and the yellow tie part droops down.
I look down at the bag instead of at the driveway. It’s big and fat and black. Inside of it, that’s where my clothes are.
I don’t have a lots of clothes. My shoes are in there, too. My Ninja Turtle shoes. I like them. Shelly bought them for me. But Drew, my brother that lives here, said it wasn’t Shelly. He said it was somebody named The State.
I wonder if that’s where Shelly will take me when she picks me up in her Toy Yoda Cambry. I don’t think that I would like that. State sounds kinda like Stage, and there’s a boy at my kindergarten—Adam Stage—that isn’t nice. He says I’m gross like girls. He says I smell like yucky cigarettes.
My Mommy at this house smokes cigarettes. They don’t smell very good.
She was a nice Mommy, but—
I swallow.
I look up at the driveway, ’cause now I want Shelly to come.
I don’t like it here. I used to, but…I don’t like it anymore.
I bring my thumb up to my mouth, but I don’t put it in. My teacher, Miss Landry, told me that I have to stop or I’ll be like a baby.
I don’t want to be a baby.
People don’t want babies, or little children. That’s why Jesus loves the little children. Cause nobody else does.
I bite on my lip and keep on looking at the trash bag.
Last time Shelly had to come and get me, I had a backpack. This time, my backpack is at Miss Landry’s class, in my cubby. I left it there on accident.
This time I have a big trash bag, and that’s better than only a backpack. It’s way big.
The inside of my mouth feels wet and kind of hot. My face is hot, too. My eyes kind of hurt, and in the front of my neck is hot, too.
I wish Shelly would come get me.
I don’t like to be out here.
I can hear the dog next door moving around inside his cage. He’s not a nice dog. He is mean.
I want a dog. Sometime, if I could get a dog, I know I would feed him every day.