I squint and try to focus my eyes.
That’s when I see it: an arm.
My throat constricts.
So she’s got another “child”. I’ve never seen her bring one into the house before. She used to lock me in the bathroom while she went down into the city. After Boy Blue showed up, she started making me spend nights in there, too, and then a little while longer and I had my own room. Whoopee.
I’m holding my breath as Mother works to get her bound-up body out of the car. My heart is already beating fast, because I have ideas about this. Fears. Hopes. But mostly fears.
And then I see a swatch of pale blonde hair.
I grasp the window sill to keep from sinking down to the floor. I can barely see out the window from my partial crouch, but I can see enough. Mother jerks her slender body around, and I can’t look anymore. I crouch down to the floor and press my head against the wall.
“Oh fuck.” I’m going to puke. “Fuck.”
A strange sound like a sob comes out of my mouth, and a hot, stick feeling twists through me.
It’s my fault.
“Fuck.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. My shoulders start to tremble. Then my arms. I can feel the vibration in my stomach. I hunch over and dry heave on the rug.
“Oh fuck,” I moan. “No.”
I look at my left wrist, at the thick, pink scar there. I imagine blood pouring out, over my hand.
“Her blood is on your hands,” the pastor says.
No one is in the room except the two of us, and all those flashing, beeping monitors.
“You ought to rot in hell, young man.”
I get up and rush to the door, as if I can do something. I tug at my dark hair, which is long and shaggy now. I press my hand against my face and step into the shadows.
“Oh God. Fuck.” I try to breathe. I grit my teeth.
The door opens. I start to pace around beside it.
And then they’re here. Mother is maneuvering her through the doorway, and I can hear her breaths. They’re very loud. She’s flipping out. Struggling—like an animal.
I see her hair. I think I smell her.
Thick heat spreads through me. They move past me—Mother is tugging her along—and I step silently into their wake.
I see Mother lift her up and carry her, and need burns life into my bones.
This girl is mine.
That’s what Mother said. She can live in my room, so I won’t be alone.
She shouldn’t be here, another voice inside my head puts forth.
I didn’t know Mother would really do it. I didn’t think she could, but now she did, and now she’s here. She’s Shelly’s niece. Laura, Lana, or Leah.
This girl would have been my sister. Had her parents not changed the plans at the last minute, found me a “new home,” this triplet would have been my foster sister.
She and Mother disappear into the darkness of the hallway. I take long strides, moving with a sense of purpose for the first time in I don’t even know how long.
I hear a shout, and then a curse, and a bump. By the time I catch up to them, the girl carried lamb-style in Mother’s arms is limp, her long hair hanging down, her neck lolling.
Fury fills me.
“Mother.”
She turns. Her eyes roll over me, surprised, then not. She smiles, big and wide.
“Hansel. Look what I brought you.”
“Which one is she?” I ask hoarsely.
“This one is Leah.” She sounds proud, looks proud.
I nod slowly, even though inside of me, it’s storming. Shelly always said that Leah was the best and nicest.
I step closer and hold my arms out, trying to ignore how thin and frail they look. “Can I take her?”
Mother isn’t being gentle with her. I don’t like that.
“You think you can carry her?” Mother’s eyebrows arch.
“I know I can.” It’s true—I do. It’s like the world has started turning again. I can feel the gravity beneath my feet. My muscles strain against it.
Mother laughs and piles Leah into my arms. The smell of her—oh God. She smells like fruit and…girl. Her breasts beneath her shirt. Her creamy throat. Her mouth.
I start to walk slowly, my eyes moving from her to Mother when I sense that Mother is watching me eye-fuck her.
“You knocked her out?” I ask.
“She struggled.”
I nod once. I want to scream and slap Mother around. But I’m able to quell my temper because I know she’s mine now.
“I’ll keep her in line from now on,” I promise. I can train her right, so Mother is never angry with her. I can teach her to stay out of the way. I can feed her my food and write and draw for her.
Sickness writhes inside me one more time: a sense of loss for her, a biting prong of grief and rage that dies out quicker than it rises.