She takes out an ointment and some bandages and places them on the small counter space available. She turns to look at me, her eyes regarding me, taking every part of me in. “The gash above your eye looks the worst, but the cuts on your arm and your leg aren’t too far behind that one. I can fix them here, no need to go to the hospital. They tend to ask all sorts of questions, and you don’t want them knowing what happened, do you?” she asks with so much sympathy in her tone.
I shake my head, wrap my arms over my chest and look down. I don’t want them asking questions, because they’ll only think I’m stupid for staying there and not leaving. But really, where was I supposed to go? I have no one. Not a living soul who would take me and care for me…until now.
Mrs. Hackly goes about cleaning and dressing my wounds. With nothing more than her soft humming and kind words, she cares for me. When she finishes tending to my wounds she stands back and smiles, pleased with herself. “Now, I have a t-shirt and sweatpants you can wear. I’ll talk to Mr. Hackly and see what we can do about getting you some new clothes tomorrow.”
“I have some second-hand clothes I got from the charity shop back at…” I pause and point toward the door. Back where? Home? Hell? What do I call it?
“That’s alright, dear. We’ll see what we can do, okay?” She smiles sweetly to me.
I nod my head and look down at the tiled floor again. The cold of the tiles is snaking its way through my body. An icy chill grips every part of me and I shiver. I feel goosebumps quickly forming on my skin.
Mrs. Hackly sees me shiver and runs her hands up and down my arms. “I’ll get you those clothes. I won’t be long.” And with that she leaves and softly closes the door behind her.
I’m left naked in the bathroom waiting for her to return. I look around the pristine room and notice how everything sparkles because it’s so incredibly clean. There are three hand towels and they’re in alignment, one not hanging lower than the other two. The labels of the shampoo and conditioner in the shower all face outwards. Everything is beyond picture-perfect.
The door opens and Mrs. Hackly comes back into the room carrying a gray, long-sleeved t-shirt and black sweatpants. “Here you go, Lily. Why don’t get you changed and come out. I’ll be waiting outside the door.”
“Thank you,” I respond immediately. The moment the door closes, I get dressed.
When I get to the door and open it, Mrs. Hackly is standing outside, eagerly waiting. “You already look better. Come, I’ll make you something to drink and eat.”
“As in real food?” I ask, not really thinking before the words tumble out.
“Of course. We have left over pot roast and how about a glass of warm milk?”
“Fresh milk?” I sound like I’m salivating, and truthfully, I am.
She walks us into the kitchen where Trent and Mr. Hackly are standing at the counter, talking. The moment we enter, their conversation ceases and Trent comes over to stand beside me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply and look away from the intense stare of Mr. Hackly.
“Here, sit down, Lily. Mom, get her a drink,” Trent says as he pulls a chair out for me.
“Yes, son,” she says, as she gets the milk out of the fridge and proceeds to pour some into a mug and heats it in the microwave.
I sit in the seat Trent has pulled out for me, and he sits beside me. But the room is eerily quiet, like we’re all waiting for something to happen. My heart pounds in my chest and I can feel three sets of eyes on me, but one is the hardest, and most intense.
“Tell me about yourself, Lily,” Mr. Hackly’s harsh tone rips across my skin like a hot knife cutting through butter.
“Um, I’m Lily and um, I’m seventeen. I um…” Nerves overtake me and I burst into tears.
“Dad,” Trent says as he rubs a hand along my back. “We talked about this, just leave her alone for now.”
I look up at the fire burning in Mr. Hackly’s eyes. “We did talk about it. And Trent has already told us what he knows about your father and your…” he pauses, but tilts his head to indicate the bruising and bandage on my face. “But, if you’re going to be living here, then I’ll need to know what it is you’ve had to deal with,” he says. “Not tonight, because I can see how upset you are, but by the weekend.”
Mrs. Hackly returns with a cup of warm milk for me, and a bowl of pot roast, gravy, and vegetables. The food smells fantastic and so appetizing. I can’t even remember the last time I had anything homemade.
She stands on the other side of the table, and waits. For what, I’m not sure. Maybe to see if I like the food, maybe to see if I need anything. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.