The Beast
Page 41
“Yes. So true.”
With a wave, the female went down the steps, and Mary waited until the sounds of the footfalls disappeared in case Bitty was only lightly asleep.
Leaning into the door, she put her ear to the cool panels. When she heard nothing, she knocked quietly, then pushed things open.
The little pink-and-white lamp on the bureau in the corner was casting a glow in the otherwise dark room, and Bitty’s diminutive form was bathed in the soft illumination. The girl was lying on her side, facing the wall, having obviously fallen asleep hard at some point. She was in the same clothes she had had on, and she had indeed packed her battered suitcase—and her mother’s. The two pieces of luggage, one smaller and the color of a grass stain, the other larger and Cheeto orange, were lined up together at the base of the bed.
Her doll head and brush were on the floor in front of them, along with that stuffed toy tiger of hers.
Putting her hands on her hips, Mary lowered her head. For some reason, the impact of the room’s silence, its modest and slightly threadbare curtains and bedspreads, its thin area rug and mismatched furniture, hit her like body blows.
The barrenness, the impersonality, the absence of . . . family, for lack of a better word, made her want to turn the thermostat up. As if some extra heat from the ducts in the ceiling could transform the place into a proper little girl’s room.
But come on, the problems that were ahead were going to have to be solved by a lot more than just functioning HVAC systems.
Tiptoeing across to the bed Bitty’s mom had slept in, it seemed fitting to take the patchwork quilt off that mattress and carry it over to the little girl. With care, Mary added the layer without disturbing the sleep that was so very needed.
Then she stood over the child.
And thought back to her own past. After her cancer had made itself known, she could remember very clearly thinking that enough was enough. Her mother had died early and horribly, with much suffering. And then she herself had been diagnosed with leukemia and had to go through a very non-fun-filled year trying to beat the disease into remission. The whole lot of it had seemed so very unfair.
As if her mother’s hard time of it should have qualified Mary for a tragedy-exemption card.
Now, as she stared down at the girl, she was downright indignant.
Yes, she frickin’ knew that life was difficult. She’d learned that lesson very well. But at least she had gotten a childhood marked with all the traditionally good things you wanted to be able to look back on when you were old. Yes, her father had died early, too, but she and her mother had had Christmases and birthdays, graduations from kindergarten and elementary school and high school. They’d had turkey on Thanksgiving and new clothes every year and good nights of sleep where the only worry that might have kept someone up was whether a passing grade was going to happen or, in the case of her mom, if there was going to be enough money for two weeks of summer vacation at Lake George or just one.
Bitty had had absolutely none of that.
Neither she nor Annalye had ever spoken in specifics, but it wasn’t hard to extrapolate the kind of violence that they had both been subjected to. For godsake, Bitty had had to get a steel rod implanted in her leg.
And what had it all added up to?
The little girl here alone.
If destiny had had any conscience at all, Annalye wouldn’t have died.
But at least Safe Place had come into being in a nick of time. The idea that the resource wouldn’t have been available to Bitty when it was needed most?
It was enough to make Mary sick to her stomach.
* * *
Rhage woke up in a rush, sure as if an alarm had lit off next to his head. Jacking his torso off the hospital bed, he looked around in a panic.
Except then, as quick as the anxiety hit, it disappeared, the knowledge that Mary had gone to Safe Place calming him down sure as if she’d spoken the words in his ear. And he supposed she had. For a while now, they’d been using the beast as a kind of message board if Rhage was out like a light.
It worked—and you didn’t have to worry about having to find a pen.
He still missed her, though. Still worried about his own mental state. But that little girl . . .
Shifting his legs to the side, he blinked a number of times and yup, remained blind after the lid workout. Whatever. He felt otherwise strong and steady—physically that was—and as long as he took things slowly, he was going to make it into the shower just fine.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom buck-ass naked and smelling like a rose. Amazing what a little soap and shampoo could do for a guy. A good teeth brushing, too. Next stop? Food. After the beast came out and then he did his purging thing afterward, his guts felt not so much hungry as hollow—and the best thing he could do was put some low-fiber carbohydrates in there for processing.
Twelve French baguettes. Four sleeves of bagels. Seven pounds of pasta.
This type of thing.
Stepping out into the corridor, he wondered how long it was going to take to find his way to—
“Fucking finally—”
“Couldn’t you have put a towel on—”
“Fritz brought you clothes—”
“You’re back, motherfucker—”
All of his brothers were there, their scents and voices, their relieved laughter, their curses and jibes exactly what the doctor ordered. And as they embraced him and slapped his bare ass, he had to suck in the emotion.
He was already nakey. #plentyvulnerablethanks
God, in the midst of all the reeeeeunnnnited and it feeeeeeeeeels so gooooooood, it was impossible not to get hit with another load of shame for his selfishness and what he’d put Mary and all of his brothers through.
With a wave, the female went down the steps, and Mary waited until the sounds of the footfalls disappeared in case Bitty was only lightly asleep.
Leaning into the door, she put her ear to the cool panels. When she heard nothing, she knocked quietly, then pushed things open.
The little pink-and-white lamp on the bureau in the corner was casting a glow in the otherwise dark room, and Bitty’s diminutive form was bathed in the soft illumination. The girl was lying on her side, facing the wall, having obviously fallen asleep hard at some point. She was in the same clothes she had had on, and she had indeed packed her battered suitcase—and her mother’s. The two pieces of luggage, one smaller and the color of a grass stain, the other larger and Cheeto orange, were lined up together at the base of the bed.
Her doll head and brush were on the floor in front of them, along with that stuffed toy tiger of hers.
Putting her hands on her hips, Mary lowered her head. For some reason, the impact of the room’s silence, its modest and slightly threadbare curtains and bedspreads, its thin area rug and mismatched furniture, hit her like body blows.
The barrenness, the impersonality, the absence of . . . family, for lack of a better word, made her want to turn the thermostat up. As if some extra heat from the ducts in the ceiling could transform the place into a proper little girl’s room.
But come on, the problems that were ahead were going to have to be solved by a lot more than just functioning HVAC systems.
Tiptoeing across to the bed Bitty’s mom had slept in, it seemed fitting to take the patchwork quilt off that mattress and carry it over to the little girl. With care, Mary added the layer without disturbing the sleep that was so very needed.
Then she stood over the child.
And thought back to her own past. After her cancer had made itself known, she could remember very clearly thinking that enough was enough. Her mother had died early and horribly, with much suffering. And then she herself had been diagnosed with leukemia and had to go through a very non-fun-filled year trying to beat the disease into remission. The whole lot of it had seemed so very unfair.
As if her mother’s hard time of it should have qualified Mary for a tragedy-exemption card.
Now, as she stared down at the girl, she was downright indignant.
Yes, she frickin’ knew that life was difficult. She’d learned that lesson very well. But at least she had gotten a childhood marked with all the traditionally good things you wanted to be able to look back on when you were old. Yes, her father had died early, too, but she and her mother had had Christmases and birthdays, graduations from kindergarten and elementary school and high school. They’d had turkey on Thanksgiving and new clothes every year and good nights of sleep where the only worry that might have kept someone up was whether a passing grade was going to happen or, in the case of her mom, if there was going to be enough money for two weeks of summer vacation at Lake George or just one.
Bitty had had absolutely none of that.
Neither she nor Annalye had ever spoken in specifics, but it wasn’t hard to extrapolate the kind of violence that they had both been subjected to. For godsake, Bitty had had to get a steel rod implanted in her leg.
And what had it all added up to?
The little girl here alone.
If destiny had had any conscience at all, Annalye wouldn’t have died.
But at least Safe Place had come into being in a nick of time. The idea that the resource wouldn’t have been available to Bitty when it was needed most?
It was enough to make Mary sick to her stomach.
* * *
Rhage woke up in a rush, sure as if an alarm had lit off next to his head. Jacking his torso off the hospital bed, he looked around in a panic.
Except then, as quick as the anxiety hit, it disappeared, the knowledge that Mary had gone to Safe Place calming him down sure as if she’d spoken the words in his ear. And he supposed she had. For a while now, they’d been using the beast as a kind of message board if Rhage was out like a light.
It worked—and you didn’t have to worry about having to find a pen.
He still missed her, though. Still worried about his own mental state. But that little girl . . .
Shifting his legs to the side, he blinked a number of times and yup, remained blind after the lid workout. Whatever. He felt otherwise strong and steady—physically that was—and as long as he took things slowly, he was going to make it into the shower just fine.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom buck-ass naked and smelling like a rose. Amazing what a little soap and shampoo could do for a guy. A good teeth brushing, too. Next stop? Food. After the beast came out and then he did his purging thing afterward, his guts felt not so much hungry as hollow—and the best thing he could do was put some low-fiber carbohydrates in there for processing.
Twelve French baguettes. Four sleeves of bagels. Seven pounds of pasta.
This type of thing.
Stepping out into the corridor, he wondered how long it was going to take to find his way to—
“Fucking finally—”
“Couldn’t you have put a towel on—”
“Fritz brought you clothes—”
“You’re back, motherfucker—”
All of his brothers were there, their scents and voices, their relieved laughter, their curses and jibes exactly what the doctor ordered. And as they embraced him and slapped his bare ass, he had to suck in the emotion.
He was already nakey. #plentyvulnerablethanks
God, in the midst of all the reeeeeunnnnited and it feeeeeeeeeels so gooooooood, it was impossible not to get hit with another load of shame for his selfishness and what he’d put Mary and all of his brothers through.
