Page 50 of Receiving His Mercy
“What?”
“You know, coming into Lacey’s house, eating her food, and just making myself at home when I shouldn’t.”
That’s what she’d always thought when he’d first started calling her that as a child. But she’d never said anything because it helped make her feel like she was included.
“Fuck, baby, no. Is that what you’ve always thought?”
“Um, well . . .” she trailed off.
“No, it’s not original but it was because of your hair. By the end of summer it had gotten so light and golden. And, maybe a bit of it was where you lived. I thought you were rich and had everything you could desire. Fancy house, fancy clothes. I never realized what was really going on.”
She saw the regret in his face.
“It’s all right, no one really knew. Well, Lacey knew some of it but only because she guessed. One day, I was sitting outside at lunch when she came up to me. I always sat alone.”
“Were the other kids mean to you?”
“Oh no, they weren’t. Which is surprising when I barely spoke to anyone. Some kids can be cruel, but some can also be amazingly open and welcoming about people’s . . . eccentricities, let’s say. It wasn’t because of that. It was because . . . I never had any lunch.”
Shit.
This stuff shouldn’t be so hard to admit. It wasn’t her fault that she’d gone to school almost every day without food. She knew that. Her therapist had helped her separate feelings of guilt from what had been their fault.
Not hers.
But it didn’t make her feel less ashamed, unfortunately.
“What? Why?” he asked.
“Usually because the cupboards were empty and there was nothing to take. My father spent most of his time in his office or the lab in the city. So he ate there or kept snacks in his office. My mother spent most of her time in the city, only coming home on the weekends. But she only really ate at night and they’d eat out. Sometimes, she’d bring home groceries, especially if my father was out of his protein bars and snacks.”
“They didn’t fucking feed you?” he yelled without really mean to.
She jumped but nodded.
He stood and moved so he could pace up and down the living room floor. “What did you do?”
“Well, Lacey noticed I didn’t have anything so she started to bring extra for me for lunch. And the school always had snacks to give kids who had nothing. They once rang my mother because I was always in the office, asking for food. God, she was so mad that she shook me. She shoved me and I hit the wall.”
“She fucking what?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “She went through a stage where she’d hurt me to see if that made me better, smarter, if it made me want to do better. But that experiment failed so she stopped.”
Mostly.
The piano lessons continued for quite a while.
“Fucking hell. How did I never see physical abuse on you?”
“Oh, she rarely left bruises.”
Well, except for her knuckles. But she’d made excuses for them or worn gloves when she could.
“After that, there was food for a while. But I knew better than to ask the school for food again. So I started hoarding it. I’d sneak into my father’s office and take things. Or when Laceygave me food, I’d just eat half and save the rest for the weekends. I . . . this is terrible, I don’t want to tell you this part.”
He froze, then he turned to her. “Hey, look at me.”
She kept her gaze on her feet, shaking her head. Bad idea since her head immediately started throbbing. Ouch.
