Page 116 of Distortion
I give him a quizzical look that he doesn’t seem to notice and when he’s done, he cracks the bathroom door and ushers me out into the empty hallway.
He takes me to my room and sits me at my desk, taking a second, smaller towel to dry my hair.
‘I always wanted to do this when we were kids,’ he murmurs.
‘What, bathe me?’ I ask with a laugh. ‘Isn’t that a little weird?’
‘No,’ he grins. ‘Touch you. Hug you. Hold your hand. But you never let me. You never let anyone. Not even your mom.’
He picks my brush up from the bureau and begins to brush my hair carefully from the bottom. I let him and find that, although it’s a bit annoying and tickles, I can bear it if he really enjoys it.
He’s silent and I wonder if he’s waiting for a response, so I give him one.
‘It was too ... much,’ I say. ‘Back then everything was too much. All the time. School and your dad’s house and all his ideas of how I should be. All the yelling. The clothes were scratchy. The shoes were uncomfortable. All the other kids were so loud, and all the girls smelled ofCabbage Patchdolls. Even the wind on my face made me not want to go outside. Can you imagine? Literally a breezy day made me want to hide in the closet.’
‘But not now?’
I wonder how much I should say. Is giving him cannon fodder to use against me really that wise? Earlier yesterday he would have sold me down the river. Today we’re best friends forever?
‘Grew up, I guess,’ I say, realizing as the words come outthat that’s what I said to him the day of my mom’s funeral when we were in his car.
‘That’s it?’
That and years at The Heath where rule breaking was corrected.
‘I have my moments,’ I concede, ‘but I can do whatever I have to. It just takes a toll. I get tired. Sometimes I need time alone.’
Which is why I run.
He draws the brush down my wet hair in easy strokes. ‘I ... wanted to ask you something. It’s been bothering me for a long time.’
‘Okay.’
‘Why didn’t you want to talk to your mom?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, turning my head to look at him.
Why is he asking me about my mom?
‘She was really hurt when she would call and they told her you didn’t want to speak to her. She was trying to do what was right for you after ... you know.’
I turn around completely, and he stops brushing. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. She never called. No one did.’
‘Daisy, she called all the time. For months. They told her you didn’t want to speak to her, that you were angry about being taken there. She sent letters and care packages. They all came back unopened.Itried calling once. I snuck into my father’s office, found the number, and called from in there. They told me the same thing.’
I feel sick.
‘They never said,’ I whisper. ‘I never had any calls or letters, not even at Christmas or on my birthday.’
‘Jesus,’ he hisses. ‘That isn’t true. Why ... why would they do that?’
Stoke.It was never a secret that he believed we shouldhave a clean break from the outside, but I can’t help but think John had something to do with it as well. Sounds like something he’d do.
‘I don’t know,’ I lie. ‘But I wasn’t angry. I was sad, but I understood. It was better than whatever the police would have done with me. I just ... thought that she’d come back for me, you know? But she just left me there, and I never heard from anyone until I was told I was coming back here for the funeral.’
He’s quiet for a long time. ‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
I shrug. ‘It’s notyourfault,’ I say.
