“I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes, he’s Woodrow. Sometimes, he’s Woody. Other times, he’s someone different.”
“Don’t say his name,” Woodrow, or rather Woody, spoke with a strain, fingers on his throat as he forced out the words. “He’s always listening. I don’t want him to hurt Momma and Daddy.”
“I know. I won’t, I promise.” Nessie looked back to me. . . “You can ask Woodrow about it when he’s back. We think he’ll like you.”
Their conversation muted, as Woody failed to voice more words, but my head got louder and louder until I felt pressure from all the questions spinning inside my brain.
With my eyes back on the siblings, I was silent as eye blinks answered Nessie’s never-ending, innocent questions. I missed out on most of the conversation, failing to remember how many blinks meant yes and how many meant no.
I forced myself back into the conversation, or rather, started a new one. “Isn’t today your birthday?”
Two eyes of the prettiest color in the world blinked my way—twice.
“How old are you?” I wondered, sensing it was much younger than he appeared.
Woody lifted his hands. A thumb and four fingers on his right hand floated into the air, along with two on his left.
Seven. This boy was stuck in the past. I struggled to keep my stare looking as even as possible as my eyes tried to bulge in my head and my mouth dropped.
I took a minute, offering a sad smile during the silence.
“How old is Woodrow?” I asked, wondering if they were the right words to use. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to see the response.
His fingers flashed again, full hands, and then another flash. A thumb and four fingers on one hand, two on the other. Seventeen.
I blinked in confusion, taking in the silent statements. I had no idea what to say next, no idea how to befriend a teenager who thought he was a small child.
“How do you wake Woodrow up from his rest?” I asked, my fingers playing with the pretty white flowers at my side. His eyes locked there.
“You can’t. He’ll wake on his own, when he’s feeling better, not before. We aren’t meant to interfere. You don’t want to unleashHell.” Nessie mouthed the last word, following her brother’s previous instructions of not saying it allowed.
Her little face was different now—paler than before. Her pretty features, laced in dread and worry as anxiety pulled her happiness away from her playtime.
Hell. . .the name rang in my head, thinking how strange a name it was for a person, but I didn’t question it. I kept all my questions inside, burning with the desire to know all the answers but afraid to ask. Afraid to voice theword. . .because they were afraid.The siblings at my side sat frozen, waiting to see if it would slip through my lips, but I sucked my lips inside my mouth, and I shook my head, allowing them to relax a little.
“Let’s get back to our game,” Nessie said with a smile, this one mimicking so many of mine—false.
Woody
So many hours had passed. Dinnertime was getting close, but nothing had been mentioned of it.
The temperature lowered as the sun prepared to move its shine to another part of the world.
Jolie’s long hair bounced in the wind; I’d never seen the style before. Her strands were somewhere between a curl and something else—I didn’t know the right word. . . but her hair fascinated me, just like everything else about her.
I’d watched her all day, paying less and less attention to the toys or the game I was playing with Nessie prior to her arrival.
I guess, this is a childhood crush,I thought to myself.
Jolie’s pretty face had a smile, but it wasn’t real. I couldn’t say how I knew; I didn’t know much about anything, but I knew that was true. It was a painted expression like the fixed face of the figure still in my lap.
My smile was false, too, even as I looked over her pretty face and watched as her fingers played in her hair. I was hiding the pain my father caused me this morning. I had no idea what put him in a mood. Woodrow had gotten us out of bed, and he was still at the front arriving downstairs.
Daddy had woken up grumpy and he behaved awfully this morning at breakfast, treating Woodrow so badly. I had no idea how his shouting hadn’t woken Jolie. She was either super tired or she had chosen to ignore it. . . just like my momma.
Daddy wanted to unleash Hell, who he was only brave enough to face after he’d been drinking his bottled drinks, the ones I wasn’t allowed to touch. Those drinks made him angrier, somehow.
And he’d been drinking them today.
