“Give her some space, Ness,” her mother—who had already told me her name was Wynter—instructed her young daughter, guiding her slumped body from my side. Her eyes shifted to mine as I watched the little girl leave, defeat claiming her once-happy features.
“Do you need some kind of special shampoo for this hair?” Wynter asked, perching herself back down on the closed seat of the toilet, where she’d been sitting for the last half an hour.
My hand instinctively moved to my afro, fingers dwelling in the blood mattered clumps that ruined my pretty coils.
“Look, sweetie, I know this is hard for you. I don’t need to imagine what you’ve been through; I’ve been there myself.”
I twisted to her, sympathy in my eyes, need in my heart. I felt for her, and I needed to know that it was returned.
“You’ve been through this? Been through what I’m going through?” I asked, eyebrows furrowed.
Wynter’s almost silent feet moved her through the steam filling the room as I topped up the hot water in the bath. She lowered to her haunches, bending to my side. Her gentle stare trailed over the fading bruises on my skin.
Her words lingered in my head while I waited for her to return the conversation.
I’ve been there myself. . .
She was a victim. . . a survivor.
Maybe this family was my saving grace, after all.
“Something similar, a long time back.” She diverted the conversation to the present, steering away from a past she wanted to be forgotten. “Whathappened to your dad, witnessing that—it must have a lingering traumatic effect. I don’t want you to think we don’t want to help you, that isn’t true. Honey, we want your life to be as good as it can be, but we can’t get the police involved. We can’t have the repercussions of twisting the knife into the heart of such a violent enemy.”
I nodded, pretending to understand. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t understand why she was purchasing a human life from such people, if, she herself, had been a victim of such a crime. But I had to know. . .
“How did you—why did you purchase me? How did you get involved in that?”
A heavy sigh vacated Wynter’s mouth. “That’s a fair question. Ness, go play in your room. I need to have a chat with Jolie.”
I’d told Wynter my name when she’d told me hers; I’d told her a brief of my heartache, racing my words, voicing what felt like one million per minute. She didn’t comment on my story, but she told me my name was pretty.
Nessie, who had been lingering in the doorway—pretending she’d already left—obeyed her mother, drifting away with a solemn look.
Wynter didn’t watch but she listened for her daughter’s exit, waiting until the echo of her traversing steps had silenced into the distance before she continued, “Kids. . . always lurking somewhere.”
She took a moment, then returned to our previous conversation. “This isn’t something we’ve done before. But as I said, I’ve been there. I was taken at a young age, away from my family, away from all I knew. I was ruined. . . hurt. . . saved. By luck, by chance. . . by Ville, my darling husband. He paid my purchase fee out of his savings. I owe him everything. Life had been cruel, but he had been kind.” A sad smile crossed her lips.
“A few weeks ago, he met a man at a bar and they got talking over drinks. The man explained his unusual line of work—human sales. It made Ville shiver when the man spoke of how girls are broken in, forced to submit, ready to be embedded into their new lives. It was too familiar. He arranged a deal, knowing it was the only way to save someone in that position. To save you.” Her eyes left me for a second, and it made me colder as their warmth shifted direction. “We don’t want to make enemies. We have a daughter, and she is only seven right now. . . no one is off-limits.”
Wynter’s brown eyes moved to the doorway, to the place where the steam of the room was escaping, where a small Nessie had left to play with the dolls she offered to me.
I finally understood.
And I’d have done the same.
“We could only afford to help one; we put our entire savings into bringing you here, under the guise of a birthday gift for our son, Woodrow. That was why I made that comment downstairs. You never know who is lurking.
“Tomorrow is our son—Woodrow’s—birthday; he’ll be seventeen. We are celebrating it early. No idea why, but we always do.” She smiled again, probably thinking over their happy family memories. “Bringing you here, saved you from a harder life, from men double your age, but our actions weren’t completely selfless. You being here will savehim,too. Woodrow needs someone to bring him into himself. To help him become a man.”
“What does that mean?” I wondered aloud.
“I think he needs a friend; he doesn’t have any. Someone his age. Someone to experience life with. Not Nessie; she’s still into her dolls, but it’s time for him to grow up. . . and that’s not something he can do when she’s his only friend. He needs someone to talk to; to help him deal with some issues, mild depression and stuff, but don’t concern yourself with that. In time, you’ll see, he’s not like most boys his age.” Wynter paused, leaving my thoughts to run wild. “I guess isolation wasn’t the best way to raise kids. . . but there’s no step-by-step with parenting, and after my past, I thought seclusion was safer.” A gentle smile curved her lips. “I’m glad you’re here, where those vile creatures can’t hurt you. God had something bigger planned for you.”
I was glad, too. And despite what she said, for the last minute, I felt a sense of safety.
“Please, understand why we can’t help your dad. He’s already gone, but you’re not. We can help you. . . and you know that would be what he’d have wanted. Trust me, as a parent, I know.”
I nodded. . . her words were true. He’d want me safe. He’d want me loved, comforted by the walls of a home and the arms of those who lived inside it, even if they weren’t his own.
