Page 25
“Did you get enough rest?” she asks, reaching to brush a lock of hair from my face. Her fingers are cool against my skin, and I lean into her touch as if she could heal everything wrong in me.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Her smile deepens. “It’s late, but would you like some breakfast?”
The kindness unsettles me. My instincts warn me not to be a bother. “You don’t have to go to the trouble.”
“Oh, please.” She waves it off with a light laugh. “I insist. You’ve been through so much. Come out whenever you’re ready.”
Refusal or acceptance, either one feels like a mistake.
When she leaves, the silence swells again. I sit here, gathering the pieces of myself before moving to make them presentable. I fix my hair, wash my face, smooth down the shirt that has Columbia College stamped across the front, but it’s not enough. Everything is disconnected from me, borrowed from someone else’s life.
It’s darker than I would expect at this time of day. The sun is out, but there’s so much shade. I hadn’t realized how much of the sky was blocked out by the bluff outside my window.
Tiptoeing down the hall, I’m careful not to disturb the peace of the house. Evelyn stands at the stove, pushing eggs around a pan while bacon sizzles next to it, mouthwatering to my rumbling stomach.
I can’t remember the last time Mother cooked for me. The sight of it feels almost unworthy of witnessing. Care, in my experience, always comes with a cost.
A man steps into the kitchen, and he’s nothing like I expected after seeing Evelyn’s elegance. He’s simple, dressed neatly as though he’s headed to an office job.
“This must be Zaiya,” he says, pulling out the chair beside me. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his forearms before shaking my hand, his smile warm and practiced, suggesting he’s used to putting people at ease.
“This is my husband, Frank,” Evelyn says, setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. The scent makes me nostalgic for a past I never had.
Frank sets his reading glasses aside and places a notepad on the table, the page filled with neat lines of scripture and scattered notes. The makings of a sermon.
“Evelyn relayed a bit of what happened this morning. I’m sorry you went through that.” He has the reassuring voice of someone who’s counseled many people before me. “I’m sure you want to get down to the police station. I just want you to know I’m here to help however I can.”
What’s the proper thing to do here? Everyone would expect me to go to the police. Crimes were committed, after all. But I’m not used to deciding things for myself. Whichever choice I make will be the wrong one.
Part of me waits for him to decide for me, to grab me by the arm and lead me there whether I agree or not.
“Actually,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend, “I’d like to lay low for a while. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it is.” Evelyn’s hands settle on my shoulders. “It’s going to take some time to process.”
Frank nods, accepting without question. “Our home is your home.”
Those words sit heavy between us. Relief comes quickly, but I hesitate to embrace it. I’m away from my parents. Away from the walls that had held me back for so long. That alone is a miracle.
Calista appears in the doorway behind her dad, her bright blonde hair falling in perfect waves in front of her chest. A white T-shirt under a light pink sundress makes her look sweeter than she seemed when we met.
“Late breakfast?” she asks.
“It’s for Zaiya. Do you want some?” Evelyn turns towards the cupboard, already reaching for another plate.
Calista glances at me with a raised brow before sitting down. “I’m going out to meet a friend.”
“Perfect. You can take Zaiya and show her around.” Evelyn abandons the extra plate and rinses the pans instead. “In fact, stop by Second Self and get her some clothes. Frank, she can use the church funds, right?”
Frank looks up from his notes. “Sure thing. That money is for anyone who needs it.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few twenties, the bills soft and worn. I picture the collection plate passing from hand to hand at church, hard-earned money dropped into it by people who don’t know me, only for it to end up funding my wardrobe. I’d rather dig my bloody nightgown out of the trash.
“What about me?” Calista asks, her tone sharp. “I’m in need too.”
He adds another bill to the pile on the table. “You too.”
