The girl began screaming in her sleep. I jolted out of my patient reverie and hurried across the room to her side. She thrashed around – a few pillows fell to the floor, and a nearby lamp rocked precariously before settling back into place. I caught her arms and whispered, “You're safe, shh.”
Her flailing slowed back into relaxation, but her eyes and mouth were wide open, begging for relief and for air. I held her hand and stroked her knuckles with my thumb.
Tears welled up in her eyes and trickled across her face. I brushed loose hairs from her brow, and swept a tear off her cheek with my free hand. She fought the tears back to choke out a few words, “I- I'm sorry.”
Her words puzzled me. “Did she just apologize for having a nightmare?” I thought. Her head turned away in shame. “No, don't apologize. Talk to me, what's wrong?”
She drew a deep, shaky breath. With her face obscured by a cushion, she spoke her fears in a panicked voice: “I dreamed I was still at the manor. The screaming... screaming isn't allowed at the manor.” She suppressed a few sobs, and tried to wipe her tears away, but to no avail: they only kept flowing, like fresh blood from an open wound.
I noticed again her scars and wounds, and I saw her tears cutting lines into her face. It felt like watching someone die, like watching an already cracked and broken stone crumble into dust. “It's okay,” I whispered as I tilted her chin back toward me, and our eyes met. “You're safe.”
“No, I'm not. I'm not safe,” she sobbed. “They'll find me, a-and then they'll –”
I hushed her with a finger over her lips. “Shh. Don't cry; don't worry.” I slipped an arm behind her back and propped her up to a sitting position. She buried her face in her hands and locked her elbows to her knees. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and did my best to ease her doubts.
Eventually she ran dry, and just sat silently, shivering a bit. I pulled the couch blanket around her, and inquired, “feeling any better?” With her head still in her hands, she shook her head.
What should I do next? My eyes wandered around the room, and into the next: the kitchen. I glanced to my side and saw the girl's pale skin, and the bones that seemed like they wanted to break through her skin. “Wait here a moment,” I told her as I walked toward the kitchen.
I searched the kitchen for some suitable food, and I found a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet:
I'll be home late tonight. There's some leftover stew in the fridge if you're hungry.
-Mom
I poured a bowl of the stew and microwaved it. I looked back into the living room while it was cooking. The girl had perked up; she'd pulled her face out of her hands and was watching me. The microwave beeped, and I set the bowl out on the kitchen counter with a spoon.
The girl looked at me hesitantly. I nodded and beckoned to her with a short “come here.” She shed the blanked and ambled unsteadily into the kitchen. Gingerly, she climbed onto the bar stool at the counter. I watched her sit perfectly, perhaps even painfully, straight. Her head bowed as she sipped spoonfuls of broth. I could see a dull fear in her eyes through her appetite. She ate each spoonful with care, and closed her eyes in what must have been ecstasy. Whatever she'd been fed at the manor was either inadequate, or too unpleasant to eat.
A silence fell over us and lasted a while. The only audible sounds were the mechanical hum of the air conditioning, and the light clink! of a metal spoon when it touched the sides of the bowl. Eventually, I thought it might be a good opportunity to coax a few answers out of her. I asked, “How did you escape?” She swallowed and placed the spoon on the counter, and took on an expression of contemplation.
“I... I don't know. Someone forgot to lock my door. I snuck out of my room and looked for an escape. I wandered around for a while before I realized I was lost. Then I heard someone coming, and I hid in a closet. I saw someone different, you, through a crack in the door and...” she trailed off, and her eyes lifted. “...and I felt I could trust you.”
I nodded, and absorbed her words for a moment. I tried another question, “Why were you there?” Her face tightened bitterly, as if her skin were trying to hold back a flood of tears.
“My family was poor. My mother was sick; my father lost his job. The Dernes... they took me in. My parents had to let me go, but I- I just didn't want to leave. We tried sending letters, but they stopped coming...” The tightened dam in her skin seemed to form cracks; she hopelessly swept the tears away, only to have them return in greater volume. I hurried around the counter to the stool adjacent to hers.
She wept. Through her gasps for air and tear-strangled voice, her words were a distorted wail. I couldn't tell what she was saying; I couldn't tell her anything. I let the flood run its course. With some hesitation, I rested a hand on her back. I wanted so much to tell her that she's safe, that she'd be all right, but I didn't. I didn't want to give her superficial, overused words. I just stayed by her side, and let my palm rub circles around her back.
The sobs eventually slowed. The water behind the dam had drained for now. I spoke first into the returning silence: “Tell me your name.”
She lifted her head and looked to me. An odd glimmer of hopefulness shined in her tear-swollen eyes. “Saoirse,” she said.
I repeated the name in my mind, then aloud. “Saoirse,” I said, “I'll help you. We'll take it slowly. Just tell me anything you need to say; I'll help you.”
Solemn and silent, Saoirse wiped her eyes and nodded.
---
*Note: "Saoirse" is pronounced "Seer-sha."
No comments:
Post a Comment