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When I shut off the shower, the cool air hits my skin, causing goose bumps. Stepping onto the mat, I grab the softest towel I have ever used from the rack. Mine are all scratchy, old, and worn. I’ve never had good things. I was always told I was dirty and would amount to nothing.
How different my life would have been if I’d grown up in this house, in this underworld, as they call it. Would it be as big of a mess as it is now, or would it be better? Would Hunter be a completely different person than who he is now?
There’s no way to tell.
* * *
After I get dressed, I leave the bedroom and head down the hallway. Judging from the aroma, something delicious is cooking. It makes my mouth water.
I look up and down the wooden-walled hallway. There are three closed doors, which I assume are more bedrooms. Turning left, the hall opens up into an open-plan living area. The kitchen is to my right, and a dining table and chairs are to the left. It’s like something out of a fairy tale.
The walls are the same wood as my bedroom, and cream tiles line the floor with large rugs in the living area in front of the couch.
Looking for Hunter, he and Landon are nowhere to be seen.
Good, maybe he finally listened and left.
May’s head pops out from what must be the pantry. “Hello, dear. How are you feeling?” She smiles softly.
I fold my arms over my chest as a chill runs through me. “I’m okay.”
May sets some spices she was holding on the kitchen counter and comes at me with open arms. It’s like the dam wall has crumbled away, my bottom lip trembling, and tears sting my eyes. I can’t hold back all the emotions wreaking havoc on me.
May’s arms wrap securely around me. “It’s okay, dear child. I’ve got you now,” she repeatedly says, trying to soothe me.
The cries that tear from my throat are years of feeling unworthy of anything good. With each sob, May rubs my back and assures me it’s okay.
When the sobs stop, it’s as though I’ve cried away a lifetime of troubles, as if I’ve released all the demons I had been holding on to. May’s hold on me loosens, and she moves back, but her hands rest on my shoulders. Facing her, tears also stream down her pink-colored cheeks.
“I’m sorry.” I sob as I wipe away the wetness on my face.
“Oh, my dear, you have nothing to be sorry about. It is me who should be sorry. I should never have left you at the hospital. I thought you would have gone to a good home.” Her voice shakes as she speaks, and more tears silently roll down her cheeks.
I’m not sure what to say, so I keep quiet. Things have happened so fast that I haven’t been able to process it all yet.
“I know this must be hard for you. We have plenty of time to talk about things. If you want to take a seat, I’m just finishing up dinner.” She glances over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze. “Oh no, please don’t let the bottom of the pot be burned.” She lets go of me and rushes to the pot bubbling on the cooktop. Then she quickly, yet gently, pulls it from the burner.
“That smells really nice,” I say.
“Thank you. It’s an old family recipe. I call it Nanna Red’s beef hot pot.” I smile at the name. “It’s good to see you smile.” She grins back. “I’ll go get the boys, and we can eat.” She sets off through what could be a back door. As she opens it, I catch a glimpse of a large barn and some garden beds.
My gaze moves over the area again. Pictures on the fireplace catch my eye, so I make my way over for a closer look. There are old photos, photos of couples, and baby photos—five tiny faces in separate frames. I can pick out the boys as they have blue blankets on them, and the girls have pink ones.
“Those are your siblings, my grandchildren.” May’s gentle voice comes up behind me, and she places a hand on my shoulder. Leaning past me, she picks up one of the girl's images. “This is you.”
11
With shaky hands, I take the frame she holds out. I’ve never seen a photo of myself at this age.
I have short, thick, dark hair and a yellowish complexion.
“You had a little jaundice when you were born. You were such a quiet little thing. I hardly heard you make a peep.” She stands beside me, gushing over my photo and recalling memories I’ve only ever dreamed about hearing.
“How old was I when you took me away?” I glance up at her.
Her hand comes to her mouth, and tears fill her eyes. Moving her hand away, she opens her mouth to speak but seems to stop herself. I don’t push, giving her a moment.
That moment feels like forever.
