Chapter One #2
The small conversation seemed to distract her momentarily from her distress.
I took the opportunity to really look at her.
She was tiny, frailer than a kid should be.
Her skin was pale against the white hospital sheets, almost translucent with blue veins visible at her temples and wrists.
The hospital gown swallowed her small frame, making her appear even more vulnerable.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes, telling a story of more than just today’s tears.
I noticed multiple bruises on her thin arms, some yellowing with age, others fresher.
My jaw tightened. I’d seen enough abuse in my life to recognize its markers.
But something felt off. The way she looked directly at me, the way she didn’t flinch when I stumbled, moving toward her suddenly.
Most abused kids I’d known, including some of the brothers in the club who had survived vicious childhoods, either jerked or shied back.
This girl actually grinned a little. Who didn’t love a little slapstick comedy once in a while?
Setting aside my questions, I made a decision and lowered myself cautiously into the visitor chair beside her bed. It creaked under my weight.
“Your mom will probably be back soon,” I said, trying to sound reassuring but feeling completely out of my depth. “Sometimes grown-ups have to talk about boring stuff for a long time.”
Lily’s thumb came out of her mouth with a small pop. “The doctor said I have to stay here more days. I don’t like it here. It smells funny.” She wrinkled her nose delicately.
I nodded, finding unexpected common ground. “Yeah, it does smell funny.”
“And the food tastes bad.”
“Hospital food always tastes bad. Rules of the game or something.”
A tiny smile flickered across her face before disappearing again. She shifted, wincing as her cast bumped against the bed rail.
“Does your arm hurt?” I asked, noticing how she cradled it against her chest.
She nodded, fresh tears gathering. “They gave me medicine but it still hurts.”
Without thinking, I carefully adjusted her pillow, trying as gently as I could to help her find a more comfortable position. Lily didn’t flinch at my movements, trusting me enough to accept my help. No way was this kid abused.
“Better?” I asked.
“A little.” Her voice was getting shaky again, the momentary distraction wearing off as her pain and loneliness returned. “I want my mommy.”
The naked vulnerability in her voice cut straight through me. This wasn’t the kind of problem I could solve with my fists. This was a frightened child in pain, missing her mother, and all my usual defenses and skills were useless.
“She’ll come back,” I said, wishing I felt as certain as I tried to sound. “You want me to stay until she does?”
I surprised myself with the offer. I had work to finish, and Paula would probably be looking for me soon. But the thought of leaving this small person alone with her tears and pain felt impossible.
Lily nodded, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Will you tell me about your pictures? The ones on your arms?”
I glanced down at my tattooed forearms. Before I could begin, her face crumpled again, a fresh wave of tears overtaking her.
“Hey, hey,” I said softly, leaning forward in the chair, but still staying in sight of the camera. “It’s going to be OK.”
The words felt hollow, a promise I had no right or ability to make. But they were all I had to offer as the child before me dissolved into heartbreaking sobs once more.
My instinct was to hug the kid, which couldn’t happen. And how else does one comfort a child?
I closed my eyes, feeling her pain in my chest. The kid had those big blue eyes filled with tears and I did the absolute only thing I could think of.
I couldn’t give the child her mother, but I could let her have her nighttime ritual.
With a shuddering breath, for the first time since the Goddamn bar fight, I sang.
When I’d been sick or particularly upset as a young kid, my mother sang a song to me she’d made up.
After she died, I’d done my best to forget not only the song, but especially how her voice sounded when she sang it.
I could always tell how much my mother loved me when she sang to me.
Now, that song and my mother’s voice were the only things I heard, other than Lily’s soft sniffles.
I sang the song I hadn’t heard in twenty-five years like I’d been singing it every day my entire life. My voice might be a little rougher than it had been before, but it felt good to sing again. Especially, when Lily’s tears gradually stopped.
Her gaze fixed on my face with surprise and curiosity.
I continued, my voice gradually finding firmer footing now I had my first audience in half a decade.
When she smiled up at me, I realized how much I’d missed music.
Fans were always appreciative, but what had always given me my thrill were the looks I got when I’d found a song to touched people in the moment.
The song I’d chosen impulsively was the exact song this lonely little girl needed.
Helping her, knowing I’d given her something to put her at ease filled me with more satisfaction than if I’d won a fucking Grammy.
It didn’t take long for Lily’s eyes to drift closed. Her breathing evened out until I knew she slept.
As I stood to leave, I found myself studying her more carefully.
The bruises on her thin arms were numerous, in various stages of healing.
Some were clearly fingermarks, others more amorphous.
The cast on her right arm was bright pink, a cheerful color at odds with the injury it protected.
Despite these signs of potential abuse, her behavior puzzled me.
She’d watched me with open curiosity rather than fear, didn’t flinch when I moved, seemed comfortable with my presence despite my intimidating appearance.
Most abuse victims I had known, including myself once upon a time, developed a second natured wariness. Lily displayed none of these behaviors. It created an inconsistency I couldn’t quite resolve.
My protective instincts stirred. Why did Lily have no one with her? Maybe the abuse she suffered came from negligence. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d read a situation wrong, but it still didn’t feel right.
I needed to leave and tell Lily’s nurse so someone could come sit with the child.
I was a convicted felon on parole. I had no business being in this room even with the door wide open and bathroom light on.
Whatever was happening with Lily and her mother was for social workers and doctors to handle, not an ex-con with a mop.
Yet as I rose from the chair, careful not to wake her, I knew I’d check on her later.
I backed quietly from the room, my calloused fingers lingering briefly on the door frame as I looked back at the sleeping child. Her face was peaceful now, the pain and fear temporarily banished by exhaustion and perhaps the comfort of an unexpected lullaby.