26
ANSON
Libby’s hair smelled of violets and lavender and was still slightly damp from the shower. I traced my fingers down the length of her arm until they found her hand and gently gripped it, wrapped in the warmth of her.
She let out a soft sigh. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”
I did too, and I told her so.
We were in the hayloft of the barn. In the spot I’d come to think of as our corner. The musty blanket draped over us. We met out here most nights, telling no one for fear of Ms. Finicky finding out. Or worse—Vincent or one of the older kids who would surely give us trouble.
“I thought about running away,” Libby said softly.
“First when I was back at Camden, then when they brought me here. I figured I’d heal up as best I could and sneak off in the middle of the night.
Originally, I had given myself two weeks.
That would be tonight. The night I’d go.
” She traced her finger through the dust and drew a lazy figure eight.
Camden was a treatment center not far from the farmhouse.
Although Libby and I had both been there at the same time, we hadn’t met.
I only knew her from the crying. She cried most nights, loud enough for all of us to hear.
I was glad we were no longer in that place, glad we were both here.
The idea of Libby leaving made my heart hurt. “I’d go with you,” I told her.
She squeezed my hand. “I know you would.”
“Why didn’t you run away . . . before?”
I didn’t have to say more; she knew what I meant.
At her last foster home, her stepfather had taken to beating her.
Sometimes he did worse things, but we didn’t talk about that.
I told her if she wanted to tell me, she could, and she said she would when she was ready.
She wasn’t ready. Her stepfather beat her and did worse things while her stepmother sometimes watched, sometimes left them alone, but never did anything to stop.
There were four other stepchildren in the house, but Libby was their favorite.
Most nights, it was Libby who got their attention.
Although Libby hadn’t told me exactly what the man did to her, she did say she preferred he did it to her over the other girls because she was the oldest, and as long as he was with her, the others were spared.
I don’t think he spared the others every night, just most. She couldn’t run away and leave the other girls alone with him.
She had no choice but to stay. At least, until that final night.
“He’d never hurt me so bad,” she said softly.
“Of all the other times, never that bad. I don’t remember much of it, and I guess that’s a good thing.
I remember him leaving my room . . . after.
He closed my door ever so quietly, and I remember lying there.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. I hurt so bad. I hurt all over.
I don’t know how much time went by, but at some point, my stepmother came in with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth and tried to clean me up.
Even that’s a blur. She must have realized what he did was worse, far worse, than any other time, because she called the ambulance.
She’d never done that before. And that was the end.
I’m sure she knew that. There was no hiding what he’d done.
No disguising it. I caught bits of the paramedics whispering.
I saw a doctor and one of the nurses talking to the police at the ER.
I knew the other girls would be safe after that.
They’d be taken away to new homes. I told myself they’d go to better homes.
At least, I hoped for that. Particularly for Barbara.
She was growing into such a beautiful woman.
I could see the person she’d become. A man like that .
. . if he got the chance to do to her what he did to me .
. . she wasn’t as strong as I was. I don’t think she’d survive that. She’d . . .”
Libby pressed her face into my shoulder and cried. She cried for a long time, and all I could do was hold her, tell her I’d never let anyone else hurt her. Never again.
“If I’d run away from the house,” she finally said, “I never would have met you. Everything happens for a reason. Even the bad stuff.”