Chapter 3 #2
“Go on, give us the spiel,” June said. She circled the day room, whose wallpaper now hung at half-mast as if it had lost the chastisement that kept it up.
Mark looked at me for a moment, and I nodded, walking past my sister towards the kitchen with its roller window open so that the sun from the day room streamed in.
The padlocks had been removed from the cupboards, but the reminder of the bolt was still firmly on the door.
With-holding food and water was standard punishment here. At least it had been then.
Mark cleared his throat.
“This home was built and opened in 1925, in memory of Margaret, the late wife of Harold Bellamy. He donated the house and land to the community in her honour. She loved children but couldn’t have any of her own.
Nuns initially ran it and followed Christian teachings until 1965, when Harold died, leaving no funding to continue their mission.
The property was then purchased from his estate by the crown, and a mainstream approach to care was adopted.
As the nuns left their work here, trained care workers replaced them. ”
I snorted, and June coughed the word “trained,” like it was a hairball.
Mark hesitated for a beat before continuing.
“Downstairs boasts a large day room, a commercial kitchen, two offices—both suitable for additional bedrooms—and a games-room-sized lounge. Perfect for large groups or events. Upstairs, you’ll find eight spacious bedrooms, four on each side of the corridor, another small bedroom or office at the end, and two commercial bathrooms, each with five sinks, showers, and toilets. ”
“You forgot the basement,” I said, voice flat. “The one with the drain in the floor.”
“Ah, yes. Plenty of storage down there, easily accessible from outside.”
“Great place for children too,” June muttered, running a finger along a dusty windowsill.
Mark’s jaw flexed, and he rocked on the balls of his glossy leather shoes.
“You also forgot the sea view and the outdoor patio that’s an entertainer’s dream,” I joked.
I hesitated to walk any further than the two rooms we’d been circling.
My stomach was sore and overflowing with anxiety.
My legs were burning as if my body was preparing to run me out at any moment, whether or not my brain consented.
The blank look on Mark’s face told me he wasn’t used to dealing with people like us, and it made him suit his chosen career.
He was so pretty, but he couldn’t work off script. Which was a real shame.
“That’s enough for today, Marky-Mark,” June said, watching my posture become increasingly deflated as the pain in my stomach grew. “Now tell us why you’re really here.”
“To welcome you, of course. And to offer a hand, if needed,” he replied.
“At least he’s predictable,” I said, addressing June like he wasn’t there.
She stared at him, silent and unmoved. The seconds dragged out. Then, finally, Mark let out a sigh and dropped his hands to his sides as he leaned back against the browning wall.
“Fine. I wanted to see if you had any intention of selling. And to offer my services,” he answered. His chest deflated with his honesty.
“The truth,” June sighed, and for the first time since she’d arrived her shoulders dropped an inch. “Now that I can respect.”
I waved at June as her car sped down Bellamy Lane not much later. The sun was already beginning to set like a fireball peeking out from behind yellow clouds. An old oak creaked in the wind, and I shivered.
Thank the universe for my summit sleeping bag and wool-stuffed pillow with its faded flannel cover.
My neck swore I couldn’t sleep on pillows after thirty-four, but it was useful for hiding my face from whatever else lurks in the dark.
Everything I didn’t sell before I left Roma’s I’d stuffed into the navy-blue pack I’d bought for the travelling that I never ended up doing once work dried up.
I sat in the back seat of my car and willed myself not to spiral without success.
I’m a failure. I’m a failure. I’m a failure.
Sleeping in a car. No home, technically, because I was giving up Bellamy Children’s Home the second I figured out which sick bastard left it to me.
No furniture. No job. No partner. No children. No future.
This is what people looked like before you found them pissed on the street, curled up on cardboard.
I always felt like I was on the outside of life, with my face pressed up against the window, watching everyone else live.
I couldn’t figure out how to get in. I’d watch them inside and try to imitate their actions, hoping I could join them.
It was like a secret club with no initiation that I was aware of.
Even though I smiled and always showed up early on the side-lines ready to go, the coach never called my name. They never let me in.
One day I’d figure out the damn code to adult living like everyone else.
My throat sank into my stomach the way it does when I spiral too far. I curled into my sleeping bag and pulled the cord tight around my face. Sleep came faster than it had any right to—probably because my body knew what was waiting on the other side.