Chapter 3
Jolie—aged eighteen
Icrept down the stairs, admiring the photos on the wall. Oak frames fanned over the painted plaster, memories of family activities. My eyes stopped on Woodrow, always at a distance from his parents. Always a look of pain on his face.
The house was loud this morning, music blasted through the walls, echoing in each room.
I was yet to learn this would be a regular experience.
Wynter had a thing for the eighties. Had no complaints about her song choices.
I loved the eighties, too—my music preference, inherited from my mother, who had been a teenager throughout that decade.
My only secret, silent complaint was Wynter’s voice overpowered the powerhouses who played on the TV, and it wasn’t anything anyone would choose to hear.
She was God-awful, bless her. And if I knew her a little better, maybe I’d make a joke of it and tell her.
But I didn’t know her that well yet.
And my low mood probably wouldn’t have delivered it as the joke I’d intended.
I slipped into the kitchen, following the smell of fresh bread, and I followed the instructions on the kitchen table where a note sat. It read:
Jolie,
Make yourself at home.
Grab something for breakfast.
I decided against the bread, or anything that involved it, still a little full from last night’s buffet.
I moved to a cabinet high on the wall in search of a bowl for cereal. I watched Ville outside, chopping wood through the window as I prepared and ate my breakfast alone. The cereal wasn’t anything I was used to. I didn’t recognize the brand, and dampness had crept into the cupboard and the box.
After a few mouthfuls, I was moving to the food caddy to dispose of the rest.
On this side of the room, a horrible smell was developing in the kitchen, seeping from somewhere else in the house.
I figured it was the food bin, and almost found myself wishing I had extra fingers to hold my nose as I lifted the lid.
Luckily, the scent stayed the same, its vileness spreading no further than before.
I swilled off my bowl and spoon, washing them under the warm water of a giant tap, and placed them both into the drainer, before I opened the back door and stepped outside.
Ville stopped what he was doing and gave me a wave or a salute, it was hard to tell which in such brightness, as I had to shield myself from the bright autumn sun that was trying to blind me.
“Good morning,” I said in response, keeping my distance.
My bare toes pressed imprints into the warm soil. The sun kissed my skin—its own special way of saying good morning and apologizing for the strain on my eyes.
It felt good. . . and I felt okay. Well, as okay as I could be, though very tired.
I rubbed my eyes, eliminating the residue of a long night. I’d barely slept, waking from nightmare after nightmare to an even worse reality. . . a reality where my dad no longer lived.
Luckily, I hadn’t woken Nessie, who had slept like a baby the whole night. She was up and out before my eyes opened a final time this morning.
I followed young voices until the sound of a flowing stream interfered with them.
Woodrow and Nessie were at the water’s edge, playing a short distance from the front of the house, under the watchful eyes of their mother, who had stopped singing, now that she was sat like a lady of leisure out on the second-floor balcony—a beautiful space only accessed via her bedroom, I imagined.
I turned to see Wynter, a forced smile on my lips—one she no doubt couldn’t see in the distance, just as she wouldn’t have saw Nessie blowing her a kiss and her little arm throwing it into the wind.
“Hi, Jolie! Good morning! We missed you at breakfast,” Nessie regarded with a smile.
“Good morning.” The dry tear tracks on my face cracked as my cheeks balled, my false smile moving to Nessie—the look on her face gifted it a little authentication once again.
I dropped myself into the long strands of grass. The sun had tainted their green shade, dehydration yellowing the lengths.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Playing,” Nessie chirped, her small body riddled with excitement, confirming my suspicions of her being the happiest child alive.
She’d made my first night here as comfortable as could be, leaving her bunk to snuggle with me in mine.
She wasn’t bothered by my invading presence in her safe space; she was as grateful for the company as I was.
Wynter had one request before settling me into my new room—my new home. Keep details away from little ears. She didn’t want Nessie getting night terrors; she wanted her to believe in magic and love and the beauty that was wrapped around it. She deserved that—blissful unawareness.
They both deserved peace for allowing me into their lives when I had nothing or no one.
“Do you want to play with us?” Nessie asked, not waiting for an answer as she tossed a doll through the air.
The unexpected gift dropped to my lap before I could pick it up to examine it.
The doll wasn’t the same one she’d offered yesterday.
There was no pretty tail and pearls—a treasure from the homeland of mermaids.
This doll was battered, her skin marked more than mine, and age had faded her once-painted-to-perfection face.
“She’s my favorite.” Nessie’s smile grew, her shoulders bunching as she watched my eyes rove over the doll.
“She’s beautiful,” I lied, feeling over the matted hair—blonde, like her owner’s. Over her pink dress, also like her owner’s.
Woodrow turned to face me, his whole body shifting to reveal an outfit nowhere near as special as his sister’s—not that I was expecting to find him out here in a dress and frilly ankle socks.
He shook off wet fingers that had been dipped in the water at his side. I couldn’t see whatever it was he’d been playing with.
Water droplets splashed my thigh, and his fingers, with such a delicate touch, followed in their shadow. He wiped away the water, and my heart stopped beating for a second, before rushing to catch up with the lost beats.
“He’s sorry.” Nessie’s eyes were on her brother; their warm tones burning into him, reading his thoughts.
“His hands are wet because he was helping a fish. It got trapped in some of the weeds.” Her little fingers rubbed his leg, chipped polish, similar to mine, caught the sun and shined harder than ever as her hand moved. “He’d have told you himself, but. . .”
“You’re not shy?” I asked him, wondering how he managed to speak to me last night. Unable to keep my gaze on Nessie while his was burning into me hotter than the sun, I turned to him.
Woodrow blinked, but he didn’t say a word.
“Liar.” Nessie laughed, both hands moving to her mouth to conceal it. “He says he’s not shy, but he’s a little shy around you when it’s just us.”
“Just me? You spoke to me last night?” I was confused.
Woodrow blinked again, twice.
“Two blinks. That’s a yes,” Nessie clarified.
“Sometimes, his throat hurts, so he has to talk with his eyes. Today is one of those days.” Nessie’s tone lost its pitch, speaking much quieter, she whispered, “Daddy grabbed him this morning, and he said some bad words. He had more confidence last night because Momma and Daddy were in good moods. But now, they are mad at him.”
I brushed off the slight giggle over Nessie’s attempt at the word confidence as soon as she said Woodrow’s parents were mad at him, and I found myself edging into his private business. “Why?”
Woodrow’s pretty eyes lowered to the doll in his lap—an action figure stripped to the waist. The bruises on his pained throat waved a sad greeting to me as he took a deep breath through his nose.
“They don’t want Woody here.”
I assumed Woody was her nickname for her brother, as she looked over at him with sympathetic eyes, taking his larger hand in hers and brushing his skin with her tiny fingers.
Her words hurt me, but a part of me believed they couldn’t be true. Then, I saw the bruises again and remembered the pain they caused stopped him from speaking.
I shifted closer, only inches, settling between the pair. I hurt for him—for a boy I barely knew. My hand dropped to his knee, right below the cut-off of his shorts. “You don’t have to apologize for the splashes. Was the fish okay?”
Woodrow lifted his eyes, his lips lifted in a light smile. He blinked twice.
“He saved him! He likes animals. Woodrow does, too.”
My head spun to Nessie, who at the most convenient time, had given her attention back to her toys.
“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering why she’d basically dropped a bomb and run. I had so many questions but I couldn’t force them on a child and a mute teenage boy couldn’t answer them. So, I voiced only one more, “This is Woodrow, isn’t it?”
“Woody. We call him Woody. He comes out to play while Woodrow rests. When Woodrow is stressed.”
“I’m not sure what that means?” I had no clue!
“They’re body buddies.”
“What’s a body buddy?” I wondered, looking around to anyone who could or couldn’t answer me.
“I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes, he’s Woodrow. Sometimes, he’s Woody. Other times, he’s someone different.”
“Don’t say his name,” Woodrow, or rather Woody, spoke with a strain, fingers on his throat as he forced out the words. “He’s always listening. I don’t want him to hurt Momma and Daddy.”
“I know. I won’t, I promise.” Nessie looked back to me. . . “You can ask Woodrow about it when he’s back. We think he’ll like you.”
Their conversation muted, as Woody failed to voice more words, but my head got louder and louder until I felt pressure from all the questions spinning inside my brain.
With my eyes back on the siblings, I was silent as eye blinks answered Nessie’s never-ending, innocent questions. I missed out on most of the conversation, failing to remember how many blinks meant yes and how many meant no.
I forced myself back into the conversation, or rather, started a new one. “Isn’t today your birthday?”