The Hearts We Sold(53)

“True.”

It should have been weird—she was in a hotel room with a boy. But James kept to his side of the room, remote in hand and flipping through television channels. He found some cooking competition and settled in, tossing his worn shoes off the bed. It was strangely domestic, she thought.

Dee showered. She hadn’t brought extra clothes, so she put the same ones back on. But she felt better—the hot water loosened some of her knotted muscles, and she felt clean, lighter.

James was still watching the reality cooking show when she emerged, and she sat down on her own bed. It was strangely entrancing to watch the lives of other people, see them made into dramas. It was a relief to step outside of herself, to lose all sense of identity in the flashing images and sounds.




They went out for lunch.

Walla Walla had a very pretty downtown historic district. The sidewalks were wide and tourist-friendly, with plenty of lamps and benches. Decorative statues rose from the sidewalk like concrete flowers, twisting up toward the sky.

They bought sandwiches from a cafe and ate sitting at one of the benches. The sunlight beat down on Dee’s bare arms and she allowed herself to take in the heat and food.

“Thank you,” she said.

He looked up over his sandwich. “For?”

“This.” She gestured vaguely around them, at the old-time street and tourists. “I mean, you didn’t have to. And for—well, not looking at me like there’s something wrong with me.”

He looked at her. “Do you think there is?”

“I feel like that sometimes,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her skull, as if she could push the thought from her mind. “I feel like I’m just this collection of broken pieces I don’t know what to do with.” It was all too easy to remember the homunculus, that monster of human parts, and imagine herself in such a state.

“What did they do to you?” he asked softly.

She laughed and it came out mangled. “Nothing, really. That’s the worst part. It was all little stuff. They never beat me or starved me. But they’re alcoholics, both of them. Dad first, and then I think Mom started drinking just to numb him out. Half the time they’d ignore me. Mom tried, but Dad’s a mean drunk. He’d go looking for targets to vent at, and I was one of his favorites. Anything I did was wrong. If I was interested in a school subject, it was the wrong one. If I showed an interest in a hobby, he’d tell me it was a waste of time. If I showed any kind of emotion, he’d tell me I was too sensitive. I learned how to deal—how to make myself small or stay hours at the library.

“They used to tell me to keep the house clean,” she said. “That if social services ever came by, if they saw a messy house, they’d assume the worst. And I’d be taken away to some horrible place.”

“Did social services ever come by?” His tone was deceptively light.

“Once.” She ran her fingertips over her jeans. “A neighbor heard one of the arguments. But my parents were always at their best in the mornings, and that’s when the social worker stopped by. My father has always been charming, when he needed to be. And he has his own business, and the…”

“The house was clean,” said James.

Her throat ached. “Yes. But it wasn’t all bad. They had their good points. Which makes this worse somehow—I know they’re people. My mom is so kind, ridiculously so at times. She always stopped to talk with homeless people, when most everyone likes to forget they’re people. Dad would try, sometimes.” She swallowed. “But when I was thirteen, things changed.”

“How?”

They had finished their sandwiches by now; Dee stood, tossed her napkins in a trash can made from a vintage barrel.

She bent down and pulled off her boot, carefully placing her sock on top of it. She held up one foot by the ankle, turning so that her back was to James. She heard the moment he saw the scar—the smallest inhale.

“He’d thrown a plate,” she said tonelessly. “She was crying in the yard. I tried to clean it up, but I ended up stepping on a piece instead. I tried to hide the blood—I didn’t want anyone to worry, so I dug the glass out myself in the bathroom. I was stupid, though. I left bloody towels in the hamper, so it was obvious.”

“Was that a wake-up call for them?” asked James.

Dee smiled, felt it crack her face wide-open. She kept her back to him, so he couldn’t see her. “The bloody towels were obvious. But they never noticed a thing.”

James touched her shoulder. “A wake-up call for you, then.”

Dee turned around, eyes on the sidewalk. She let go of her ankle, and her toes brushed bare ground. She hadn’t let Gremma paint her toenails in a couple of weeks, so the purple polish had chipped. “It was then that the bad stuff started outweighing the good. I started researching boarding schools a month later.”

James looked at her, but it wasn’t a look of pity or disgust. It was one of awe. “You saved yourself. And when the money for the boarding school ran out, you did it again. You went out and found a demon.”

“More like he found me,” admitted Dee.

“Still,” said James. “It was brave.”

She snorted. “Running away?”

He answered her with all seriousness. “Surviving.” He bent down, took her sock, and glanced down at her bare toes. “May I?”