The girl has enough trouble handling a remote control. I find it hard to believe she’s got a smartphone or a computer. But I don’t know. Mine and Heidi’s are both password protected; there’s no way she’s getting on them at night.
The girl is staring lifelessly at the TV. I’ve changed the channel to the news. A roundup of the day’s baseball games. It’s opening day. I’m guessing she doesn’t give a hoot about baseball, but she stares at the TV so she doesn’t have to talk to me. She sits far away, as far as she can get, hugging the far end of the sofa though I’m at the kitchen table, a good ten feet away or more. She sips from a glass of water and I watch the way her hand, the water, how they shake, ripples forming on the surface of the glass.
“Where are you from anyway?” I ask. I hate the silence. But more than that, I’m reminded that I’m the only one in this house intent on figuring this girl out. And this—two minutes or so alone with Willow, my interrogation uninterrupted by Heidi’s watchful eye and regulations—may be my only chance at doing just that.
She stares at me. It’s not a nervy kind of stare. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. Meek. Timid.
But she says nothing.
“You don’t want to tell me?” I ask.
She’s slow to respond. But then she shakes her head, a movement so subtle, if I blinked, I would’ve missed it.
“No, sir,” she whispers. I like that she calls me sir.
“And why’s that?” I ask. I listen to her response, try to decipher a dialect but come up empty. She sounds like a standard Midwesterner. Like me. Standard American English.
Willow says cautiously, her voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear her over the baby’s babble, “You might make me go home.”
And I ask, treading lightly, “Is there a reason you don’t want to go home?”
The news blares from the TV, opening day games giving way to the day’s top stories. A brutal home invasion and stabbing on South Ashland that instantly catches the girl’s attention. I grope for the remote control and change the channel just as body bags are ushered out of the home on stretchers. I land on home shopping.
“Willow,” I say again, hoping the accuracy of her name will earn me bonus points. “Is there a reason you don’t want to go home, Willow?”
“Yes, sir,” she admits, picking at the fringe on the edge of a throw pillow. She isn’t looking at me.
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just—” She stutters. “It’s just—that...”
I think she’ll never finish that thought, and then she says, “I don’t like it very much, is all.”
An inadequate response if there ever was one.
“Why not?” I prod. There’s no response and so I ask again, “Willow?” this time with a jagged edge to my voice. I’m losing my patience.
Heidi will be back soon.
An invisible wall goes up around the girl. She doesn’t do well with impatience. She needs to be prepped first. Like flower seeds needing to be soaked in water overnight for faster germination. She isn’t going to open up until we penetrate that outer hull.
I lower my voice, and turn on the charm. I smile and try again. “Was somebody mean to you?” I ask instead, my voice as comforting as it can be. I’m not known for my compassion. But I try.
Her eyes rise to mine. Blue eyes that carry much too much baggage for someone her age, the blood vessels swollen, sagging tissue around the eyes, blood pooling under the skin, causing dark circles to form. I’m on the edge of my seat. Waiting. Desperate to hear what she has to say. She opens her mouth to speak. To tell me. “It’s okay,” I say. “You can tell me.”
But then I hear the sound of Heidi’s keys jiggling in the lock and I silently will her back downstairs to the laundry room, in vain. Willow jumps at the sound, scared to death by the harmless tinny sound of keys. I see the fear take over her eyes, as the water glass slips from her hand, tumbling to the ground below. The glass doesn’t break against the shag rug, and yet, water spills. Everywhere. She drops frantically to her knees and begins to clean up the mess, to spot the water with the edge of her shirt, her eyes darting between Heidi and me as if she thinks she might be punished for this little blunder.
Beneath her breath she mutters an incomprehensible jumble about forgiveness and sins.
Keys. Keys in a lock. Being locked in?
I make a mental note of this.
I’m not one to feel sympathetic, but for a split second I feel the slightest bit sorry for the girl floundering around on the floor, praying to the gods for mercy.
“Honey, please,” Heidi begs as she retrieves a towel from the kitchen drawer and hurries to Willow’s side, “please don’t worry about it.”
I do my part, leaning over to retrieve the glass from the floor.
But I see the terror in the girl’s eyes and know that I cannot undo what has been done.
*