Page 38 of When You Are Mine

“I understand.” Walsh slid into the space beside her and entwined their fingers, thumbing tears from her cheek. “Of course you didn’t want to leave.”

“But the next morning, I could barely…” She licked her lips, tasting the shame and pain of her past. She had to close her eyes, finishing in a rush. “I could barely walk, and Mama Jess noticed. And there was blood. I didn’t know there was so much blood, but it was on my sheets. She called the doctor, and it wasn’t a secret anymore. They took me away, just like he said they would. All I could think was he was right. He was right.”

“Kerris.” Walsh’s fingers tightened on hers until she looked at him. “He wasn’t right. They didn’t take you away from Mama Jess because you told. They took you away because he was a monster. He had no right to touch you. What was his name?”

“What?” She blinked, dazed at the question, so specific, the tone low and deadly.

“I want his name. Tell me his name.”

A wild bloodlust colored his eyes, and she realized that was for her. That righteous vengeance all over him was for her. She squeezed his hand as he had done hers, finding herself ironically the one soothing.

“He died in prison.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble.”

She saw the truth of it. The hand not holding hers was clenched, and his jaw hardened to a stony angle. She reached a shaky hand up to his face, passing it over his eyelids, hoping to wipe away the violence she saw there, so at odds with his gentle hold on her.

“It got better from there.” She curved her lips into a smile for his sake. “I went to live with the Murphys.”

“You were happy?”

“I was safe. They were good people, they just never loved me. They weren’t mean. Just indifferent.”

“I wish I could reach back and undo what happened to you, but I can’t and you can’t,” Walsh said.

“No, I can’t.” She kept her eyes on her feet, barely visible in the darkness. She flexed her toes, curling them to hold on to the last of her courage. “And when I’m in a roomful of people like that, I just can’t help thinking I shouldn’t be there. There’s TJ, and the foster homes, and…Walsh, those people in there come from the best families and went to the best schools. Wear the best clothes. I come from nothing. Literally nothing.”

Walsh reached behind her ear, pulling out the orchid lodged there in her tousled knot of curls.

“You wear flowers in your hair a lot.”

She blinked and nodded, unsure what this had to do with what she had just shared.

“Which flower is your favorite?” He stroked the velvety petals of the flower he held.

“The orchid.” She didn’t even have to think about it.

“What would you say an orchid needs to grow?”

“Um, soil, water, sunlight.” She rattled off the list, trying to read the inscrutable expression on his face.

“Those are optimal conditions for growing, right?”

“I suppose so.” She frowned, unable to wrench her gaze away from the fragile flower cuddled in his strong hand.

“What would you call an orchid that sprang up out of thin air?” He leaned forward to look into her eyes, so close she could feel his breath on her own lips. “A flower that had no soil, no roots, the worst conditions to grow in, but just sprouted out of thin air, beautiful and exotic and perfect?”

She shrugged, dazed and unable to assemble words. His impassioned description and the heat of his eyes mesmerized her.

“I’d call it a miracle.” Walsh bathed the words in tenderness, sliding a finger down her neck like it was a delicate stem.

“Kerris, your childhood was a nightmare sometimes, but you managed to become this amazing woman. This smart, independent, compassionate, ambitious person who drives old ladies home and cries for little girls she barely knows. Your past haunts you, but it hasn’t twisted you, it hasn’t ruined you. If anything, it’s made you a stronger person. That’s a miracle.You’re the miracle, baby.”

She closed her eyes at his sweet endearment, feeling it wrap around her nerve endings like a blanket. And then his arms twined around her, bindings for wounds left too long unattended.

One Sunday at the Murphys’ church, Mt. Olive Baptist, the preacher talked about healing by the laying on of hands. She had scoffed at the idea, as she did so many of his ridiculous notions. But tonight shebelieved. Believed in Walsh. His hands made soothing tracks up and over her back, suffusing every pore with warmth, starting from her center and working its way to her extremities. To the tips of her toes and fingers.

She wasn’t sure when the tears began, or how long she wept into his once-crisp shirt. She only knew that with each stroke of his hand on her back, another layer of pain, another layer of shame, fell away, until she was bathed in the waters of her healing, baptized in her own tears. Made new. Made whole. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that she had to search for the emptiness and dirtiness she had carried with her since TJ stole her innocence.

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