began to go up. “Yup.”
Rhym got to her feet and drew her fingers through her blond-and-brown hair. “If you need anything, if she needs anything, just call and I can come back in. She’s a special little girl, and I just … I want to help.”
“I agree. And thanks again.”
As the other female started down the stairs, Mary spoke up. “One question.”
“Yes?”
Mary focused on the oculus window down at the far end of the hall, trying to find the right words. “Did she … I mean, she didn’t say anything about her mother? Or what happened at the clinic?”
Like something along the lines of My therapist made me feel as if I killed my mother?
“Nothing. The only thing she mentioned was that she was leaving as soon as she could. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was nowhere for her to go. It seemed too cruel. Too soon.”
“So she talked about her uncle.”
Rhym frowned. “Uncle? No, she didn’t bring anything like that up. Does she have one?”
Mary looked back at the closed door. “Transference.”
“Ah.” The social worker cursed softly. “These are going to be long nights and days ahead for her. Long weeks and months, too. But we’ll all rally around her. She’ll do well if we can just get her through this part in one piece.”
“Yes. So true.”
With a wave, the female went down the steps, and Mary waited until the sounds of the footfalls disappeared in case Bitty was only lightly asleep.
Leaning into the door, she put her ear to the cool panels. When she heard nothing, she knocked quietly, then pushed things open.
The little pink-and-white lamp on the bureau in the corner was casting a glow in the otherwise dark room, and Bitty’s diminutive form was bathed in the soft illumination. The girl was lying on her side, facing the wall, having obviously fallen asleep hard at some point. She was in the same clothes she had had on, and she had indeed packed her battered suitcase—and her mother’s. The two pieces of luggage, one smaller and the color of a grass stain, the other larger and Cheeto orange, were lined up together at the base of the bed.
Her doll head and brush were on the floor in front of them, along with that stuffed toy tiger of hers.
Putting her hands on her hips, Mary lowered her head. For some reason, the impact of the room’s silence, its modest and slightly threadbare curtains and bedspreads, its thin area rug and mismatched furniture, hit her like body blows.
The barrenness, the impersonality, the absence of … family, for lack of a better word, made her want to turn the thermostat up. As if some extra heat from the ducts in the ceiling could transform the place into a proper little girl’s room.
But come on, the problems that were ahead were going to have to be solved by a lot more than just functioning HVAC systems.
Tiptoeing across to the bed Bitty’s mom had slept in, it seemed fitting to take the patchwork quilt off that mattress and carry it over to the little girl. With care, Mary added the layer without disturbing the sleep that was so very needed.
Then she stood over the child.
And thought back to her own past. After her cancer had made itself known, she could remember very clearly thinking that enough was enough. Her mother had died early and horribly, with much suffering. And then she herself had been diagnosed with leukemia and had to go through a very non-fun-filled year trying to beat the disease into remission. The whole lot of it had seemed so very unfair.
As if her mother’s hard time of it should have qualified Mary for a tragedy-exemption card.
Now, as she stared down at the girl, she was downright indignant.
Yes, she frickin’ knew that life was difficult. She’d learned that lesson very well. But at least she had gotten a childhood marked with all the traditionally good things you wanted to be able to look back on when you were old. Yes, her father had died early, too, but she and her mother had had Christmases and birthdays, graduations from kindergarten and elementary school and high school. They’d had turkey on Thanksgiving and new clothes every year and good nights of sleep where the only worry that might have kept someone up was whether a passing grade was going to happen or, in the case of her mom, if there was going to be enough money for two weeks