“For now, at least for tonight, take it. Take me.”
The words come out innocently, but I wish I could say them with a deeper meaning. Take me as a man, Abby. Be with me for the night. Forever.
I can’t remember when my feelings for her changed. One day she was my little friend, Abby, and the next she became the woman of my dreams. I want her to get better for her, but also for me. Whatever is going on with her emotionally doesn’t allow her to see us as more than friends. I haven’t been direct about the way I feel for her, but she avoids any conversation that would lead me to confess my love for her.
“Wes,” she whispers my name.
“Abby. Abby girl,” I repeat her name, gently taking her hand.
She stares at our linked fingers for a few seconds. My heart beats faster, and I’m hoping she’ll say something meaningful. Give me a sign that she cares for me more than as a friend.
Instead, she scratches her ear, staring at my sleeping bag. Taking a step back, she opens the door widely letting me inside.
“Would you still accept me if you knew what happened to me?” she mumbles chewing her bottom lip.
“We’ve always accepted each other, haven’t we?”
“Sometimes you make it sound like if I don’t change—”
“Every time I bring up therapy, it isn’t for my sake, but yours.” For the most part. “I hate to see you in pain.”
She presses her lips together, staring at the floor without saying a word. This quiet, scared Abby reminds me so much of the girl who trembled in the foyer of my parents’ house that first day. She was skinny and wore rags. Her warm, brown eyes were too big for her boney face.
“You can’t save everyone, Ahern,” she says walking to the kitchen checking the cupboards and the refrigerator.
I should’ve bought some food, knowing she likes to have enough to last her at least two weeks. Mom said I was the same when I first arrived. Always making sure I had enough food for the next day, that the cereal was fully stocked, and we had enough milk for me to drink. She explained that it’s a coping mechanism that children and teenagers who have been starved use once they have access to food.
“There’s food across the hallway.”
She turns around looking over my shoulder and smiling slightly. “Sorry, some things never change.”
“I assume your parents were in financial trouble.”
Abby shakes her head.
“If I didn’t behave, I wasn’t allowed to eat.” She closes her eyes. “Mom’s rules. After she died, my stepfather made sure to enforce them.”
“Wait, your mother died before your sister?
This is a new development. The way the social worker worded it was that she had lost her whole family and the only person left was her stepfather—who didn’t want to take care of her.
“I need to shower,” she breathes harshly touching her scalp.
Abby doesn’t wait. She’s avoiding my questions. I want to remind her that her hair is still slightly damp from her previous shower, but I know her well, better than anyone. She needs to cleanse herself of whatever is on her mind.
Also, when she’s anxious she can spend a long time under the water—shower or rain—counting the drops that fall into her right hand. She didn’t say much, but I already know a lot more today than I did yesterday. Who lets a child starve because of their behavior? What kind of people raised her? And what did she do that was so wrong her stepfather let her go hungry?
Some nights I wonder if this relationship is healthy? I sit on the floor, watching Abby sleep, guarding her dreams. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. I pray that one day she won’t need to count crystals, or make sure there’s enough food, or lock her doors and windows so she can fall asleep.
I remember the first night she spent at my parents’.
“She doesn’t talk,” Mom told Dad before we headed to the dining room for dinner.
“They never said she was non-verbal, but if we have to, we can learn sign language,” Dad reassured her. “You’re always great with all of our foster kids, you’ll be fine.”
“Abigail can talk,” I told them. I wasn’t sure if by telling my parents that I was breaking her trust, but I figured they should know before they hired tutors or other unnecessary employees.
“She chooses not to. I think she’s scared,” I said as