and yellow, their color shining in through the window.
He was glad she at least had had something like that to look at during her bleak childhood. The woman he was holding loved the outdoors, all the different things nature could offer the senses. It would be the best thing to help balance what was in her head.
“Come on,” he said, when she seemed to be easing up, seemingly more aware of her surroundings. She was also holding him as much as he was holding her, her arms clutching his back. “That’s enough for today. Let’s go to the back porch.”
She straightened with an uncertain nod, her face flushed and strained, hazel eyes weary. He put himself back in the chair, clasped her hand to help her to her feet. She put her hand on the scratched knob and opened the back door.
As he followed her out onto the porch, he saw, just like the front, the screens had been ripped out long ago. However, the view through the trees was good, showing an open meadow with autumn gold grass, and a small pond.
Off to the right was a storage building, the door padlocked. He noted it was the only thing on the property that looked well-maintained.
Daralyn followed his gaze. “When my uncle went to jail, your parents and some of the neighbors stored everything but a few pieces of furniture and tools in the storage building,” she said. “Your mother said it would be there if I wanted to go through it. At the time, I was afraid they’d keep asking me about it. It made me sick to my stomach, until I realized they were never going to bring it up again, unless I did. They were fine waiting forever for me to choose.”
He pressed her hand in understanding. Without the screens, the air was fresh, the afternoon breeze touching their faces. It was a welcome change from the stale interior of the house. Daralyn sat down, her backside on the porch boards, her feet propped on the steps to the yard. Since he stayed at her side, she leaned against his leg. He put a hand on her hair, her shoulder, stroked.
He waited her out, wanting her to decide if there was anything she needed or wanted to say. And he gave her the quiet if that was what she needed more.
She gazed at the view for a long while, laid her head against his knee. Her breathing settled.
“I don’t remember much about my mother,” she said at last. “She was a shadow. A touch. Not always gentle. Not unkind. More…shaky. She wasn't well.”
He nodded, and she continued. “She left a stack of old magazines when she died. I couldn’t read them, but I liked looking at them. I wasn’t allowed to change the TV channel, but my father fell asleep with the TV on…always so loud, and never off, never quiet. But early in the mornings, Sesame Street was on the channel he fell asleep to. They’d do that part about the letters, how to sound them out, what they looked like. I didn’t learn to read well, but enough to recognize some words.”
Her ability to acquire skills simply by listening and watching had always been exceptional. But hearing proof she’d strived for it, with no adult providing any type of encouragement, made it even more impressive to him. Dr. Taylor had mentioned it herself.
A lack of early childhood development from a nurturing source creates myriad learning and interpersonal relationship problems. But Daralyn’s innate intelligence compensated in extraordinary ways.
Extraordinary was the right word for her. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that.
“They were always watching me,” she said, staring at the pond. “Even when I didn’t think they were. They figured out I was watching Sesame Street, was spending…too much time with the magazines. Daddy started turning it to a different channel before he fell asleep, one that had a hunting show first thing in the morning. My uncle collected all the magazines in a trash bin and burned them.”
Her fingers brushed the scar on the inside of her forearm. “It was one of the few times I fought. I screamed, put my hand in the bin, grabbed one out, held it to me, even though it was on fire. He took it away, tossed it back into the trash bin. Dragged me to the cellar. That was the first time he left me there a full twenty-four hours.”
“Fucking hell.” He lifted her forearm, pressed his