this woman acting this way because of the war?
Jak stepped back and she shut the window quickly, turning toward him, her eyes moving from his hair to his feet. She smiled again as she met his eyes. She was pretty, with long, black hair and smooth, tan skin, but her eyes had red around them, and she kept itching and moving like there was something wrong with her.
“Look at you,” she said, her eyes wet, teary. “You’re so handsome. I hoped you’d look like him, and you do.”
Jak frowned, confused and still nervous. “Who are you?” he asked again. “What do you want?”
She stepped closer and he stepped back, keeping his space though he was larger and stronger than the small woman in front of him. She reached her hand out, trying to touch his face and he moved back. Away. A tear fell from her eye and she dropped her hand. “I’m your mother.”
Shock made him go still. “My mother? How . . . I don’t have a mother.”
She stepped closer again and this time he didn’t step back. His mother?
“Of course you have a mother.” She made a jerky move again, and scratched at her neck, and then shook her head like she was trying to clear it. “It’s me. I knew, God, I knew I shouldn’t have given you to him. But I didn’t have a choice—” Her face screwed up and she started to cry, but then stopped herself. “I thought you’d be better off with him. And he’s taking care of you, I see that.” She looked around at the cabin. “You’re safe, right? Warm?”
Jak nodded slowly. “I’m warm. But no one’s taking care of me.” He took care of himself.
The woman—his mother?—tilted her head, jerking and scratching at her neck again. His eyes moved to the place she’d scratched, and he saw that she’d opened a sore and that a trail of blood was moving slowly down the side of her neck. “But he gave you this house, made sure you had a safe, warm place to live.”
“Driscoll? Yes, he gave me this house . . . how do you know Driscoll?”
She shook her head again. “It’s a stroke of luck that I found you. I saw Driscoll in town, and I followed him but lost his car. I thought I was lost, but then I saw your house. It’s like God led me here, you know?” She sniffled, wiping at her nose with her sleeve again. “I know it’s not right, him keeping you out here. And I’m going to fix that. I’m going to get clean, I promise, and I’m going to find a place. A nice little house with sunflowers in the garden. Do you like sunflowers?”
Sunflowers? “But there’s a war out there. Don’t you know that?”
She stared at him for a second before nodding, her head jerking up and down and her eyes filling with tears again. “I know. God, I know. No one can be trusted. The whole world’s on fire. It’s always on fire.”
He nodded. “Yes. You shouldn’t go back out there.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m a survivor. I’ll be okay.”
He stared at her, trying to understand this confusing visit. Could it be true that she was his mother and she’d given him to Driscoll so he’d be safe from the war? But what about his baka? He felt his brow pinch together as he tried to make sense of it all. Of the ways he might have been passed around from person to person so he’d be kept safe. Is it possible?
And if it was . . . he had family. He had a mother. He stepped forward, gripping her arm. “Let me come with you. I can protect you. I can find food for us, and . . . and make warm clothes to wear.”
She smiled again, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Sweet boy.” She sighed and then shook her head slowly. Sadly. “No. I can’t take you with me yet. Soon, I promise. I’ll be back for you. But,” she said, her voice cheering in a way that sounded like a lie, “I did bring you something.” She stepped away, bringing her bag from her shoulder and setting it on the floor. She knelt down and dug inside, bringing out a couple of books.
She stood, handing the books to him. He took them, reading the titles: The True Story of the Three Little Pigs and Goodnight Moon.
“I was told they’re the most popular books for