Was this what dying sounded like? the girl wondered. What would she do without her mother? Who would take care of her? Her father barely paid her any mind. It was her mother who sang her to sleep, braided her hair, and painted her nails, the one who held her close when she had bad dreams.
The room grew dark, and still, her mother remained on the other side of the door. There were so many things to be afraid of, but the dark wasn’t one of them. The girl didn’t mind the dark one bit. There were three kinds of dark. In the morning, there was the gray-edged dark that gradually slid into blues and pinks and meant that most likely, her father would be going to work soon. It was always better when her father was away though it made her mother more anxious. Her mother worried that he wouldn’t come back, and then what would they do? They wouldn’t have money for food and clothes. Her mother fretted, but the girl felt more relaxed in the long hours that he was away.
Then there was after-dinner dark. This was the time after she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She would sit on the sofa between her mom and dad and watch one of the movies that they pushed into the little machine that sat beneath the television. After-dinner dark was made up of hazy purples and navy blues and gave her an all-is-right-with-the-world feeling. Watching TV together, sometimes sharing a bowl of popcorn, told the girl that her family wasn’t all that different than the ones in the movies.
But after-dinner dark was also the most unsettling time of day. If her father was in a bad mood or her mother sad, there was nowhere for her to go. She had to listen to the angry words, the tears, and the sharp slaps and punches. In these times, she would go to her favorite spot beneath the window and look at books in the fading light peeking through the gap between the shade and pane of glass.
The blackest dark came in the middle of the night. It was warm and velvety and sounded like her mother’s breathing right next to her.
It isn’t the dark you should be afraid of, the girl thought, it’s the monsters who step out into the light that you need to fear.
16
Present Day
While Wylie waited for the boy to come out of the bathroom, she opened the front door to let Tas outside. The storm had picked up steam again, the cold burrowing through the folds of her clothing. This time, Tas quickly returned.
The boy couldn’t stay in the bathroom the entire night. It was too cold. Wylie tapped on the door. There was no response.
“Are you okay in there?” Wylie asked. Still no answer. She turned the knob and the door swung open. The boy sat there, fists pressed to his eyes.
The child was as skittish as a frightened deer, and Wylie knew she would need to carefully choose her next words. “I know you’re scared. I know those pictures were scary. I write books about people who get hurt—I try to tell their stories. But I would never hurt anyone. Do you understand that?” The boy still refused to meet her gaze.
“I want to help you. I want to get ahold of your family, but I need your help to do it.”
She beckoned to the little boy to move toward her, but he remained fixed to his spot.
She couldn’t blame him.
Though it was the middle of the night, Wylie doubted the boy would sleep again after what he saw in those photos. She moved to the kitchen, and after a minute, she heard the boy’s soft steps behind her. “I bet you’re hungry,” Wylie said. “Would you like something to eat?”
The boy didn’t respond. “Well, I’m starved.” She opened the refrigerator. “Let’s see, what do we have in here? How about eggs and pancakes?” Wylie set the egg carton on the counter and pulled the pancake mix from the cupboard. “What would you like to drink?” Wylie asked. “I’ve got milk, juice, and water. Or coffee. Do you drink coffee? I bet you take it black.”
Wylie looked over to see if her little joke made the boy crack a smile, but his face remained inscrutable, and he rubbed a small hand across the top of his shorn head. “How’s your head?” she asked. “It must hurt.”
The boy fingered the bruise on his temple but didn’t speak.
“Oh, your clothes should be dry by now,” Wylie said. “I’ll be right back.” Wylie darted to the laundry room, retrieved the boy’s clothes from the dryer, and set them on a kitchen chair. “You can go on into the bathroom and get dressed. By the time you come back the first batch of pancakes will be done.”
The boy snatched the clothes from the chair as if expecting to be swatted and hurried from the room. Wylie cracked the eggs into a bowl and poured the pancake batter into a hot skillet.