Last night’s nightmare still played back vividly on violent replay.
We each got a few sensible gifts—clothes, hair accessories, and jewelry—and then one very specific gift. Mine happened to be a brown leather journal with the imprint of a feather on the front. Surprised, I looked up at Mrs. Ames, but she’d already busied herself helping Heather open a doll.
Scanning the room, I caught Hawk leaning in the doorway in that nonchalant manner of his. He sipped from a mug of what I assumed was coffee, and a mischievous smirk played on his mouth as our eyes met.
He’d told Mrs. Ames I liked feathers.
My chest swelled, and a warm feeling enveloped my entire body. All the while my heart scampered beneath my ribs. When I glanced up again, I couldn’t hide the small smile on my lips. I held the journal close, letting him know how much it meant to me. Hawk merely nodded his head in silent satisfaction and turned to step back into the kitchen.
While the other girls showed each other their gifts, I held the book tightly. I said a shy thank you to Mrs. Ames and Kelly before excusing myself to dress for the rest of the day.
In the quiet of my room, I sat on the window seat and opened to the first page. This journal belongs to Little Lottie. Fluid cursive swept my name on the blank space effortlessly. Hawk’s handwriting. My fingertips traced over the black ink, that warm feeling spreading out from my chest once again.
Smiling, I flipped to the next page and gasped.
The lines weren’t set up like normal wide ruled for scribbling. Instead, each row held five lines close together that would allow me to write music.
Tears stung the corner of my eyes, and I hugged the journal even closer to my chest. No one had ever given me such a thoughtful gift before. Not even my mother before her drug habit became her life and we were a semi-functioning family.
How can I ever thank him?
I’d only been here a little over a month, and these wonderful people included me in their makeshift family. As kind as they all were, Hawk was the only one who truly understood me.
I’d write him a song, a song just for him.
Happy to tuck away my journal in a safe place under my pillow, I dressed and brushed my hair.
Today would be a good day.
Hawk made sure of that already.
So if I smiled, I smiled just for him.
Chapter Six
Charlotte
One week later …
The week after Christmas, I sat in the library again with Mrs. Dawson. After the disaster that’d been my first session, I came to understand she wasn’t there to hurt me. She was trying to help. The topics, of course, were painful, but I always felt a bit better after we talked.
“Now, Charlotte.” She sat across from me with a pad of paper in her lap and a pen poised in her hand. “I know we’ve talked a lot about your time in captivity, but I’d like to change gears and ask you about your mother.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Talking about the men, while hard, seemed easy. They did bad things to me because they were bad people. My anger toward them seemed justified. But speaking about my mother … that was different.
“What about her?” I asked, picking at the purple nail polish Lily had painted on a week ago.
Mrs. Dawson offered a sympathetic smile. “Do you remember what she was like before she used drugs?”
“She tried really hard to be a good mom.” I shrugged. “Then she got on drugs and everything changed.”
Nodding, she wrote something down on her pad. “How did you adjust to her becoming addicted? Did it make you sad or angry?”
“It made me feel both,” I admitted. “She was supposed to take care of me, but I ended up taking care of her.”
“What sort of things did you have to do?” she pressed.
My mind flew through the list of things I’d taught myself. “Dishes, laundry when we had a washer and dryer, and cooking, at least for myself.” I bit my lower lip. “She taught me how to mix up her heroine so when she was too sick to do it, I could.”
Mrs. Dawson’s writing paused, and her head lifted to meet my gaze. She seemed speechless for the first time since I’d met her. “Your mother made you inject her?”
“Yeah,” I replied simply. What else could I say? That was the truth of our mother-daughter relationship.
She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, taking a moment before asking, “Did she ever overdose around you?”
I snorted. “All the time.”
She frowned again. “And what did you do?”
“She told me not to call the cops because they would take me away.” I sighed. “So I just stayed with her to make sure she was breathing. Sometimes I would put cold water with ice in a washcloth and try to wake her up that way.”
Mrs. Dawson didn’t say much as she continued to scribble. “You’ve been through a lot, Charlotte.”
“It could be worse.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. We stared at each other, both of us surprised at my admission. Did that mean I was getting better? That through everything I’d been through, learning tiny bits of information on the other girls in the house, I counted myself lucky?
She smiled warmly. “I’m glad you feel that way. Is the piano helping your anxiety and night terrors?”
Our session ended soon after. Grateful to be out of the stifling library, I gathered my journal from underneath my pillow to go play the piano. Mrs. Dawson seemed happy with my progress, so I decided to be happy for myself. I could never erase the memories of what happened to me, but I could learn to control them instead of the other way around.
When I came around the corner to the piano room, I stopped dead in my tracks. Hawk sat on the bench, flipping through his phone. He must have heard me because his gaze lifted from the screen to me.
“Hey, Lottie.” He scooted over on the bench so I could sit.
A bit hesitant, I walked over, set my journal down, and took a seat. Warmth radiated from him in the airy room.
“Why are you over here?” The question came out a bit more accusatory than I would’ve liked.
He chuckled. “I wanted to hear you play.”
I arched a brow at him, clearly letting him know I didn’t believe him. He tilted his head, giving in with a soft expression of defeat. “I wanted to ask how you’ve been. I hear you at night when you come down here to play.”
He heard me at night? I didn’t play very loud, and I made sure the doors to the room were shut, but apparently, that didn’t work.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Guilt settled in my chest. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s fine. I’m usually up late anyway.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Do you have nightmares?”
Again, I paused, unsure of how to answer. We’d had small conversations before but never one on one. Someone was usually around.
This is the first time I’m alone with a man since …
I forced that ugly thought out of my head. There was no way I would lump Hawk into the same category as the bad men. He didn’t give off any hint of meanness or ulterior motive. In fact, whenever he hung around, I felt better, safer.
“Yeah, I get them sometimes.” I gave up trying to choose my words carefully and told the truth. “Some are so bad I can’t stay in my room. I need to get out.”
His mouth tilted down in a frown. “I’m sorry you have them. And I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
Horror punched me in the chest with its icy fist. “You know what happened to me?”
Immediately, he shook his head. “No, not the specifics … I just … I …” He seemed at a loss for words and unsure of how to ease my panic. “I just know that you girls had horrible things done to you. And I wish I could kill the men who hurt you myself.” His long fingers balled into fists, knuckles turning white. “They are scum and deserve to suffer for what they’ve done.”
I studied Hawk’s tense body. The way his jaw flexed against his cheek and
how his blue-gray eyes turned to dangerous storms. Without giving my body permission, I reached out a hand to touch his wrist.
His gaze widened, then softened as he turned to look at me. I stared at my hand touching his skin. The first time I’d touched anyone since … well, I couldn’t remember. Especially a man.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t what?” he asked, his tone just as soft.
I swallowed hard. “Don’t be angry for me because I’ve learned to let go of my anger.” My fingers twitched on his warm flesh. “It only hurts us. So please, don’t be angry for me.”
Slowly, he placed his opposite hand over the top of mine. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met, Little Lottie.”
We sat there for a moment, silent but learning so much about the other. Hawk was warm, gentle, and he wanted to hurt people on my behalf. While his touch made my stomach ball into knots, it wasn’t in fear.
I forced a smile to break the heaviness around us. “Do you want to hear me play?”
He nodded, smiling back, and moved his hand off mine. “Show me what you’ve worked on so far.”
Playing the piano gave me a break from having to speak. He listened to the music, even volunteering to turn the pages for me as I went. I found him to be funny as he told jokes. He made me laugh, something that surprised us both.
I vowed never to trust another man as long as I lived, but Hawk had begun to break down that promise. He was good. Kind. And for the first time, I really believed that everything would be okay.
Chapter Seven
Hawk
Two weeks later …
The clothes in my hand felt like lead as I packed my suitcase for New York City. I shouldn’t be apprehensive about leaving. I should be excited to get out of this small town. Even if Cazenovia, New York, is nestled right in the center of the state, it still felt like the middle of nowhere.
No, it’s not that, and you know it. I scolded myself, frustration gnawing in my gut.
On Christmas Day, when Lottie received her gift, her reaction had tilted my world upside down. She’d actually smiled. Her green eyes lit up, and for the first time, we’d all seen a hint of the girl behind the tragedy.
Since she’d unwrapped the journal I handpicked for her, Lottie never went anywhere without it. Every time I bumped into her, she had it tucked under her arm. The piano finally saw attention with her in the house, and she’d begun to teach Heather how to play.
Why the sudden hesitation to leave?
My dreams were simple.
Work in a business to make enough money to buy my own and then take as many trips to the beach as possible. That’d been before my dad died and left me enough money to sit and spin. Now, I got to choose my life.
Before my mother walked out on me and my dad, we’d been a normal, happy family. My father’s business was successful, but it hadn’t reached global status yet, so he wasn’t so stressed about accounts and working twenty-two hours a day. Mom stayed home with me, working on the garden behind our house. She always greeted me when I stepped off the bus from elementary school.
When I turned nine, they took me with them on a Caribbean trip for an entire week. My young mind had been irrevocably opened up to what life could offer. First, I wanted to become a marine biologist after I snorkeled and swam with dolphins. Then I told my father to grow his company bigger so we could take trips like this all the time. And finally, I asked Mom if we could move to the beach.
Not long after that, my father’s business took off, and my mother left.
Why, I never knew.
I knew she was still alive, but where and with whom I had no clue.
Did she regret leaving me behind?
What did Dad do that was so bad in the first place?
All these questions filtered in and out of my head at least once a day, and for the past twelve years, they went unanswered. She didn’t even send a card for my birthday or phone when my father died.
Closing the lid to the second suitcase, I leaned against the hard shell. Upon my father’s death, it stated in his will that his business would be sold, and all of the money would come to me. Apparently, he changed his mind about coming back to get me when I became a man to show me how to run the place.
Maybe he’d realized all work and no play wasn’t worth it.
I snorted.
No, he changed when Mom left, and he re-married his job.
Every year since his death, I’d taken a trip back to the Jamaican beach that reminded me of happier times. And each time I went, the more I longed to just stay stuck in the sand, listening to the waves lap on the shore.
My jaw clenched, and I frowned.
“Shit,” I grumbled.
My grandmother’s rescue operation had never interfered with my life before. I’d always steered clear of the girls during the day and ate dinner in silence. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel sorry for them or care—I just knew to let my grams, Mrs. Dawson, and Kelly do their thing.
But Lottie changed all that.
How?
I ran a hand through my hair, scratching my scalp and trying to coax out an answer.
Maybe she was different.
But again, how?
My gaze drifted up to the ceiling, and I let out a sigh.
I didn’t know how, or why, or even notice when Lottie started to become a welcome reprieve in my life. Over the past few weeks, she’d been more involved with the other girls, more talkative.
She had an old soul, one I found myself relating to more and more. Sometimes, I would sit and listen to her play the piano or ask her how she’d learned to play. There was something about her I couldn’t put my finger on. Whatever it was, I admired it. Wanted to learn how to have that something for myself to get through my own shit.
Get your head out of your ass, I scolded. She’s a freaking kid just like all the others Grams has brought in before.
Soft tinkling coming from the piano downstairs caught my attention. Heading down the stairs to the first level, I treaded carefully over the creaky wooden floors. Notes ebbed and flowed in a sorrowful pattern.
My brows furrowed.
For such a young girl, she had an old soul.
Lost, alone, and confused about what I did wrong.
Did Mom leave because of me?
Could I have done something different? Been a better son?
Those thoughts shattered when I peered around the corner and saw her sitting on the bench. Her gift open in front of her on the music stand, and a pencil caught between her teeth. Lottie’s fingers flew effortlessly over the keys, but her nose wrinkled on a sour note. In a flash, the pencil went from mouth to hand, and a change in the scale happened.
Smiling, a warm glow settled in my chest, and I folded my arms.
She’s not like the others.
As I continued to watch her, a pang of jealousy tapped on my shoulder.
Unlike the other girls, Lottie would challenge life the way life challenged her. The depth to her eyes showed just how much tenacity she’d gained by going through such abuse. Her music, her kindness, and her wild heart would heal, grow feathers, and fly away.
It was a privilege to witness.
And a sobering reminder of how far I’d yet to go.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte
When the nightmares crept into my bed at night, I left them to the blankets and pillows and sought solace in music. I chose to fight by creating something beautiful out of something so utterly abhorrent and dirty. While my fingers danced along the ivory and pearlescent keys, nothing could harm me. Notes became my sword, chords my shield, and in turn, the music wrapped me in armor.
Sometimes, the dreams weren’t so bad, and I could curl back up with the twinkling lights on over my bed. But some nights like tonight, the images overwhelmed me.
While I attempted to capture Hawk’s song in music from the melody in my head, I wrote and re-wrote in my journal. For a long time, I played and concentrated, b
ecoming frustrated when the next line eluded me.
Wooden floors creaked in the stillness of the night. My head jerked upright. A flash of cold ran over my body, and immediately, my breathing became staggered. When the sound stopped, I allowed myself the leniency to relax.
This house was safe.
The bad men couldn’t get me anymore.
Besides, it’s an older house, I reminded myself. It’ll creak and moan just due to age.
Satisfied with my own explanation, I turned my attention back to the music.
I needed to write Hawk’s song to thank him.
The following morning came with a flourish of activity. Mrs. Ames bustled around the house like a mad woman, checking and double-checking things, constantly hovering over Hawk. He seemed a bit overwhelmed by all the sudden attention.
I turned to look up at Kelly. “Why is Mrs. Ames acting so funny?”
Kelly chuckled. “Hawk’s leaving today for the Big Apple. He has his internship for college there.”
My heart sank into my stomach, blinking a few times in rapid succession to fight back the tears stinging the corners of my eyes. A lump sat in my throat, and breathing became difficult.
Hawk’s leaving?
“Lottie, are you feeling okay?” Kelly leaned forward and pressed the back of her hand to my cheeks. “You look pale, doll.”
For a moment, words evaded me.
Why did I have such a strong reaction to hearing about Hawk’s leaving?
He’d taken the time to ask about my music. He even knew of my love of feathers and didn’t think I was crazy. All my misunderstood metaphors—Hawk just got them.
I backed away quietly, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. Kelly stared at me with a curious expression on her face.
“I’m fine.”
Turning on my heel, I walked as quickly as I could out of the den and made a beeline for the piano room. Sunshine greeted me through the large widows as I plopped down on the warm bench. I stared at the keys until they blurred together in ebony and ivory.
Feathers: A Novel Page 4
