by Lindsey Hart
“What?” Charity’s head shot up again, confusion burning bright in her mysterious eyes.
“I- sorry. I just meant, why did you come back? Anyone in their right mind would have left.”
“I told you, I couldn’t just leave you like this.”
“You could have. You should have.”
“No.”
“So, what makes you different? What happened to you that makes you… understand what it feels to live like this. I’ve never known anyone so compassionate. Who did you lose?”
Charity glanced back down, but not before he caught the bloom of a vivid blush stealing over her cheeks. She slowly went back to picking out thorns. Joe didn’t flinch, even when the tweezers bit deep into his flesh. “No one. Not like you did. It was just me and my mom growing up. My dad left just after I was born. My mom is a strong woman, but I’ll be honest when I say I think she drove him away. I never knew him. Never. I don’t know if he ever thought about me or wanted to know me. Maybe he tried, and she wouldn’t let him. I can’t say. She’d never answer me, even if I asked.”
Joe kept silent, watching the methodical movements of her hands. They matched the cadence of her sweet, gentle voice.
“I know my mom loves me. She tried to do the best she could. She demanded perfection of herself. She went to college after I was born and got a good job as a social worker. She was always so damn busy trying to fix everyone’s problems. Long story short, she was pretty hard on me growing up. Her kind of love was overkill. She used to scream and yell at me. She used to ask me why I couldn’t do better. I think she was just so frustrated. She really thought I could… do better that is. I was never pretty enough or thin enough. I’m not shaped- uh- like my mom is. She’s tall and thin. I’m tall and- well- uh- not so thin. I mean, I look like a woman. I did since I was twelve. She didn’t know what to do with me. She used to tell me it was a shame I turned out so mediocre. She was never proud of me. Not once. Fortunately, part of her overkill planning and drive for perfection included setting money aside for me to go to college. It was in a fund, so she couldn’t stop me from using it to do what I wanted. I know it’s greatly disappointing that I became a graphic designer and not a nurse or a lawyer or even a teacher. You know, someone who makes a difference. I left home when I was eighteen. It took me four years to get through school. I never looked back.”
Joe swallowed hard. His mouth was so dry it was hard to get enough saliva up to wet his parched throat. He felt completely wrung out, exhausted in a way he hadn’t known since those days right after the accident.
“You haven’t spoken to her since you left?”
“That’s right.” Charity went on cleaning out his hand. He wondered if she’d ever be done. It seemed like she’d been extracting thorns for hours. “I mean, no, I haven’t. That sounds bad when I say it out loud. It makes me sound like the worst daughter ever.”
“It doesn’t.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Only you would say that though. I’m not going to say we’re two of a kind. I’m not going to dare to compare my life to yours and my grief to yours. I’ll just say that I had to get away before I suffocated. When I left I felt like I could breathe. I’m a bit of a coward. I’m afraid to go back. Afraid to even talk to her.”
He nodded slowly then realized she couldn’t see it. “That’s- that’s kind of you to say. What you did. You’re young. You’re actually a hell of a lot younger than I am, but you see things so clearly. Your own situation. God, even mine.” He ran his free hand over his knotted hair in agitation before he realized, too late, what he’d done. He winced at the sharp pain in his palm. He slammed it back down to his side and stared at it. Fresh blood welled up in the cuts.
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly wise. Or much of anything. I guess some of my mom’s words rubbed off on me. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Don’t think that. I just, feel nothing more than average.”
“You’re a model. You must have some confidence.”
She snorted and laughed softly, jarring his hands when her shoulders shook. He loved the sound though. It was worth the pain just to hear it. “That hasn’t exactly worked out. I got a job because I needed some good money and fast since I haven’t been able to get any of the graphic design jobs I’ve applied for. They’re pretty few and far between. I haven’t got many modeling jobs. Just the shitty ones. Er… I didn’t mean this one. This was the best job, by far, I have ever been offered.”
“Only because of the pay.”
Her head whipped up sharply and the tweezers bit into his hand. He winced, and she gasped. “Oh my god. I’m sorry!”
“No harm done. Keep going.” He was relieved to see she was almost done. At least, he thought she was. He couldn’t see any glaringly obvious thorns.
“I thought so at first, I’ll admit. I mean, it seemed easy enough. The pay was- is- extraordinary. I did take the job for the money, but that’s not why I came back.”
“I think it would take a hell of a lot more if it was.”
She didn’t respond. Charity laid down the tweezers and reached for the bottle of gin. “This is going to sting, I would bet.”
“Probably worse than fire.”
“I can’t do it. Maybe you should do it.”
“Pass it here then.”
He waited, watched her hand shake. Her fingers slowly moved, clenching the bottle tightly, so tight that little white crescents appeared on her knuckles. “No. I’ll do it. Just hold your hand steady.”
That, he could do. He flexed his sore palm, braced it with his other wounded hand. He shut his eyes. He didn’t make a sound though he wanted to howl like an animal when the fire of that alcohol hit his torn-up flesh. His hand jerked, the only sign that he felt any pain at all.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Charity breathed. When he was able to open his eyes, he stared into her concerned gaze. The depth of feeling in her eyes moved him. She was indeed, one of the most tender-hearted souls he’d ever met. She reminded him of Ginny that way. He expected a stab of pain to flood his entire being at the realization, but nothing happened. There was a twinge in his heart, but it was followed up with a soft, seeping warmth that was completely unexpected and astoundingly comforting.
He actually relaxed as Charity went to work on his other hand. The warmth of her small hands on his was gentle. It spread up his arm and flooded his chest, loosening the hold of those tightly woven strands of grief and anxiety, pain and loneliness that bound him up inside.
“Maybe cleaning out the yard wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe we should take it a little slower.”
“We?”
“Yah. I mean, you want me to finish my contract, don’t you? I’m not just going to let you throw away ten grand. Twenty, actually, since I know the agency usually takes half.”
He nearly flushed, and it wasn’t just from the lingering heat of the overly warm summer evening. “That’s the going rate for a model. A thousand a day. I actually think I got a good deal.”
“What if you can’t paint now. It won’t seem like a good deal. I actually think cleaning up the yard could make it nice. It seems like it was a beautiful area.” She paused, clearly afraid she’d overstepped, but when he said nothing, she forged ahead, her voice a little stronger, a little more sure. “It could be again. With a lot of help. I see what you saw in this place. This house is a relic. It’s falling down, but it’s still so beautiful. I can see the allure of wanting to bring it back to the beauty it was. The gardens too, the porch, all of it. I saw this rose back there. It… must have survived it all.”
“I saw it as well.” He didn’t say that it was that vision that had started the beginning of whatever downward tailspin where he’d gone apeshit on those brambles.
“If you let me do most of the work and just told me what you wanted done while your hands healed, I think it could be pretty to paint back there. Maybe you can just fill in all the deficiencies. Make flowers and trees and green grass where there aren’t
any. Not remembering what it was, because we can’t bring that back, but imagining what it could be.”
Joe’s throat closed up again. Charity was so unafraid to speak to him about all the things that everyone else wouldn’t go near. That was the problem. He’d been left alone, everyone in town too afraid to puncture his world of grief. He’d sewn himself up in a careful cocoon of pain that no one dared disturb.
“I know it’s hard to think of moving forward. I’m not here to tell you to try. I just want to help, if I can. If all you want me to do is sit while you paint, I can do that. I’m not here to force you into anything. I have no experience with any of this. I’m no social worker like my mother.”
It must run in the blood. The good parts of her mother. Probably all the good in her father as well.
“Have you ever tried to find him? Your father I mean?”
Her hand tightened on his. She paused for a moment. “No,” she finally whispered, without looking up. “I’ve never even thought of it. I don’t know where to start.”
“That makes two of us then. Not knowing where to start, that is.”
She sighed. “I’m done. Are you ready for the alcohol and then I’ll bandage you up?”
“Pour away.”
He braced for the impact. The fire was worse than the first time. He breathed steadily through the pain, grounded in a horrible, bracing way. The bandages didn’t hurt. They were actually a relief. Once the air was off his wounds they felt a hell of a lot better.
“My mom did do something for me when I was a kid and I’d hurt myself. She’d kiss it better and I swore it actually helped.” Charity laughed, completely misunderstanding the look on his face. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare. Come inside. That kitchen is a mess. I’m going to clean up and then I’m going to find something to make us for dinner. I’ll go to town. Get some groceries. I don’t honestly know how you’ve survived.”
“Again, that makes two of us.”
She grinned. “Okay. I’ll clean up, get my keys and get us something to eat. Some good food would probably fix you right up. God knows not eating and not sleeping, which I doubt you do much of either, makes me a complete mess. I feel horrible if I skip out on either.”
“I don’t think the job description included taking care of me,” Joe mumbled. He’d long since given up feeling mortification. She’d already seen him completely undone and he hadn’t been able to drive her away. Not even Ginny had seen him so completely at a loss, so low, so entirely broken. He’d always been the strong one, the one she could depend on. Now, look at me. He was astounded when the usual tidal wave of self-loathing remained at bay.
“It did include sitting for you to paint me. You can’t do that with your hands all messed up and if you want to heal, I suggest eating something and getting a good rest. And leaving the damn brambles to me or at least to a hoe.”
“It wasn’t the brambles,” he said uselessly.
One copper hued brow rose, and Charity smiled wryly. “Believe me, I know. I’ve never done anything like that before, but I have broken a few plates or slammed a few doors or gone for a hard jog, ran until I couldn’t anymore. I don’t get it, not really, but I kind of do.” She shrugged, gathered up the first aid kit, the tweezers and the empty gin bottle and disappeared inside.
He stared after her, the empty air heavy with her presence long after the house swallowed her up. He saw her face as she talked about her mother kissing her scrapes better. She’d promised him she wouldn’t do that.
Of all things, he was disappointed. Disappointed that she hadn’t. And after everything, on top of the jumbled up, tangled up web of hell inside, where the hell did that leave him?
CHAPTER 11
Charity
The next day, a miracle happened.
A strange, high pitched wail, like that of an animal in pain, stirred Charity from sleep. She sat upright in bed, glancing around the dark room. Streams of sunlight slanted through the shutters at the window.
She threw back the sheets, listening again for the strange sound, straining to hear it. It came again, louder, more urgent.
She stood, threw on a pair of grey leggings and a black tunic and rushed down the hall. The sound was coming from the back of the house. It was muted and so very strong all at once.
Joe nearly ran into her in the kitchen. His hair was tousled and knotted, his eyes hazy and beautiful with having been pulled from a deep sleep. Even so, he looked as though he’d slept better than he had in a long time.
“Did you hear that?” Charity breathed. “It sounds like a wounded animal.”
“I heard it.” Joe shuddered.
They both glanced towards the back door as the sound came again, louder and closer than it ever had been now that they were on the other side of it.
“Should we open the door? What if it’s wild? Rabid or something.”
Joe actually grinned. The smile, though it was poking fun at her, was dazzling in the early light that filtered through the now clean kitchen. She’d spent hours scrubbing it down the day before. She’d made good on her word too, to make them dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy, spaghetti and meatballs, but Joe ate like he was starved. No, he ate like he remembered that food could be enjoyable.
“That doesn’t happen much around here. I’d say whatever is out there is in rough shape. Probably a cat. Sounds like it.”
“Oh my god.” Charity’s stomach spun. “What do you think happened?”
“No idea. I’ll open the door. If it gets one of us, it will take me first.”
Charity froze, in no mood to joke. Joe wasn’t either, but what could they do? She braced herself as Joe slowly cracked the door. A second later he opened it much wider. And totally transformed. He went from being the stoic, enigmatic, lonely, heartbroken artist, to a completely different man in the space of a minute.
“My god, Charity, it is a cat. She’s in labor by the looks of her.”
The mother cat took that moment to punctuate Joe’s words. She stepped through the open door, glanced around the kitchen, and let out another loud wail.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Charity breathed. She wondered what animal births entailed. She wasn’t exactly sure she had the stomach to help with it.
“I’ll find her a box or something and a blanket. She looks like she just wants a safe place to have them.”
“How would we know? I’m from the city. I’ve never seen anything give birth.”
“Neither have I. I haven’t exactly raised a lot of animals since I’ve been here.” He gave her that wry, sarcastic look that was so new.
Humor, she realized. He’s found his sense of humor.
Joe left. He was gone for what felt like forever but was probably only a few minutes. Charity quickly shut the back door. She bent to the cat, who bellowed and strained pathetically, obviously in the hard grip of pain. Charity had the distinct feeling, and it didn’t feel good at all, that it wasn’t going to be long before kittens started appearing.
The mother was a tabby, a grey and black striped one with a white thatch at her throat. She wasn’t a large cat either, though her belly was painfully distended. It moved, heaving sporadically with contractions. Charity bent down and offered her hand. To her surprise, the cat moved immediately to sniff at her. She gently stroked the cat’s head, the silken fur sliding softly under her fingers.
“What a beauty you are, little mama,” she whispered. She massaged one silky, dark ear. The cat actually let out a little purr until another pain came over her. Charity froze as she watched the cat’s sides literally move. It was a strangely alien thing to witness. She kept petting the soft head, swiveling her eyes up to the set of round, green ones, and stayed focused on that instead.
She had never been more relieved in her life to see anyone as she was to see Joe with that box. He’d found one with high sides. It was quite large, an old moving box. He’d lined it with a patchwork quilt. It overhung the edges of the box, padding everything.
&
nbsp; He bent and set the box down under the table. The cat went to it right away. She slowly climbed in, turned around and lay down heavily on her side.
“I think we should stay over here, where she can have some privacy. Or I’ll stay with her. I don’t think it will be long now.”
“I’d offer a cup of coffee, but I think that would disturb her. I was going to use the stove to make it.”
Joe looked at her longingly. “Maybe afterward. I don’t think she’ll mind then.”
“How come she was here? At the house? Do you normally get stray cats hanging around?”
“No. Not this far out. Although, the neighbors both have barns. They are miles away, but it could be one of theirs.”
“She’s friendly. I was petting her.”
A strange light entered Joe’s eyes. “I saw.” He edged over slowly, silently, towards the table. He waited a moment before he bent down. When it was clear the mama didn’t mind his presence, he stayed that way, bent over, bandaged hands flat against the black and white floor tiles.
Charity couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tender-hearted display. Joe’s hair hung in matted clumps around his shoulders. Her hands itched to brush it out, to make it shine, to feel how silky soft it probably was. She’d been surprised, the day before, to find that his calloused hands were much softer than they looked, though the rough parts had probably been shredded away by the thorns. She liked their gentle heat, their latent strength, the size that easily dwarfed hers.
Her hands hung at her sides. They ached to reach out. She’d touched him so familiarly the day before, like an old friend. It was compassion that made it right, her automatic instinct to comfort and soothe. He’d needed that touch so very badly. He called to her, his pain raw and bright like a lighthouse in the darkness of a lashing storm. She was drawn to that light, to the beacon of his soul that longed to shine through all the pain.