Page 12

Chapter

Eleven

UNWRAPPING HIS HEART

Madden

“Dreams weren’t meant for me. Until she came along and all Ifound myself dreaming of her.” — M

I huddle over my dirty old backpack in the quiet and empty room, my fingers working quickly to stuff the last of the food I stole inside. The backpack I carried with me everywhere I go was once black and has seen better days. Its straps are frayed and its surface is covered in smudges and stains.

Guilt claws at me as I shove more food inside. I don’t like stealing but I have no choice. Besides, the O’ Sullivan’s won’t miss it.

The food I’m packing is nothing fancy—cans of tunas, a few loaves of bread, a couple of granola bars, and a carton of milk. It’s all I could manage to collect before I was caught by one of the uncles. Each item I tuck into the backpack guarantees that I won’t go without eating for a few days. The last time I found myself on the streets the food lasted me only two nights and after that the pain was so intense that I passed out and woke up in the emergency room. I can’t let it happen again. I don’t know how long this new foster placement will last. Maybe a month, maybe six—until people get tired of me or until my asshole brother does something to mess it up.

Because he will. There’s no doubt he will. Milton has only ever had one goal and that is to make me as miserable with life as he is. If he finds out I’m in a good home then that will set him off. The bastard has never interfered when I was placed in dangerous homes, but he suddenly showed up when I landed in my last foster home — a place where the folks weren’t half bad.

My hands tremble slightly as I arrange the food, carefully balancing the cans with the softer items. Afterward, I tuck a blanket and a flashlight I found in Mr. O’Sullivan’s shed into the bag. I zip up the backpack with a soft click and shove it under the bed before rising from the floor and walking to the middle of the room.

The room is dark and the only light is coming from the window. I can’t help but notice how this room is a stark contrast to the rest of my life, huge and luxurious. It’s so different from the cramped spaces I’ve grown used to. The walls are light blue and a soft gray carpet covers the floor, making the room feel warm and inviting.

My old room was small and colorless while this one looks like every young boy’s dream. The furniture is all new and impeccably clean—there’s a big, comfortable bed with a crisp, navy blue duvet and matching pillows. A large desk stands in one corner, cluttered with model cars and a racing helmet.

I had one toy at home. Only one. It was a model toy of a small black McLaren but nobody knows about it. I wonder how these people knew to design the room with a car theme. It’s obvious that a lot of thought went into this room’s design.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

My eyes move to the racing theme mural that decorates the largest wall. It’s a vibrant, dynamic depiction of cars speeding around a track, the colors range from deep blues to vibrant greens. The red cars are rendered in such a way that they almost seem to be moving, their engines roaring and tires skidding. The first time I saw it I was left speechless as I looked at it in awe. If you look at the track for long it actually feels like I’m standing in the middle of it. And how I wish that were true.

I suspect Mrs. O’Sullivan had a hand in painting it since I’ve seen her painting on every available surface of this house. It’s strange. At first, I thought the plain white walls were such a stark contrast to the happy, colorful family. But now, I understand why the walls are white.

They’re canvases for mother and daughter to paint whatever they want and decorate their home in their drawings.

It’s…strange.

But I guess it works for them and besides what do I know about what normal families do and look like? My own was anything but normal.

My family was… broken.

As I stand in the middle of the room, taking it all in, I can’t help but think about how it’s already been five days since I first stepped into this house. Five days of hiding, avoiding everyone, and not wanting to say a single word.

At first I thought that if I ignored them then they would eventually get tired of me and call my case worker but that didn’t happen. The first two days, since I refused every offer to eat with the family I was left a plate of food and snacks at the door almost hourly as if they knew I was hungry but I didn’t want to venture outside these walls. It’s safer here.

But then on my third day, I left the room to join them for dinner and that was only because one of the uncles, one called Cianne I think, would stop pounding on the door and kept harassing me with threats of coming inside and having dinner here with me.

Of course, that was more excruciatingly painful than giving up and joining them downstairs.

Tonight was my third time dining with them and it wasn’t as awkward as it was the first time. Mrs. O’Sullivan and Willow always greet me with bright, genuine smiles, their faces radiating kindness and warmth. It’s even more awkward for me because I don’t know how to react to them. I’m not used to kindness.

The family speaks in a language I don’t fully understand—sign language—but it’s clear from their expressions and gestures that they’re trying to include me. Mrs. O’Sullivan is the bridge between Willow and me, translating their conversations and making sure I don’t feel left out. Every time I look at her and how she treats everyone around her I wonder if she’s real. The same happens with her daughter, Willow. They’re the softness to the rest of the family’s harshness.

The men around them look like evil villains with their brows always pulled low and the mean looks on their faces. Each and every single one of them wear their tattoos like badges of honors. Even the grandfather, Cathan.

I wonder if those drawings on their skin is what makes people look nervous when around them. When I grow up I’ll ink my skin too. Maybe that way people will be afraid of me too.

Then there’s Mr. O’ Sullivan.

Despite his wife’s and daughter’s kindness, the man’s presence looks like a threatening shadow. He rarely speaks, his eyes frequently drifting toward me with a look of distrust and suspicion. He looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to slip up, to prove that I’m not worthy of the generosity his family has extended. If he only knew I’ve been stealing food from him. He would put me out on the streets. I wouldn’t blame him either. He opened his doors to me and here I am stealing from them.

Maybe Milton was right.

I’m a bad seed too.

The soft, rhythmic tapping on the window jolts me from my thoughts. I move towards the window and there I spot the source of the sound. Outside I see Willow standing below, her face illuminated by the fading light. She’s throwing small rocks at the window, each tap a tiny, urgent call for attention.

I frown, wondering what she wants.

As our eyes meet, her expression brightens into a playful smile and she bounces in place as if seeing me made her happy. My frown deepens at that. I don’t get her. I don’t get her at all. She’s too damn happy and gets excited about the stupidest things. Like now for example. She signals me to come down with a wide smile and a series of enthusiastic gestures, then, without waiting for a response, she turns and runs off towards her mother’s greenhouse. A greenhouse where her and her mother spend countless hours a day caring for butterflies and exotic plants. From all the way here, I can see her curls bounce in the wind as she happily runs through the green house.

Thud.

“Aghh,” I rub my chest when it starts to hurt.

I hesitate for a moment, caught between the basic instinct to stay far away from the girl who makes me feel things I’m not used to and the need to chase after her and join her in her little world that makes breathing hurt a little bit less. The last time I was alone with her, she made me feel safe.

I’ve never felt that with anyone else but with Willow I do.

When my curiosity gets the best of me, I grab my jacket, slip on my shoes, and head for the door. Descending the stairs quickly, I try to make as little noise as possible not wanting to get caught. When I reach the first level, I push open the back door and step outside. Once there, the cool evening air hits me so I hurry toward the greenhouse. The sounds of the butterflies flitting through the air and the soft rustling of leaves become louder as I approach.

When I reach the entrance of the greenhouse, I spot Willow standing amid the rows of rare plants with a smile that splits her face in two, waving at me to come further inside.

Hesitantly, I do and that’s when my breath catches in my throat making it hard for me to breathe. Stepping into the greenhouse feels like stepping into a magical sanctuary and another world, one where every corner brims with enchantment and wonder. The total opposite of the mundane world outside.

I stand there almost in a trance and move in circles, taking every corner of this sanctuary in. Flashing fairy lights are strung delicately among the plants, their soft glow casting a warm, golden hue over the entire space. The lights twinkle like the stars outside and I have to blink twice to make sure I’m not stuck in a dream. But it’s not a dream. It is very much real.

Then there are the butterflies—so many butterflies—flitting from flower to flower, their delicate and colorful wings shimmering like tiny diamonds. There are so many of them. Orange, greens and blue ones.

A tiny blue butterfly lands on Willow's nose, making her giggle in silence. The only tell is the movement of her shoulders.

Thud.

Thud.

There that pain in my chest goes again.

Unable to stand the sudden rush of strange emotions, I look away from her and focus on the plants instead. There are so many of them that I don’t doubt this family has every plant in existence. They’re all lush and vibrant, their leaves are vivid green and their flowers are bursting in brilliant hues. Ferns unfurl their fronds, orchids stand tall with their pretty blooms, and vines drape elegantly from above. The air smells like blooming flowers and fresh soil.

I like it…

It smells like her.

The sudden sound of small footsteps in the distance catches my attention and I look where I last saw Willow standing to find it empty. I look around until I find her standing near a small pond, where the reflection of the fairy lights makes it seem like the water is sparkling. Willow notices me standing close and gestures for me to come closer, her excitement evident in the light in her eyes and her smile.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and then I walk slowly, feeling as if I’m treading on a dream and at any moment I will wake up from it.

When she points to the spot next to her, I sit down almost reluctantly. She smiles pleased that I joined her and then keeps on tending to a small patch of mushrooms with a quiet and focused attention. I follow her movements as she carefully adjusts the soil and inspects the tiny fungi. There’s a calm grace to her actions, as if she’s in perfect harmony with the little world she created for herself.

And while she does that, I glance at her, noticing how the fairy lights catch in her brown hair, which is adorned with a few small wild flowers. She looks ethereal, making her look like a character from a fairy tale. She always looks wild and natural. Pretty…

For a few minutes, I simply sit in silence, looking at her. She’s unlike anyone I've ever met. The tender care she shows the ugly little mushrooms reflects kindness and attentiveness that shows she really loves doing it.

She has to be from another planet. Because how is it possible that someone as delicate and rare as her exists in this cruel and heartless world.

Unable to stand the quiet any longer, I lean closer to her and whisper while pointing to her mouth, “What happened? Why can’t you talk?” As I speak, my eyes are drawn to the tiny gadget nestled in her ear. It’s so small that you can almost miss it as it blends with the long strands of her curly hair.

For a second, I think my question offended her. Because when she glances at me, her expression is gentle but sad.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, she taps the small device and then uses her hands to form the words in sign language. Though I can’t understand all the signs, it’s clear from her gestures that the device helps her communicate. I wonder if that thing helps her hear or helps with speech issues. Without thinking I frown, and that makes her look even sadder. Shit. She then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, folded card. After unfolding it, she hands it to me. The card is covered in neat, handwritten notes that look like a grownup wrote. Perhaps her Mom? The note explains that Willow was born with a hearing impairment, and the device helps her process and translate sound.

Oh…

“Are you a mute too?” I blurt out, confused.

Willow shakes her head now, and my frown deepens.

“Then why won’t you talk?” I ask, hoping to get a clearer answer.

She pauses, thinks and then touches her face, mimicking a tear falling down her cheek.

Her pretty eyes turn so sad that anger boils in my stomach all of a sudden.

“Sad?” I ask leaning closer. “Talking makes you sad?”

Willow nods slowly, her eyes downcast.

I touch her chin gently and make her look back at me. “Why?”

My mind races, trying to piece together the reasons behind her silence. As the pieces of the puzzle start to come together, it suddenly dawns on me—maybe people have made her feel bad about using her voice. The thought hits me like a jolt, and my anger surfaces, not directed at Willow but at this ugly world that has treated her poorly.

I wonder if there have been moments when she has tried to communicate verbally with others and her attempts were met with harshness or ridicule, making her associate her voice with pain and embarrassment. Maybe the very act of speaking, something so natural for many of us, was tainted with negative experiences for Willow.

The thought makes me see red and the sadness in her expression makes me want to hurt someone for making her feel bad about something she has no control over.

Trying to control the sudden anger, I look at her and my frustration softens into a deep sense of empathy. I don’t want her to think that I’m mad at her.

“I bet you sound beautiful, fairy.” I tell her, my voice trembling slightly.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, her eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s a flicker of relief in her gaze. Then, she leans a little closer with a small smile on her face and in the stillness, she takes me by surprise by whispering, “Thank you.” The sound is so low, barely above a whisper, and carries a husky quality that makes it all the more beautiful.

I’ve never believed in magic. Never cared to but in that moment while looking at the tiny girl with flowers in her hair and a gentle smile I knew that it must be real. Magic must be real because how else could one explain such a creature.

After a long while just existing with her in her little world while she took care of her little mushroom friends, Willow eventually lets out a soft yawn, a clear sign that she’s tired and it’s time for her to head to bed.

I gently take her hand in mine, feeling a sudden sense of responsibility and care as I lead her out of the greenhouse and toward the house. The warm lights from the greenhouse spill out into the night as we walk, casting a gentle glow on the stone path. I make sure to guide her quietly, not wanting to get caught by her parents or army of uncles.

Once we reach her room, I hold the door open for her, watching as she steps inside safely. When she seems like she doesn't want to go in, I offer her a reassuring smile before closing the door softly behind her, making sure not to make any noise.

With Willow settled, I make my way back to my own room without getting caught and open the door. Once inside I head straight for the corner where I had left my backpack.

My heart skips a beat when I notice that it’s been moved.

Hurrying to the floor, I open it and my eyes widen in surprise when I see what’s inside. The backpack, which I’d packed with just a few essentials, is now overflowing with an assortment of items. There’s more food—canned goods, snacks, candy, juice boxes and a few extra loaves of bread. Alongside the food are neatly folded clothes, a stack of cash, and several knives in every size. “What?” I whisper to the empty room. The knives catch me off guard, but as I pull them out, I realize these knives are not kitchen knives but ones that are intended for protection and might cause real damage. It’s clear that someone knows my situation and has gone out of their way to ensure I’m well-equipped and safe if ever find myself on the streets again.

But who?

When I can’t come up with an answer, I give up and close the backpack before stashing it under the bed and then I climb into bed.

That night I went to bed feeling safe like I’ve never felt before and dream of blue eyes.

That was one of many magical moments with Willow O’Sullivan.

She changed me in ways I never thought possible.

I just didn’t understand then how dangerous the sweet fairy was to my heart.

She made me believe life could be better.