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“Probably.”
“So?”
“I’m staying for Alena. I’m not becoming Alena,” I quickly added, “but I’m staying because of her. Besides, someone has to look after you.”
“Very funny.” She paused, her eyes narrowing a little. Here it comes, I thought. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry, if that’s what you’re waiting to hear.”
“That’s all right. I can wait. Someday you will.”
“How did you get so arrogant?”
“I had a good teacher,” I said.
I saw her fighting a smile. “I don’t want to like you,” she said defiantly.
“You will, eventually.”
“And I suppose you’ll like me, is that it?”
“Maybe. Eventually.”
“Eventually, eventually. Everything’s ‘eventually.’”
“Everything is. When my mother and I were living in the streets, I used to wonder if we’d ever get off them, get back into a home, into a life. If I asked her, she’d always say ‘soon.’ Soon’s a great word. It’s full of promise and hope.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. Soon you’ll get out of this bed, and soon you’ll go to school. Soon you’ll graduate and go to college, and soon you’ll meet someone you can love, who can love you, and soon you’ll get married and have a daughter maybe just like you, too.”
“Please. You sound like my mother now.”
“We all get to sound like our mothers.”
“She’s not yours.”
“No, but she knows where to stand, when to smile, when to laugh and comfort me.”
“You’re giving me a headache.”
“Okay.” I turned and started out.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“I don’t like you yet, but I don’t hate you anymore. Don’t ask me why not. And don’t say I hate myself more or anything stupid like that.”
“Okay.”
“They moved you back next door?”
“Yes.”
“Come back later, maybe eat in here. If you can stand it.”
“I think I can. I lived in the streets once, remember?”
Now she laughed.
