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Chapter One
Branson - Six years old
When I woke up it was dark, and Mommy wasn't with me anymore. I don't like the dark, and I miss my nightlight. It's shaped like Eeyore. I like Eeyore. Everything smells funny here, and it's cold. At least my teddy is still here. There’s a red mark on him, though, and I don’t know why.
I miss Mommy.
I woke up to Her watching me. My first reaction was to cry, but she told me to ‘shh’ and that it was alright. She said some bad words, said that I was too young and not supposed to be there. I don't know what that means but I ask for my mommy. She tells me Mommy's gone. That she isn't coming back. I cry some more, and she shushes me again and tells me she'll be my mama now. Then she tells me her name is Jane.
Branson - Eight years old
“Like this?” I ask excitedly, holding the pieces like she showed me.
“Yes, precious, just stay still,” Jane replies as she hurries to tie it together.
“There we go!”
I wait, wanting to make sure she is really done before I move my hand. When I help Jane and do a good job, she’s happy. I always want to make Jane happy. When she’s happy, she smiles and gives me treats. Jane scares me when she’s mad.
“You can let go now,” she tells me after stepping back to survey her work. I slowly take my hand away and step beside her, taking in the now finished project.
“What’s it called?” I ask her, knowing she loves when I take an interest in her art.
“I think this one will be only ‘Portrait’.”
I nod as though I know what that word means. Jane has been teaching me to read and giving me lots of homework. I bet I could spell it, but I don’t know what it means. I critically eye the piece in front of me. The stretched-out face is skinned perfectly and tied neatly to the edges where I helped hold it in place. It doesn’t look the same as the person before. The small bones—fingers I think—frame it nicely.
The blood and stuff used to make me feel icky, but Jane says it's all nonsense. I'm doing better now and only get sick sometimes. Today, I didn't get sick.
“I like it,” I tell her with a grin. She smiles at me and pats my head.
“Good boy. Now, let’s get this cleaned up.”
I start picking up small pieces and placing them into the trash bin, ignoring the slow sense of ickiness building in my tummy as I do. It’s all nonsense, I tell myself.
“What’s this part called?” I ask when I peer into the trash. Jane leans over and picks up the part, squinting at it.
“I think that’s the liver,” she says before dropping it into the pile.
“Oh,” I reply, looking at the flabby discolored flesh. “How can you tell? How do you know so many things?”
Jane chuckles lightly. “Many, many years ago I learned all of it—how the human body works. I was going to be a doctor.”
“What’s that? I thought doctors made sick people feel better?”
She nods. “That is one way to put it.”
“And why didn’t you become a doctor? Why didn’t you make sick people feel better?”
Jane’s face hardens, and I regret asking the question. She leans down so our faces are level as she holds my shoulders.
“These people that you see here,” she tells me, her dark eyes boring into my own, “Every one of them is sick, you see. What I learned was that doctors only heal a certain kind of sickness. Me? I draw every last inch of it out.”
I swallow, not understanding but nodding anyway. Her face changes once more into a smile and she pats my head again.
“Good boy.”
Branson - Fifteen years old
