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“I had a hot head ’cause I had fevers.”
This kid was a kick, and Violet’s nerves dissipated. Stella wasn’t quite as scary as Violet expected. Easy. Like John. Being with him, having conversations, was like slicing into warm butter. Effortless.
“I had a fever once.”
Stella found a plastic sheriff’s star and clipped it on her doggie pj’s. “Did your daddy make it all better?”
No. No, she’d been given medicine without any sugar to make it go down and a door shut with commands not to come out and give her illness to anyone else. She’d been about six. Maybe seven. “I got all better by my medicine.”
“When Daddy was gone, I prayed and asked Jesus to make me feel better. He dids.”
Probably the meds kicked in, not the prayer, but who knows, maybe she was one of the good ones God did actually love and want to be His.
“I’m glad,” Violet choked out. “You want me to pretend to be the bad guy? You can throw me in jail.” It wouldn’t be too far-fetched. Violet had done bad things. Came from a bad man.
Stella holstered her gun and fingered a strand of Violet’s hair.
“I think you’re—”
Pretty.
“Good.” Stella continued rubbing Violet’s hair between her forefinger and thumb. “Good guys don’t belong in jails.” She held up a strand of Violet’s hair. “I like your hairs too.”
Violet heard the chuckle outside the door and spotted John leaning against the doorframe, amusement in his eyes. Violet wasn’t amused; she was spinning inside.
She’d never been called good.
Only pretty. Or negative words.
“Who’s ready to eat?” John asked.
“Mes is!”
John winked at Stella as she came running and slipped through his legs into the living room. John entered the bedroom, toyed with one of the paper tubes. “She’s not quite got down singulars and plurals. It’s cute, so I let it go.”
“She’s very sweet, John. Lot like her father, I think.”
He dropped the tube and approached her, toyed with the end of her hair. “Thanks. I like your hairs too.” He held her gaze then pointed toward the kitchen. “Let’s eat. We skipped breakfast and I’m famished. I’ll take you to the hospital after. You got to go sometime, Violet. I don’t know your family dynamics, but the woman I know isn’t afraid of anything. But this...this bothers you. I’m going to take you to the hospital...and I’m going to stay with you. And that’s not up for debate.”
He wanted to emotionally support her? He’d picked up on the dread she’d tried to mask as nonchalance. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Since it’s not up for debate, fine.” But she’d already settled that she liked the idea of John at the hospital with her. Near her. For her.
No one had ever been for her.
She met Julie’s husband and her two boys now that they were seated and clean, then she sat between John and Julie. The meal was served family style, and as they passed the food around and laughed and talked, Violet felt fully welcome.
And home.
“Sonny! Is that you?”
He bristled and ground his teeth. The storm hadn’t let up in hours, and he was drenched, cold and bringing the old, ungrateful bat her dinner. Currents of resentment rolled in his gut, and he balled his hands as he hollered from the kitchen, “Yes, Mama. I brought you some dinner since you’re feeling poorly.”
He snatched a tray tucked between the fridge and the pantry and set her chicken soup, a sleeve of crackers and a glass of tea on it. Then he maneuvered his way through the old, drafty house, the joists creaking under his weight. He used his hip to push open the door.
Heavy burgundy curtains tamped out any sliver of light that had remained outside. Rain pitter-pattered on the roof as Mama lay in bed, her long hair loose around her shoulders and a thick, colorful quilt pulled up over her chest.
“Set that tray down and help me prop up, Sonny,” she commanded.
