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ANONYMOUS

MINDEN, LA

September 1986

I didn’t mean for this to happen.

With ease, I step over the broken glass in the shadows, my bare feet barely making a sound against the carpet. She had taken too much cough syrup; perhaps the ketamine that I had slipped into the bottle was a little stronger than I had anticipated, and I can tell that she is slipping away. Mama had a much stronger tolerance than her, so I only gave her a reasonable dose. I’m not a doctor; but there is always an opportunity to learn from mistakes. Both for her sake and mine.

Juno.

I want to say it, but I don’t know how. It’s a beautiful name—yet she doesn’t look like a Juno to me. More like a Dana or Lucy or Sydney or Tonya. The other day, I spent all night admiring her New York driver’s license, which I’ve taken from her bag. I’ve never driven up there before, although I do fancy a trip one day. Her birthday is March 22, 1960, so she is some nine years younger than I. She is five foot six, and weighs only a hundred and twelve pounds. I remember studying her picture, tracing my finger over each dimple on her brown face. I never knew it was possible for someone be so pretty.

I’m not ready to return her driver’s license yet.

As I bend down next to her still form, I can’t help but gaze at the sight of the broken glass shards, some coated red with her blood. Instinctively, my hands go to her large middle. As soon as I sense a small kick against my palm, I breathe a little easier. If anything happened to the little one, I would never forgive myself. I then hang my head low—the idea of putting a child in such a situation makes my throat tighten up. When I lift her up, I pull her directly into my arms, my eyes burning as I stare at the wall behind us. My finger brushes against the back of her head.

Her blood stains my clothing, but I don’t mind.

I need to be much, much more careful, given that she is with child. I do not wish to startle her, as there are a million ways to make an introduction, and I’ve screwed this one up in the worst way possible. I’ve noticed she’s been very jumpy lately—she’s catching on that she’s not quite alone. But this does not surprise me, although I am trying to make her understand that I am an ally, nothing more. She is quite fortunate. She has brought this precious child all the way from New York, and has entrusted them in my care. I’ll see to it that her little one receives only the best the world has to offer.

You don’t have to run from me, I want to say, but she won’t ever believe it.

It only takes a few more minutes for her body to become accustomed to the drug. I manage to get the bleeding under control. Her eyes are closed, and yet her breathing is shallow. I scoop her up from the floor, carry her to the chair next to the kitchen table, so she is sitting up straight. There is a great deal of blood all over my fingers and clothing, but her swollen abdomen is unharmed, to my great relief. I grab a stool, sit in front of her with a plastic bucket of water, and begin cleaning out the cuts, one by one. They’re not all that deep; but I am as gentle as I can be and am diligent with making sure I reach all surfaces. If she catches an infection, it could harm her baby, and I—

—I could lose them both.

I try to say her name for the first time.

”Juno.”

My voice is barely audible.

“I…I don’t want to frighten you.” I release a shaky breath. Her eyes squeeze shut, like she is in the middle of a rough dream. In so many ways, she is like Mama, so stubborn, but so determined. It is what I admire the most out of people in the face of adversity. I hope she knows that I am telling the truth. “I don’t. I only want to be your friend.”

As I wring out the rag with my hands, the water gradually turns pink as I wash her arms and legs thoroughly. I dump out the water on the porch, return with a fresh refill until the blood is gone. I do this in the silence of our house, no longer mine, but ours. There is residue and slight scarring around her nose from her blowing so much due to the flu.

I gaze at her broken arm.

It is facing the wrong direction. One of the bones has a clean break, but it is just dislocated at the shoulder—a common injury that Mama and I had both experienced during Papa’s fits. The skin is lacerated in several places. It is nothing new to me. I gave myself stitches all the time when I was a child, with or without pain killers. Mama used to be a seamstress, so her sewing kit was always nearby. I have mastered this skill over time.

Using the pocketknife that I took from her a couple weeks ago, I saw off large chunks of fabric from her blanket on the quilt and set them on the table in neat strips. When I stand up and come closer to her I suddenly glance away, my hair falling over my face. I can’t look at her while I do this. I really hope that she had taken enough of the ketamine, though she appears to be in a deep sleep.

“You’re going to have to trust me,” I whisper.

My voice comes out hoarse and raw—due to me not speaking in months, weeks, mostly. Both of my hands gently wrap around her thin shoulder—her skin warm and sweaty under mine. There is a loud crunch as I pull her arm straight forward towards me. At least it’s in the correct position, so when she scrambles out of here the doctors have a head start; whatever hospital she’s thinking of going to. She’s going to run out of this place in hysterics once she comes to—of course she will. And if she’s wise enough to use the money I left for her under the floorboards, she could easily cover the bills. She’d never have to worry about paying anything else; she’ll receive it every month once the baby comes.

And what if she thinks of moving out of our home?

My face stings. No. She won’t be like Mama, who abandoned me, left me alone for good.

She will raise her baby here, give them the childhood that was ripped from me; that was supposed to be mine. We will have a good, happy life together. I will watch her grow old, bake lopsided chocolate chip cookies, mow the lawn, and water the petunias Mama used to grow. I will keep her out of harm’s way. She doesn’t have to see me, but she will know that I am here. She has a lovely voice, and I enjoy listening to her sing to her unborn child at night. I have so, ever since I saw her. I will always have someone to come back to between my work. She cannot leave. She won’t leave. I’ll make sure of it, that I will never be lonely and forgotten again.

She will stay with me.

Hopefully after destroying my television set, she won’t attempt to take off. But I think we needed a new one, anyway. And she can stay in Mama’s old room. I don’t mind at all if she moves there—for the life of me; I can’t understand why she won’t take it. It’s the largest bedroom in the house. It is hers. I bet she’s grown tired of sleeping on that dingy mattress for months. She doesn’t yet truly realize that she is welcomed here. I yank the blanket resting on top of it and drape it around her shoulders, to keep her warm, as the house has a sudden chill most nights.

In the South, hospitality is a priority.

Blood rushes from my knuckles once I set her broken arm into a splint and create a makeshift sling. I’m thinking of stitching up those cuts of hers. They’re too big, and I don’t want to tie them up without getting them a chance to properly heal. After retrieving a needle and a spool of thread from the attic, I gently reach for her left wrist. She is waking up. Her eyelids flutter, and I can tell that she’s trying to move, to speak. But her body is paralyzed. Her eyes are seeking me in the dark, but I know that she shall never find me.

The thread is lime green—a good color. Using my thumb and forefinger, I moisten the edge with my tongue until it is no longer frayed.

“It’s alright,” I softly say. “I promise.”

Her breaths are heavy.

My fingers lightly press against her forearm, her soft, warm skin bending underneath my nails. I know she’s still under the medication, but her muscles are tense. Her jaw is stiff, and her eyes, growing large as saucers, scan the pitch black room. She doesn’t realize that I live in darkness, thrive in it. Therefore, I am not afraid of it. It is a part of me as my own hand or elbow or foot. But she knows I am here, and I want her to.

As I begin to work, her bare toes are clenched against the carpet. Her chest then gradually rises and falls. She is watching my steady fingers; yet she is doing so well for her first time. But I can tell her nerves are getting to her, even after I complete her left arm. I hope she does not experience any pain.

She exhales.

I then set down the needle and thread on the table, carefully caressing her hand. It is soft and warm, just Mama’s. Her fingers are much smaller than mine. Whether she thinks I’m an illusion or not, it hardly matters. She is home, a place where her, her baby, and I can belong. A smile slowly forms on my face once I realize that have a family that will last forever. She’ll eventually learn to trust me. I know it.

Her brown eyes fall upon the table.

”Don’t worry,” I continue after looping the thread through the eye of the needle. I’ve had to do this quite often for myself, but she has already demonstrated that she has incredible pain tolerance once I break through her delicate skin. “You won’t feel a thing. I swear.” As I begin to work on the next gaping wound, now pink instead of red, I continue speaking. “I won’t hurt you. I know you’re scared, but I won’t hurt you. There are a lot of scary things in this world, but I will protect you and the baby from them.” A sound escapes from my lips as I examine my handiwork. I look up from underneath the worn rim of my baseball cap. “There you are. Much better.”

Her lower jaw is trembling. When I have only two more wounds to go, I snap off the green thread with my front teeth. I pause. I want to come a bit closer to wipe away a drop of blood escaping down her mouth, but there is a patch of moonlight by the window, where she will catch a glimpse of my face. So I hold her hand once more, in hopes of calming her. I just need to finish stitching her up, but not when she is so very tense. It’s not good for the little one either, so I wait, carefully tucking her hair behind her left ear, so it is not in her face.

She has such nice, pretty hair, although it’s up to her ears. Soft and curly, seeming to defy gravity. It’s still in those large braids I watched her do the previous night; as I was completely mesmerized by how her hands worked through her thick locks. I had picked up a generous strand from the brush she was using and placed it into my mouth, savoring it.

“I don’t want you to end up like this,” I quietly say. “I’ll make sure it’ll never happens again.”

Her eyebrows become knitted.

I may need to get her to swallow a little more ketamine to calm her nerves, but not too much. She is in the advanced stages of her pregnancy, and I do not want to do anything to put her baby in harm’s way. I see that she is slipping back into unconsciousness again, although she’s fighting it, like a fish squirming and flopping helplessly about outside of water. Her eyes are beginning to close.

Fighting me.

I wonder how long it’ll take her to stop hating me. I am no stranger to hatred, I saw it every time when others, including Mama, looked me in the face. I wish there was another way to get people to stay with me outside of sedation, but I haven’t been quite successful. Hopefully, my new friend will make it so that I won’t have to use it so often. She doesn’t seem to have a rebellious nature, and that is one that I find quite rare in humanity. My hand gradually tightens around hers.

I’ve still expected her own personal hatred of me, as it’s a very normal occurrence with my work, but it tears a hole inside of me. I don’t understand why I dislike seeing her in such distress

unlike the others.

She needn’t be afraid; I have everything under control. But that will come with time. She shall learn. Very slowly, I cup the left side of her sweaty face with my darkened hand. I cannot stop smiling, because she is beautiful. Has anyone told her so? I am definitely not the first, nor will I be the last. My fingers flex around her warm, velvet flesh. Her blood is stained on the sleeve of my jersey, which hangs onto me like a tent. I don’t think I’ll ever wash it again. A part of her is with me forever, bound to my heart, no matter where I go. I am home. I am truly home.

“We’re family,” I whisper. “I won’t hurt you.”