Cut Me Free (8 page)

I blink again and again, forcing my eyes to see this girl instead of my brother, but it's so hard not to see Sam when I look at her. My words come out wavering at first before gaining strength. “Th-that sounds like a perfect time of year for a birthday.”

Her answering grin is so wide it lights up her entire face.

The taxi pulls over. My hand trembles when I try to count out the fare. The bills are pretty simple. It's the coins that cause me problems. That's why I never carry any. So many small metal things, and I'm supposed to remember what each is worth and which ones add up to what. It's too hard and complicated. There are coins all over the streets of Philly that I've dropped, hoping someone who knows how to use them will pick them up. I hand the driver the cash as we climb out.

A woman sitting on her nearby porch gapes at me. I look down and realize the blood is seeping onto my tan pants. I sigh. Why didn't I wear dark jeans?

Because I didn't pick my outfit based on hiding blood, that's why.

I tug on Sanda's hand until she is walking a bit in front of me and blocks the woman's view. The girl sees my side, grimaces, but doesn't ask any questions.

“Let's hurry. We're only a block away.” I quicken my step. “We can figure everything out there.”

“Okay.”

*   *   *

My first-aid kit is one of the few things I had before I got to the city. I'd picked up pieces of it on my way here—Band-Aids in Nebraska, Steri-Strips in Iowa, Neosporin in Illinois, bandages and hydrogen peroxide in Ohio. It's a road map of where I've been. A guide to how I got here.

And if there's one thing I'm an expert at, it's bandaging myself up.

Lifting the corner of my shirt, I survey the damage. There is quite a bit of blood. I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath—I hate blood. The cuts are mostly thin and shallow, only one deep gash that needs to be closed.

I grab a clean cloth, run it under cold water, and press it against my side. Pain burns across the right half of my abdomen. Sanda seems worried, and I smile through my gritted teeth to reassure her. I'm just glad I stopped him before she had fresh cuts, too.

“So, you don't want me to drop you off with the police?” The water runs pink as I squeeze some of the blood out of my cloth and rewet it. I look away.

“No.” Sanda's dirty hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. “The family who owned me before called me ill-illegal. They said the police will send me back if they find me.” She bites her lip and closes her eyes tight. “It's not much better there.”

Forcing myself not to cringe, I press the cloth against my side again. It's a little better now, but the deepest cut refuses to stop bleeding. I push harder against it and a small groan escapes my lips. “Then where should I take you?”

Sanda shuffles her feet, opens her eyes, and stares at the white tile floor between her dirty shoes.

I know what I
should
do—the
normal
thing to do—but how can I do it? I don't trust the police. If I could help her it could be my chance to make up for failing Sam so completely.

I'd do everything I could to keep Sanda safe, but how am I supposed to take care of her? I'm only just figuring out how to take care of myself.

She shifts her weight and I can see her discomfort. Her entire life has been wrong. Everything she knows is pain. How do I know that anywhere I take her won't lead back to the past? I can't protect her if she's gone. Even if she ends up with a healthy, normal family—assuming they actually exist—how could they understand? No one else will be able to begin to comprehend what she's been through the way I can.

Saving her is more than simply setting her free.

Just what I need, Sam is starting to sound like one of the “healers” I'd seen on late-night TV.

This time he doesn't laugh.

She needs you, Piper. Like I needed you.

The voice in my head is giving me a guilt trip. Perfect.

I sigh and open a package of Steri-Strips. The bleeding has finally slowed. Spraying my whole side with Bactine, I wait for it to dry before holding the sides of the cut closed with two fingers. With my other hand, I secure it with Steri-Strips until I don't need my fingers to hold it shut anymore. Then I grab the Neosporin, gauze, and paper tape to cover the area and keep it clean. As I'm wrapping my waist with a bandage to keep everything in place, I survey my work. It isn't my best, but it will do.

“Where did you learn to do all that?” Her eyes are wide.

“I had to take care of myself.” I walk past her to my room and change into some clean clothes. The navy shirt has a couple of gashes in it and the pants are beyond stained. I toss them both in the garbage when I walk back to the kitchen.

When I come in wearing fresh clean clothes, Sanda takes a step back and her cheeks flush red. She turns away, but I can see her fingering the edge of her dirty shirt with one hand. The girl needs a shower—or fifteen. To start, I gesture for her to follow me and give her a soapy cloth in the bathroom to clean her face, arms, and hands. Up next we'll get her some new clothes and food.

I sit on the edge of my couch and wait for her to join me. The last thing she needs is someone new pushing her around, telling her what to do. After a few minutes, she returns from the bathroom with all her exposed skin scrubbed clean.

“What now?” She lifts one eyebrow and spreads her hands out before her. I can see one of them shaking before she tucks it behind her back.

I grab my Avengers wallet off the counter and stick it in my pocket. Purses are too big, too bulky—even the smallest ones. They slow me down. I'd picked this wallet from the little boys' section of a Kansas department store a week after I left the attic. Besides, if I want to carry more than just money, a backpack is more practical than some pretty, frilly bag that bounces against my hip or slides off my shoulder when I run. “I was thinking we could grab some food. Then maybe get you some new clothes. If you want?”

Her eyes light up like miniature suns and I can hear Sam giggle in my head. I take a quick breath against the raw pain it brings. I can count on one hand the times I heard him make a happy noise like that. Sanda walks to me, grips my hand in hers, and nods.

“Yes, please.”

 

8

Sanda had devoured the sandwich in seconds, but now she sits quietly with a strained expression on her face and both arms wrapped around her stomach. The chips and apple sit untouched on the table before her, but I don't say anything. I remember how hard it was at first. Wanting to eat everything you see, but the pain from introducing new foods, or more food than you're used to, can be horrible.

“It's okay to take it easy.” I watch people walk past the window. “You'll have food tomorrow. I promise.”

She lets out her breath in a gush and pushes the tray in front of her to one side. “Thank you. It hurts.”

“I know.”

Her eyes remain on me for a while before she says anything else. “You know everything.”

A short chuckle bursts free before I see the tears in her eyes. I lean forward and place one hand open on the table before her. When she places her fingers in mine, I respond. “I don't actually, but I'm trying.”

“You understand, though, and you're strong and brave. You're not afraid.” She frowns and tightens her grip. “You can fight.”

I lower my face until I can see her eyes. “I'm terrified … always.”

One tear slips free from her lashes and slides down her cheek. “You don't seem—”

“I am. And it took me a very long time to fight, too long.” Swallowing hard, I bring my other hand up and hold it out before her. Her eyes widen as she sees my fingers tremble, and I finish. “But if we don't fight, they win.”

Sanda nods, her small face determined. “I want to learn to fight. Can you teach me?”

“No, I'm barely learning myself.” Her face falls and I hurry on. “But I think I might know someone who could teach us both.”

*   *   *

When we return home with two bags of new clothes, I follow Sanda up the stairs to my apartment building. I nearly run her over when she freezes in place just inside the door. I glance past her and see Janice's granddaughter Rachel, smiling sweetly from her spot on the steps up to our apartment.

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Hi, Charlotte! I didn't know you had kids!”

I sputter. “I don't. This is my cousin.”

Sanda's wide eyes turn up to me, and I see the fear she's trying to hide. “Rachel is my neighbor and she's very nice.” My heart breaks for her. Being afraid of everything new and different is hard enough, but when you've spent so little time around “normal,”
everything
feels so new and different.

Sanda nods and takes a tentative step toward Rachel but doesn't speak.

The door opens and Janice peeks out at the hallway. The worry erases from her face when she sees Rachel, but then she sees me and it returns full force. Her eyes drop to Sanda and the worry is replaced with confusion. I watch her eyes take in the dirty hair and clothes and wish again that we could've cleaned her up more before going out anywhere.

“This is my cousin. She'll be staying with me for a little while.”

“Your cousin?” Janice looks at Sanda, who tries to smile but then takes a step back toward me.

I try to cover for the fact that Sanda and I don't exactly look related. “Yeah, a distant cousin.”

Janice nods without a word and waves at Sanda, visibly relaxing. It's strange. Am I more trustworthy if I take care of a kid?

“How old are you, sweetie?” Janice's voice is kind.

“Nine.”

I'm proud of Sanda for not following it with her customary “I think.” We picked a Halloween birthday for her when I explained that she needs to pretend to know how old she is, even if she's not sure.

“How fun!” Janice takes on the overly excited tone that many “normal” adults use with kids. When I notice Sanda's mouth drop open a little I barely suppress a laugh. “That's how old my Rachel is! Maybe you can come over to hang out sometime?”

Sanda gives Rachel a shy smile and turns to me.

“Sure, maybe we can find a good time for that later.” I slide along behind Sanda, trying to casually nudge her toward the stairs with one of the shopping bags. “Good night.”

“Okay, take care.” Her expression is appraising, but her lips are drawn into a tight line and she hurries Rachel inside and closes the door harder than necessary.

I sigh as I walk up the stairs with Sanda close behind me.

“I'm not sure she likes you very much,” Sanda says, looking puzzled. “That's too bad.”

I nod. “Yep, it sure is.”

My phone rings as I open the door and let Sanda inside. The ringtone is terrible, jangling in an absurdly loud and annoying way. The screen says “Cam” and I flip it open. I try to remember how I've seen people talk on the phone on TV shows. It's not like I grew up doing it.

“Hello?”

“Charlotte?”

It takes me a few seconds before I remember that's me. “Oh, right. This is her.”

Cam snorts. “You're going to have to do better than that.”

“Yeah, I'm working on it.” I run my hand across the railing and hesitate on the landing outside my apartment door. “Everything okay?”

“Yep, Lily just worked out the schedule. Sorry for the late notice, but can you come to training tomorrow night at five?”

I hear Lily mumble something in the background and she doesn't exactly sound pleased. I'm not sure what I'll do with Sanda, but I have a day to figure it out. Besides, now is not the time to get on Cam's bad side. With Sanda, I'll need his help longer than I expected. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Great, thanks again.”

I groan. “Don't thank me yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, you'll do great. I'll see if I can stop by the restaurant.”

“I didn't think you worked there.”

“I don't, but I help the family out in the storage room whenever my grandpa isn't well enough to come in.”

“Oh, I see.” I'm not sure how to respond, and I'm still confused about why he would be coming in tomorrow.

“See you then.” And he hangs up without another word.

*   *   *

“I'm just supposed to ask her to hang out with me?” Sanda takes two steps down from our door before turning to face me again. After two showers, a night of sleep, and some clean clothes, she's like a new kid—on the outside at least. “And then wait for her to answer?”

“I think so.” I haven't had much experience with this either, but my reply actually appears to make Sanda more nervous. Reaching out, I squeeze her shoulder. “It will be fine. I promise.”

“But what if she says no? Or what if…” Her dark eyes study the pink straps on her new shoes, and I see a familiar pain. A shame that burns your heart until you know everyone can see it. Her right hand crosses over and she rubs a thin scar peeking out below the edge of her sleeve. “Are you sure she's safe? And what if Rachel sees, or Janice?”

I kneel down and wait until her eyes meet mine. “Rachel is healthy and happy. Janice is a good person. And if they ask, you should tell them that someone used to hurt you and that's why you're with me now. So I can keep you safe. You don't have to, and you shouldn't really, tell them anything more than that.”

Her expression relaxes a little. She squeezes my hand and her eyes fill with warmth that steals the breath from my chest. Sam used to look at me the same way. It is devotion I didn't deserve—don't deserve—but I'm working toward it. Her voice is only a whisper when she speaks again.

“Thank you for keeping me safe.”

I nod, unable to come up with any response. Sanda throws her arms around me in a tight hug and I feel better than I have all day.