You'll be in my heart
No matter what they say
You'll be here in my heart
Always.
I've been home three weeks; inasmuch as you can call this barren, burned out wasteland my home. Almost nothing remains of 'home', my family's bakery is gone, the little loft above it where I took my first steps, where I wrestled with my brothers, where I grew and dreamed, gone, my family too is gone. My school, my friends, my town: all gone. Victor's Village remains however; the house given to me after the Games, and eleven others just like it, stand sentinel, overlooking the ash and dust and destruction.
When I returned three weeks ago the train that brought me away from the Capitol pulled into the station before dawn, and I was spared confronting the depth and breadth of the destruction, at least temporarily, as I trudged from the station up the hill to Victor's Village in the moonlight. Though no one was there to meet me at the station, I found my house had been cleaned, a fire laid and the kitchen stocked with enough food and basics to get me through the first few weeks of homecoming. I hadn't told anyone I was returning (because, really, who was there to tell?) but someone knew anyway, and that small bit of welcome, that warm fire and pantry full of flour and sugar, made me weak with gratitude.
When I returned three weeks ago and felt that gratitude, that reminder that I wasn't alone, I walked with purpose into the wooded area beyond my yard to find the primrose bushes I remembered blooming the previous spring, digging them up and carefully nestling them into a wheelbarrow, then planting them along the side of her house.
When I returned three weeks ago I saw her for the first time in many months. Saw her wide, frightened eyes, matted hair, dirty clothes, and hollow cheeks. She was tiny, feral, more wraith than girl. She hardly looked like the person who I'd spent so many hours, days, months watching on tapes, trying to piece together what was real and what was not real. Katniss.
She was so beautiful.
She is so beautiful.
As the days and weeks pass I try to establish a routine; this is what the Capitol doctors who treated me emphasize is important to my recovery. Each day I rise before the dawn to bake, bread most mornings, sometimes rolls or pastries too. I bring some to Katniss, and Greasy Sae makes breakfast for both of us, eggs or hot grain, simple hearty food. I try occasionally to make small talk with Sae or with Katniss, but mostly we eat in silence, or rather I eat in silence. Katniss alternates between picking at her food, feeding her meal to the cat or simply staring off into space and leaving her plate untouched. This morning is a staring off into space day, the third in a row. Greasy Sae's brow is furrowed as I finish, and she stays behind after I leave. I wonder if she's hoping to cajole Katniss into eating when I'm not there. I hope so.
After breakfast I find ways to occupy my time. Some days I paint, some days I clean, some days I plan for the garden I'm hoping to plant now that spring is coming. Most days I bring Haymitch bread or something else I've baked, though he's seldom conscious when I do. Some days I walk; I haven't yet ventured to what used to be the town centre though. I have to work my way up to that, and mentally I'm not strong enough yet. Once a week I walk to the train station, to pick up my weekly Capitol delivery.
Today is a Capitol delivery day. The station is busy, several hundred people have returned to District 12 already and more arrive almost every week. My delivery is large today, two good-sized boxes and a couple of envelopes. I wish I'd thought to bring my wheelbarrow to carry it all, but I'll have to manage. Tucking the envelopes into my jacket and stacking the boxes one on top of the other, I'm just starting down the platform when I hear an unfamiliar voice calling my name. When I turn, a man with the distinctive dark hair and olive skin of the Seam is striding towards me pushing a cart loaded with boxes. He looks vaguely familiar but I don't think I know him.
"Peeta," he greets me, setting down the cart and extending a hand to me, which I shake firmly, my boxes balanced precariously on my hip. "Don't think we've been properly introduced," he continues. "The name's Thom, I used to work with Gale Hawthorne, before…" he trails off. He doesn't need to specify before what. We all know; the lives of everyone in the district are divided into before the firebombing, and after. Well, everyone except Haymitch, Katniss and me, our 'divisions' are a little different. Thom clears his throat, "Anyway, I'm bringin' Haymitch's and Miss Katniss's deliveries up for them. Would you like to drop your packages on the cart too?"
I smile at him in gratitude. "Thanks Thom, I really appreciate that, I was a little worried about getting them up the hill, I didn't realize I'd ordered so much this week." Thom helps me settle the boxes into the cart, and then we walk away from the station together. Along the way we converse, he's friendly and interesting, and obviously a keen observer with plenty of stories and gossip. He tells me about the reconstruction, which he's coordinating, and we chat about the people who have returned to the district, the people who remain in District 13, and the people we've lost. I realize that Thom was in the same class at school as my eldest brother, and though they weren't friends they knew each other from sports teams.
"Really sorry about your brother Peeta, about all of your family, wasn't right what the Capitol did to us." he says softly. I nod but can't speak, I miss my family every single day but the guilt over what happened makes it difficult to talk about them. Thom seems to understand, and after a pause he continues speaking about other things going on in the district.
When we reach the gates to Victor's Village he immediately steers the cart towards my house, without me having to tell him which one it is. No, I think wryly, everyone already knows where we live. Thom sets my boxes on the porch, and then reaches for my hand again. "Real pleasure finally speakin' with you Peeta," he says with a firm shake. "Hope I'll see you 'round."
"Count on it Thom," I reply with a smile, "And thank you!" He turns and manoeuvres the cart across the street towards Haymitch's house. I carry the boxes into my kitchen, then come back to look out the front window, in time to see Thom handing off a huge bundle of envelopes to Greasy Sae as she stands on Katniss's porch, before he disappears into her house carrying a box. He's back out and steering the cart towards the gates before even a minute has passed. It's then that I realize why he looks so familiar; I've seen him exiting Katniss's house once before, the day that I returned to District 12.
My heart had nearly stopped for a moment that day, seeing him leaving her house, that dark hair and olive skin looking far too much like someone else's. It had taken a few moments to register that he was much shorter and stockier than Gale, but those few moments had opened up a well of anxiety and doubt that had left me fighting flashbacks the rest of that day.
Not wanting to revisit that, I shake my head and return to the kitchen to begin unpacking my order. One box is filled with new paints, canvasses and sketchbooks, cleaning solutions and brushes, and I have to resist the urge to clap like a small child. I may eventually become accustomed to being able to afford good art supplies, but it hasn't happened yet.
The second box contains food and sundries: salt, sugar, flour, a tiny glass bottle of vanilla extract, bags of raisins and nuts, bars of baking chocolate, paper goods, and seed packets. At the bottom is something I don't remember ordering: a brick of cheese. Unlike the soft unripened cheese that is common in District 12, this is firm, aged cheese from District 10, orange and strong-smelling. My father used to order cheese like this from the Capitol for only one reason.
Cheese buns.
I find myself clutching the back of a chair tightly as I'm flooded with memories: my father showing me how to bake cheese buns, watching him trade them for squirrels at the back door of the bakery, making them for Katniss when she hurt her foot. Memories of those couple of weeks where I spent every day with her, working on her family's plant book. Dozens of memories sort themselves out in my mind, and not a single one shiny. I'm trembling, but elated; who knew a simple brick of cheese could open the floodgates of my memories?
I'm awake even earlier than usual and I head straight for my kitchen. My hands mix and measure and knead almost of their own volition. When I exit my house and head across the green it's with a bounce in my step and a basket of warm buns tucked under my arm. I enter through the back door of Katniss's house, it leads directly into the kitchen, where Greasy Sae is frying eggs and Katniss sits at the table, staring vacantly at the wall.
"Good morning, Sae. Good morning Katniss," I try. Sae nods, but Katniss makes no sign that she's even heard me. I set the basket down in the middle of the table, then unwrap the cloth that covers the buns. Katniss's eyes shift to the basket and widen. She looks up, making eye contact with me for the first time in weeks. Her expressive silver eyes look surprised and, I think, pleased.
"Cheese buns?" she questions, her voice a soft rasp. I smile, and nod.
"They're your favourite, real or not real?"
"Real," Katniss gifts me with a smile, a real smile, the first I've seen from her since the Quell. My heart skips a beat. She pulls one from the basket, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm," she half moans, half purrs. I feel my cheeks go pink, and I look away quickly.
Breakfast is still a quiet event but Katniss is definitely mentally present today, and she eats four cheese buns plus the eggs Greasy Sae prepares. When she finishes, she stands up and announces "I think I'll go hunting today," then heads for the front hall. I clear her plate and my own, and as I do so she walks back through the kitchen wearing her father's hunting jacket with her bow slung over her shoulder. She grabs one more cheese bun from the basket before heading out the back door, a spring in her step. Sae and I both watch, silently, mouths identically agape.
As I make to leave myself, Sae grabs my arm. "Thank you dear boy," she says, her eyes shining, as she reaches up to cup the back of my head with her hand, a gesture so maternal that it makes my heart pang. I swallow hard and nod, not trusting my voice. She draws me into a quick hug, then releases me and turns to the sink, looking lighter than she has in days.