Just Believe

Chapter Two: Wounded

Lily Howard

My mother was a master storyteller. It didn't matter if she was cooking, cleaning, doing laundry or just sitting in front of the fire, there was always a story on her lips. Her thick Irish brogue would lull me to sleep on the nights when my eyes refused to close. Her stories ranged from her life in Ireland, the boat trip to America and the long library of fairy tales that she had stored in her beautiful mind. I held onto her words, tucking them away in my heart and memory. Now, they were the only things of my mother that I carried with me.

So when Michael came downstairs because he had a nightmare and asked for a story, I reached into that vast library and gave him one. Apparently he was so thrilled by it all that he told his brother's who searched me out the following day to hear another one. It was this story that caused so much trouble this afternoon.

I was so engrossed in my storytelling that I didn't notice Michael's stick horse that had been abandoned on the floor till I cleared the broken porcelain off of him. The boys were most dutiful in their task of helping clean up the shards, especially poor Michael.

"Ms. Howard?"

I wiped my hands on my apron. We were almost done. "Yes, Jack?"

He pointed towards were my hands had just been. "You're bleeding."

Looking down I saw a large red streak cutting across the white of my apron. Upon further inspection, I found a deep gash in the palm of my right hand. I rushed over to the sink and dipped my hand in the sudsy dish water and grabbed a dish towel. Hastily, I wrapped up my hand and turned towards the four anxious faces that were studying me.

"Let me see your hands, boys."

Obediently, they all held out their hands and started inspecting their palms. I was too ashamed to look any of them in the eye. I couldn't believe how I had put them in danger of cutting themselves. How would I explain that to their grandmother? Or Mr. Barrie for that matter. I felt my cheeks flush with more than embarrassment at that thought.

I reached the littlest pair of hands and felt something wet drop on my wrist. Panicking, I looked for any sign of red on his hands and found none. I even pushed his sleeves up but they revealed no marks whatsoever. I forced my eyes up to Michael's face and found his chubby cheeks wet with tears.

"What's the matter, Michael?"

He sucked in a halting breath. "That's what mother used to say to us."

I looked up at the other three faces, all with similar grief though different stages of the emotion. Without thinking of what was proper or not, I pulled Michael down into my lap, careful not to rub any blood on him, and wrapped my arms around him. "I'm terribly sorry, boys. I didn't mean-"

"I think what Michael meant," Peter said quietly, "was it's quite nice to hear those words again."

I felt Michael's head nod against my shoulder. "Yes, it's quite nice."

"George," I finally find the strength to speak, "You better take the garbage out before your grandmother sees all the broken pieces."

He quietly gathered up the sack with Jack's help and together they carried the evidence of the destruction out of the kitchen. I remained on the floor, gently rocking Michael, even though his tears seemed to have lessened. Peter, however, remained stoic.

"Are you alright, Peter?"

"Yes."

"It's alright to miss them, you know. There's no shame in crying."

He gave me a look as if I had just told him the world was flat.

"I still cry over my parents." That seemed to grab his attention, Michael's as well.

"You don't have any parent's either?" Michael sniffed.

I shook my head. "No, I haven't had parents for quite some time now."

"Who took care of you then?" Peter asked.

"My Uncle."

"Does your Uncle live in London then?"

"He lives in America. But he is friends with your grandmother and that is why she allowed me to come work in her household for a time."

"Just a time?" Peter asked. "You have to go back then?"

I tried to hide the sadness that tinged my voice but I could tell from Peter's face I did a very poor job of it. "Yes, I do have to go back."

"Why?" Michael spoke up.

"A little thing called 'responsibility.'"

Peter crinkled his nose. "Uncle Jim hates that word."

I felt a slow smile creep across my face. In light of the past few moments it felt as if I would never feel a smile again but yet, looking up at the face of Peter Davies, I found my smile again. "I hate that word too."