ARTHUR
I have a tiny bit of doubt in me over Gilbert's claim of not hurting children. How does he draw the line so easily? But I agree with him that a child roaming around without shelter isn't good, so with Gilbert I call, "Raivis! Please come out! We don't want to hurt you!"
Gilbert's voice is much stronger and carries much farther than mine. My voice has always been thin, easily drowned out by the bustle of crowded rooms. Not very masculine, but not the pretty, melodic voice I wish I had, either. Maybe I can train my voice to be less like the wind and more like the chimes.
Of course, my mind is trying to go to dark places. The fear from being in the woods at night adds to it, but mostly it's from hearing about this poor boy, raped by some Russian man. It's bringing forth endless memories I wish would stay in the back corners of my mind, where I won't have to see them.
Gilbert cups his hands around his mouth. "I promise, I don't wanna hurt ya! Come out, Raivis!" We stop walking, to listen, and squint through weak moonlight, scanning for any sign of movement.
What's that—
I gasp and grasp Gilbert's sleeve. "Look," I whisper, pointing. "There . . ."
The leafy branches of a fern rustle, then bow to let a little brown rabbit hop out. It stirs, feet tucked neatly beneath it, ears up, pricked for signs of danger. Its furry face isn't turned toward us, but it must see us. I wonder what it thinks of us. Noisy possible threats? He'd have run already, if he thought we were going to get him. Which is probably the case with Raivis Galante, as well, if he's actually here.
Gilbert gives the rabbit a little wave. "Hey there, little guy. Pretty cute."
"My brother would like it out here. My youngest brother. He always loved animals. He lives in Wales, now. I think he tends sheep." I remember how happy he always looked when stray cats wandered into our yard, or when a bird got stunned flying into a window. He always nursed them, fed them whatever we could spare (never much). He was the sweetest of us all. I wish he didn't hate me.
It's my fault. Arthur's fault. The person I used to be. The demon I let inside me. Every night . . .
No. No bad thoughts. Think of something happy!
"That reminds me of my imaginary friends," I say, glancing at Gilbert to see him raise an eyebrow at me. "I had lots, when I was young. One was a rabbit, with wings. Mint-colored. And one was a unicorn. And there was a little fairy . . ."
Gilbert looks down at me, smiling faintly. His eyes are too dark to really see in the moonlight, but he almost looks—fond?
"Sounds like a real party," he says. "I didn't have an imagination awesome enough to give me any imaginary friends."
"I guess I was just trying to get away from reality. My childhood wasn't the best." Oh, I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll ask me things. I step away from him, and the bunny vanishes with the quiet hiss of leaves on leaves. I cup my hands around my mouth. "Raivis! Raivis!"
Gilbert follows me, but doesn't shout. "How many brothers do you have?"
Too many. "One in Wales, one in Scotland, two in Ireland." I reach up to snag a leaf from a branch, fold it into damp pleats. "None of us have two parents alike, it's a nightmare. Stepfathers and stepmothers, some we don't even know. We were all raised by my mother and Alistair's father. I'm the oldest. Alistair came second."
Gilbert gives an impressed whistle. "Jesus. At least you all got to stay together, ja?"
It would have been nice, yes. If Alistair's father wasn't part of the equation. "It didn't last long. I left when I was sixteen. I met with Alistair in Glasgow when I was nineteen, but I got really drunk . . . I can't even remember it now. I was alone from then on. An alcoholic. A waste."
I pause, but Gilbert doesn't say anything, and I'm too afraid to look back and see that he agrees with me, so after a moment of uncertainty I push on. It feels like it wants to be said. Like it needs to be.
"None of my brothers have stayed in contact with me. Well, I haven't with them, I guess. They all hate me for leaving, I know they do. But . . . I had to go." I rip the leaf to shreds and let them fall to the ground. My hands are wet with juice. They smell strong, more like leaf than the leaf did. "I thought about killing myself back then, too. But I was a coward. So I drowned my head instead of shooting it."
Gilbert steps up beside me, gives me a sidelong look. "Do you want to tell me why?"
"My stepfather." The words come out of my mouth sharply, like a knife forced between my lips, cutting the edges because it's too wide. It makes me tear up, but I don't let them fall. It's almost a relief, how much terrible, black stuff comes through by just saying those two words. MY STEPFATHER. The truth of it immediately comes to mind. No further explanation is required.
I wonder if there are any good, kind stepfathers out there. Stranger things have happened, I suppose.
Gilbert inclines his head, hands in his pockets. "Like Raivis."
"Yes." It isn't a comfort to know I'm not the only child abuse case in the world. It's the opposite, actually. "But I was the oldest, so I just . . . I just thought it was my job. My burden to bear."
The tears are getting dangerous now.
Gilbert touches my chin, rough fingers but a gentle touch. "I'm sorry, Miss Kirkland. Our fathers were both dickheads. The world has too many fucking bastards in it. There's way too much blood. Everybody sees so much red, they can't tell how pure the white doves like you are."
What?
He turns away. "C'mon, let's get back to the car. He ain't out here." His tone lightens. "We gotta get to bed early tonight, your appointment is at two o'clock tomorrow. During the day. Haven't seen the sun in quite a while. Bet it missed me."
Grief and anxiety flare in my stomach. It feels like a cocktail of disaster. As I follow Gilbert back to the car, I look up at the night sky. I should feel happy that this is a step toward the transition, but I can't; anything could happen tomorrow, good or bad. I don't know where the odds are leaning at this point, but I know that the stars have never looked so sad.