Page 57 of Jane Deyre
Adele’s sobs grow louder. More convulsive. I stroke her hair. “Ms. Fairfax, please. The child just lost her pet snail. She was very attached to him.”
The iniquitous woman casts her eyes down. She scrunches her face in disgust.
“Ugh! That repugnant creature? Do you have any idea what it was like to have to wipe that revolting snail slime off the sole of my shoe?”
I register her words. “You stepped on Stripe?”
“Who?” She glowers at me.
“Adele’s snail... and crushed him?”
She sniggers. “Puh-lease. It was an accident. And let me tell you, the crunch of his shell was absolutely repulsive. I can still hear it in my head. Ugh!”
“Apologize to the child,” I order, my voice strong and demanding.
Ms. Fairfax looks at me as if I’ve asked her to clean the cat’s litter box. “She should be apologizing to me!” She snarls. “Why don’t I make sure that crustacean is out of its misery and step on it again?”
“NOOOO!” cries Adele as the heartless woman’s foot lifts. It’s about to smash down on poor Stripe when a deep intimidating voice distracts her. She loses her balance and with a shriek falls flat on her ass.
“What’s going on out here?” I look up. It’s Mr. Rochester, dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a distressed brown leather bomber jacket that matches the monogrammed travel bag he’s holding. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved, the five o’clock shadow only adding to his allure. My heart goes into overdrive at the sight of him, and at the memory of last night, my cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and regret. And yearning. Inexpressible sadness sweeps over me. My final hours at Thornhill. After today, I’ll never see him again. Or sweet little Adele. I have no clue where I’m going, what I’ll be doing, but it’s better that way.
Breaking free of me, Adele leaps to her feet and hugs her father, crying a river of tears against his jeans.
I stand up. “Mr. Rochester, Ms. Fairfax stepped on one of Adele’s snails and crushed him. She’s heartbroken.”
“I see that,” he says, his eyes traveling from the gore to his distraught daughter.
“Poor Stripe,” blubbers the inconsolable little girl. My heart is aching for her. I know what it’s like to lose something you love. To have it maliciously destroyed.
I had a doll when I was little. A shabby miniature scarecrow that I found abandoned on the street one autumn day close to Halloween. I think I was seven at the time. For me, lacking worthier objects of affection like those Barbie dolls and Furbies other girls my age doted on, the flimsy scarecrow was my everything and I found tremendous joy in cherishing it despite how pathetic it was. I named him Patches because of the patches on his overalls and felt a deep connection to my treasured possession, perhaps because it was abandoned and scrawny yet a survivor like me. Just like my vision board, it moved from foster home to foster home with me. I could not sleep unless it—he—was cuddled in my arms. He came with me when John Reed’s family took me in when I was twelve. Even at this pubescent age, I still slept with him in my arms. He was a great source of comfort to me. And in this cold, cruel world, I had something to love.
I kept him hidden from John Reed. I either hid him under my pillow or stuffed him into my backpack. One day, when I was fourteen, I came home from school and John grabbed my backpack from me and for fun turned it upside down. Everything came tumbling out—all my school supplies and books. Along with my beloved Patches. I hastily bent down to pick him up, but John Reed beat me to it.
“Well, what do we have here?” he snickered.
“Give that back to me!” I barked back.
In an effort to grab Patches out of his hand, I lunged at him, but almost a foot taller than me, he held my little scarecrow high above his head with his long sinewy arms. I jumped up and down trying to reach for him, but it was futile.
“This thing is ugly and pathetic just like you. Let’s find out what it’s made of.” Still holding my toy high, he strode into the kitchen, with me trailing him. Fear rising in my chest, my blood pounding in my ears, I confronted him.
“My scarecrow has a heart. Something you don’t have.”
He laughed, then began to mockingly sing a song fromThe Wizard of Oz.“If I only had a heart...” His voice trailed off and he laughed again. “Well, let’s find out how big his heart is. Or if he even has one.”
In a series of three swift moves, he reached for the kitchen scissors, stabbed the tips of the blades into Patches’s neck, and sliced through his torso. I watched with wide-eyed horror as he gave the scarecrow a fierce shake, and his straw stuffing scattered on the kitchen counter.
“Stop it! Please!” I begged, tears pouring from my eyes as he began to cut my now limp scarecrow into pieces, tossing them onto the kitchen floor. His actions grew more maniacal, the expression on his face one of pure evil. The sick pleasure he was getting from destroying my precious toy ripped my heart apart. In a matter of seconds, all that was left of poor Patches was a pile of straw and some shredded cloth. John Reed cast his eyes at the floor and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“I don’t see a heart. Do you, foster girl?”
Wordlessly with grief, the likes of which I’d never known, I fell to my knees and gathered Patches’s remnants. I’d never be able to piece him together. My tears fell harder, soaking the discombobulated pieces. I’d lost the only thing I’d ever loved. I couldn’t stop sobbing.
“Oh, please, you pathetic crybaby,” snickered John Reed. “Grow up. You should be playing with my cock, not some pathetic rag doll.”
Slamming the scissors down on the kitchen counter, he strode out of the room without looking back.
That night I took a solemn walk and buried the remains of my precious scarecrow under a shady tree. And said a prayer. A prayer asking God to watch over Patches. And another asking God to give John Reed what he deserved.