Billie Standish Was Here by Nancy Crocker Read Free Book Online

wincing away from being touched. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to untangle the words in my head and string them together in a way that made sense.
    But then she saw the blood running down my legs and she started crying too. That made me feel even worse. I’d never, ever be able to pretend it hadn’t happened now, because it didn’t belong to just me anymore. She knew and there was no way she could ever not know again.
    She stood up and tried to get me to go with her. She wanted to take me home. To her house. That house.Where he lived too. I tried to tell her no but couldn’t get anything out beyond, “What if he . . . what if he . . .”
    Miss Lydia stopped crying just enough to say, “Oh, he knows enough not to show his face.” Then she led me across the street by the hand like nobody had done since I was four years old.
    She took me upstairs and started to run water in the bathtub, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I thought about taking off my clothes. I couldn’t and I told her so.
    She left and came back with two big old terrycloth bathrobes and told me if I’d take a bath, she’d put one on too.
    I didn’t want anyone to see me naked and told her so, and she said to put my clothes outside the door. She’d wait. I heard her crying even with the door closed. It was a terrible sound.
    I’d only heard an old person cry once before. My guess is, heartbreak just comes as less and less a surprise as your life goes on. But I’d heard my grandma cry after they found my Uncle Junior under his tractor, and it was just the way Miss Lydia was carrying on now.
    When I lowered myself into the tub, the hot water scalded the raw place between my legs, but it also told me my muscles had been tied in knots for so long they were starting to ache. I scrunched down until my chin wastouching the water’s surface. Tried to let my arms and legs float.
    The water was soon pink with the sticky blood soaking off me and I grabbed for the soap and washcloth. I scrubbed every inch I could reach, but rinsing off with that pink water—washing myself in my own blood—made me feel like I’d never be clean again.
    Later, Miss Lydia and I sat together on her couch downstairs in those ratty old robes while my clothes went through the washer and dryer. She petted my hair when I laid my head in her lap.
    It was easier to talk, not looking at her. So I told her about the day Curtis came to our house and how I had been scared of him then. “I guess I should’ve told you,” I said. “I just had no idea . . .” I felt so stupid.
    She started trembling and her voice came out shaky. “Oh, honey. Oh, honey, I didn’t know. I just didn’t know or I would’ve done anything in the world to stop him.” Then she said she was sorry, that she never should have had a son in the first place. I knew that wasn’t right and tried to tell her so.
    That made her cry more, but after three false starts she told me. “I wasn’t much older than you,” she said, “when my own daddy . . . oh, child. My own daddy hurt me like that. He did. He did.”
    A jolt shot through me like a zap of electricity and Iwhipped my head around to stare at her. It was her turn to look away. I watched her chin wobble as she stared at the curtained window and forced more words to come out.
    â€œMy daddy . . . the one man who was supposed to look after me . . . and he hurt me. Whenever he could get me off somewhere.” Her shoulders started shaking, her head dropped to her chest, and tears started dripping down onto my face.
    â€œOh, Miss Lydia. Oh.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
    â€œOh, child, I would do anything to take this away from you. Anything,” she said. “I . . . should never have had a child. I never meant to. Because of what he