Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“Hi, Daddy.” I’m happy to hear from him.
“Baby, you okay?” His voice is harsher than I expected. “I should be home by morning.”
“Goody.” I do a little dance. “And yes everything is fine, I’m taking my shower.”
“Okay, my goodgirl.”
“George told me you were coming home. We’re having fun.”
“Alright, baby. We’re taking off again now so I have to hang up. Had some trouble with the plane. I’ll see you soon.”
With that he clicks off without his usual ‘I love you’ or ‘Bye for now’ and I stare down at the phone in my hand, wondering what’s up.
Soap runs out of my hair and into my eyes. I close them, reaching for the door handle to set my phone back down when I lose my grip and my phone slips.
“Darn it.” My eyes burn when I try to open them and retrieve it off the floor of the shower. “Ow! Ow!” I shut them tight again, rushing to rinse the soap away.
When I finally can see, I pick up the drenched phone and blow out a breath.
“Crud crud.” It’s soaking wet, I try to turn it on but it doesn’t respond. I hurry to finish my shower, knowing if maybe I hurry and put it in a bowl of rice it may survive.
I run my hands down my breasts, rinsing the last of the soap suds away. Down farther, I run them along the front of my tummy where my fingers find the series of uneven textures, the indented scars that remind me of why I am here, living as Ginger Murphy instead of Stephanie Lukus.
Stas has asked me about the scars, too. I told him it was an accident, that I fell through a glass window.
Another lie.
I shiver in the near scalding water as the faces of my mom, my dad and my grandmother flash through my memories. I’ve worked hard at forgiveness. Stas and I talked about what that means and even without him knowing anything about my past, he’s helped me tremendously. I’ve managed to let go of a lot of my hurt and resentment toward them, but I still can’t forget that past.
Daddy says forgiveness isn’t about the other person or even their actions. It’s about knowing that what is done is done. Holding on to the negative feelings attached to the person or things they may have done only limits ourselves. It keeps our hearts from being able to give as much as we can to the people in our lives that deserve our love and care.
Still, a twist of learned fear clutches around my throat as I push away the memories and finish up and get out of the shower.
A few minutes later, I’m dried off and slipping into the donkey pajamas Daddy had made special for me. The fabric is a light lavender background with tiny donkeys dancing and playing cards and rolling on their backs.
He said he spent an entire night searching the internet for fun donkey things for me and when he found the fabric, he bought it in an instant and sent it out to a seamstress with instruction to make a nightgown, a pajama set and two pillowcases for me.
He is the best gift giver ever. He listens to little things I say and before I know it, whatever I mention shows up.
He even found donkey slippers, panties and coloring books. He hired a mural artist to paint a scene on my playroom wall of the donkeys on my pajamas, only life-size. I cried when I saw it finished.
He surprised me with the playroom a few weeks ago and it’s become my favorite room in the house for good reason. I play in there, but Daddy also included some furniture that is special for us as well. Secret hooks and places to lay me down when he needs to have play time of his own.
When I hear footsteps in the hall I quickly tug on my top, not wanting George to see anything that would get in the way of our well-balanced platonic friendship. But I wonder for a split second why he is up here anyway. My note said I would be down as soon as I was finished, but I guess maybe he overlooked the neon yellow Post-it plastered on the countertop.
“Your eyes need to be checked?” I shout through the closed door, running my fingertips through my soaking hair as the footfalls stop just outside. “I’ll be out in one second, are you so eager for your imminent defeat you can’t wait?”
I work the last two buttons on my pajama top and step toward the door.
On my last step the knob turns.
“Hey! I said I would be—”
The door flies open, barely missing cracking me in the nose as it sails by. But it’s not George I see muscling forward as I stare down the barrel of a grey metal handgun. It’s a man I don’t recognize, with the dead eyes of a shark and the smile of the Cheshire cat.