Protector - Laurel Dewey [128]
“You know what?” Jane said, damn near giddy with expectation. “It’s time to get your stitches out!” She crossed to the kitchen drawer.
“I think we should wait a couple more days. Maybe five more days. Or ten—”
“If we wait any longer, the stitches are going to be embedded in your skull,” Jane said as she brought out a pair of small scissors.
Emily stood up. “Maybe you should sew something for me and then take it apart so you could practice—”
“Sit up here on the counter,” Jane said, patting her hand on the counter.
“How come you’re so peppy?”
“Peppy? I’m not peppy,” Jane replied, a tad too eager. Emily looked dubiously at her and Jane realized the kid was scared. “I tell you what. If I hurt you, you can eat a banana split for breakfast for an entire week.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Real bananas?”
“No. Plastic bananas. Of course, real bananas! Is it a deal?” Emily hesitated before giving in. She hoisted herself onto the counter. Jane grabbed a copy of The Peachville Gazette and handed it to Emily. “This’ll give you something to concentrate on.” Jane carefully removed Emily’s bandage to reveal the stitches.
“Hey,” Emily said, glancing at the front page of the newspaper, “did you know that today is the 72nd anniversary of the founding of Alcoholics Anonymous.” Jane remained silent, her eyes on Emily’s stitches. However, the kid’s leading tone irritated her. “Over seventy years,” Emily stressed, “of millions of people getting sober . . .”
Jane pulled away. “Is this going somewhere?”
“It’s just that,” Emily stumbled around for the right words, “that’s a lot of years, don’t you think? I just think it’s really cool.”
“Fair enough,” Jane said, resuming her examination of Emily’s head.
After a few more seconds, Emily spoke up. “How many years is it going to take before my scar stops hurting?”
“It won’t take years. Where’d you get that idea?”
“From you.”
“I never told you that.”
“It’s not what you said. It’s what you do.” Emily reached up and pulled Jane’s hair away from her right temple to reveal her old scar. “I see you rubbing it a lot, like you’re trying to rub away the pain.”
Jane moved Emily’s hand away from her head. “I don’t . . . It doesn’t hurt.”
“Then how come you rub it?”
“It’s a nervous habit. Some people bite their nails, some people crack their knuckles and I, apparently, rub my scar.”
“You didn’t know you did it?”
“Not really, no,” Jane said defensively. “I’ll make a point of curbing that tendency!” Jane felt totally exposed. It was one thing for her to be the observant one but quite another for someone else—especially a child—to be the one observing her.
“How come you’re mad?”
“Do you want your stitches out or not?” Jane’s tone was abrupt. Emily stared at her, not sure what to make of her pointed response. Jane let out a tired breath. “Close your eyes and think of a beautiful forest with soft rain falling.”
Emily closed her eyes. “A beautiful forest . . . Soft rain . . .”
Jane clipped one side of the stitches. Emily didn’t flinch. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s really green. So green that the leaves look like they’re hiding emeralds.”
“Hiding emeralds? I like that.”
“And the rain . . . It’s more like a mist. It’s like a big humidifier spewing—”
“Spewing is not poetic. Use another word.”
“It’s like a big humidifier washing the forest with a thick mist. When are you gonna take the stitches out?” Emily said, her eyes closed.
“Open your eyes.”
Emily opened her eyes. Jane held the stitches in the palm of her hand. The kid was shocked. “How’d you do that?”
“Like I said. I’ve watched people sew,” Jane replied with a wry grin.
Emily threw her arms around Jane’s neck. “You’re great!”
Emily hung on to Jane’s neck as Jane stood still, not sure what to do. She softly patted Emily’s arm and pulled