Becoming Abigail

Then XXVIII

Derek was the social worker who came for her the next morning.

Abigail found it hard to believe that this short balding man could help her in any way. But there was a kindness about him that was reassuring. He sat across from her, blinking rapidly behind his glasses as he read her file. She wondered what was written there. Girl found with penis in hand? Claims to have bitten it off? Was silent, withdrawn, malnourished, with the onset of frostbite, otherwise fine?

“What’s your name?” he asked, putting down the file as though he didn’t trust it.

She stared at him. Sullen.

“Do you speak English?”

That stung and there was the brief flare of anger in her eyes. He smiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He had seen it. She was impressed.

Most people she knew never really looked at her.

“Are you thirsty?”

She nodded and he got up and left the room, returning with a cold can of Coca-Cola and a KitKat.

“Where are you from?”

She popped the tab and took a deep drink of the cold soda. Then she ripped the chocolate open and ate quickly, ravenously, noisily.

“Where are you from?” he repeated. His voice was kind. Soothing. Showed no impatience. He took off his glasses and polished them as he waited for her to answer. She played with the empty can. He got up. Left the room. Came back. A second can of Coke. Another KitKat.

“What is your name?” he asked as she ripped into the drink and food.

Finishing, she sat back, belched loudly. He laughed. She smiled.

“Hungry?’

She nodded. He got up. Opened the door.

“Come,” he said.

She followed him, through labyrinth corridors, into the belly of the hospital, to a canteen. He gave her a tray and followed with one of his own. He watched her with paternal tenderness as she filled it until there was no more space for food. He paid and followed her lead to a table by a window. Sipping at his tea, his only purchase for himself, he watched her eat. Neither spoke for the half hour it took her to finish the two steak pies, three packets of crisps, a BLT, a plate of French fries, two cupcakes, and a Chelsea bun. Finishing the second of two cans of ginger ale, she sat back and looked at him for a long time. He had been reading a book of poems and he put it down on the table.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Dylan Thomas. You want to hear?” Not waiting for a reply, he read a line, his favorite. “And death shall have nodominion.”

She nodded. Not Chinese poetry, but not bad, she thought, but said nothing.

“I’m Derek,” he said, offering her his hand to shake. She took hold of it, noting its softness, the faint smell of soap. She brought it to her cheek. She smiled. Then she put her head down on the canteen table and fell asleep, still holding his hand. He was still there when she woke up four hours later. His hand was numb, but he said nothing. She got up, stretched, yawning loudly. The canteen had closed. Apart from a cleaner pushing a mop reluctantly around the room, they were alone.

“I’m going to my room,” she said, leaning over the table and kissing him lightly on the forehead.

He sat in the gathering darkness, rubbing the spot where she had kissed him.