Read Online The Heart's War by Lucy Lambert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucy Lambert
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drunk to care, and you know it! Father was a miserable husk of a man, so stop glorifying him! Maybe if he were around, it would be better. Those awful witches would see what war really does to a man!"
Mother took two quick steps around the table and slapped me across the face. It stung right away, twisting my head around to the side. I clutched at my cheek, my jaw dropping. She'd never hit me before. Never. What had become of my mother? She was a different person.
"Don't you dare speak about your father like that ever again. Those women are coming over whether you like it or not, you petulant child. Run away to your park, or hide up in your room for all I care.”
I rubbed at my cheek, shaking. Everything seemed to be coming apart. Why was she choosing strangers over me? Couldn't she see how this hurt me, how deeply her words cut into me? I had to try. They couldn't step foot in that house so long as I called it home.
"Please, mother, don't let them come in. I just couldn't live with it! If... If they set one foot inside that door, I'm leaving. And I'm not coming back."
Mother crossed her arms under her breasts, her lips pressed together until they turned white. She refused to look at me.
"Then go," she said, picking up the plates from the table. She scraped my sandwich and her leftovers into the bin by the sink and began rinsing the dishes under the tap, the porcelain making a tinkling noise as she splashed water across the countertop.
As I already had my shoes on, I stormed out through the kitchen, through the living room, and to the front door.
My initiative faltered as I reached for the door handle. I held the cool metal knob in my hand. It quickly heated with the warmth flowing through me.
Was she really going to just let me go? Part of me held out hope that she'd call out "Eleanor, wait!" and I would run back to the kitchen. We'd hug and forgive each other, and she'd tell me that she'd changed her mind about having the war wives over.
Glass shattered in the kitchen. Her vigorous scrubbing had done it in. But the tap never stopped spewing water out, and she said nothing at all.
I put my other hand against the door and leaned my forehead on the wood paneling. Mother wasn't going to call out to me. The heat I'd been feeling washed away under a cool wave that sent my muscles trembling.
No, I'd dared besmirch the good name of my dearly departed father. I hated the war, and I hated those women. And she couldn't understand that. I licked at my lips; they'd become so dry.
So I grabbed my bonnet from the rack beside the door and squished it down on top of my head, not caring if my hair came loose. I should have run upstairs to grab the little bit of money I had under my bed. I should have gone through my closet and dresser and packed everything in the worn old leather suitcase I had.
Instead, I opened the door. The breeze brushed past my body, ruffling my dress between my legs. I didn't look back as I slammed the door behind me with enough force to rattle the pane of glass set near the top of it.
The sound startled a horse pulling a small carriage, and the driver gave me a glare for the trouble.
"I'm sorry!" I said, not directing the words at anyone in particular.
The sun, having burned through the clouds, heated the back of my neck and my shoulders, working some of that cold, tense energy from my muscles as I went up Weber Street and made a right onto Victoria. The light glinting off all the windows on the Kaufman factory dazzled my eyes, which stung terribly anyway.
Instead of going to the park, I walked all the way up to Marie Beech's end unit townhouse. Waves of heat shimmered off its brown bricks, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped up onto the covered porch. A single bead of sweat made its way in the crease of my spine, down the small of my back. A few strands of my bangs had been glued to my forehead by perspiration.
My knuckles rapped sharply three times on the door before I'd really thought
Mother took two quick steps around the table and slapped me across the face. It stung right away, twisting my head around to the side. I clutched at my cheek, my jaw dropping. She'd never hit me before. Never. What had become of my mother? She was a different person.
"Don't you dare speak about your father like that ever again. Those women are coming over whether you like it or not, you petulant child. Run away to your park, or hide up in your room for all I care.”
I rubbed at my cheek, shaking. Everything seemed to be coming apart. Why was she choosing strangers over me? Couldn't she see how this hurt me, how deeply her words cut into me? I had to try. They couldn't step foot in that house so long as I called it home.
"Please, mother, don't let them come in. I just couldn't live with it! If... If they set one foot inside that door, I'm leaving. And I'm not coming back."
Mother crossed her arms under her breasts, her lips pressed together until they turned white. She refused to look at me.
"Then go," she said, picking up the plates from the table. She scraped my sandwich and her leftovers into the bin by the sink and began rinsing the dishes under the tap, the porcelain making a tinkling noise as she splashed water across the countertop.
As I already had my shoes on, I stormed out through the kitchen, through the living room, and to the front door.
My initiative faltered as I reached for the door handle. I held the cool metal knob in my hand. It quickly heated with the warmth flowing through me.
Was she really going to just let me go? Part of me held out hope that she'd call out "Eleanor, wait!" and I would run back to the kitchen. We'd hug and forgive each other, and she'd tell me that she'd changed her mind about having the war wives over.
Glass shattered in the kitchen. Her vigorous scrubbing had done it in. But the tap never stopped spewing water out, and she said nothing at all.
I put my other hand against the door and leaned my forehead on the wood paneling. Mother wasn't going to call out to me. The heat I'd been feeling washed away under a cool wave that sent my muscles trembling.
No, I'd dared besmirch the good name of my dearly departed father. I hated the war, and I hated those women. And she couldn't understand that. I licked at my lips; they'd become so dry.
So I grabbed my bonnet from the rack beside the door and squished it down on top of my head, not caring if my hair came loose. I should have run upstairs to grab the little bit of money I had under my bed. I should have gone through my closet and dresser and packed everything in the worn old leather suitcase I had.
Instead, I opened the door. The breeze brushed past my body, ruffling my dress between my legs. I didn't look back as I slammed the door behind me with enough force to rattle the pane of glass set near the top of it.
The sound startled a horse pulling a small carriage, and the driver gave me a glare for the trouble.
"I'm sorry!" I said, not directing the words at anyone in particular.
The sun, having burned through the clouds, heated the back of my neck and my shoulders, working some of that cold, tense energy from my muscles as I went up Weber Street and made a right onto Victoria. The light glinting off all the windows on the Kaufman factory dazzled my eyes, which stung terribly anyway.
Instead of going to the park, I walked all the way up to Marie Beech's end unit townhouse. Waves of heat shimmered off its brown bricks, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped up onto the covered porch. A single bead of sweat made its way in the crease of my spine, down the small of my back. A few strands of my bangs had been glued to my forehead by perspiration.
My knuckles rapped sharply three times on the door before I'd really thought
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