My Patchwork Child

Chapter Twenty-Four

For the longest time I'd wanted to ask Alden what his secrets were – how he knew Natty, what was missing to his story about his dog and why he'd been so angry the day we'd first met and I said there wasn't any point in living. There was probably a lot I'd wanted to ask and forgotten. Things I'd never know the answer to. But really, I just wanted to know who Althia was; I'd never had the guts to ask since the night I first heard her name.

We were going to have a picnic on the hill that overlooked the meadow. We'd tuck ourselves underneath the silver birch tree and have a lovely lunch.

Three years had gone by but no questions were answered. Over five years they'd been on my mind and I was fed up with it – ever since the night I'd spent at Alden's before I went to the orphanage. I was done with waiting.

I was thirteen and Alden told me I'd grown up so much since he'd first met that scrawny eight-year-old. He'd look at me with gentle eyes and I saw a kind-hearted father inside his deep pools.

But that was the day I put my foot down. Enough was enough. I didn't plan to leave the hill until all my questions were answered.

Spreading some homemade butter onto the wheat bread, I grabbed the cheese and grated a fair amount on before folding it shut.

Whilst Alden was out at work, I was tasked with (or decided to) make the lunch we'd take. He assured me we could work together once he got back, but I wanted to get there and get answers. I made up an excuse, though:

'No, don't worry. I need something to busy myself with, anyway.'

I didn't want him to decide against coming if he knew my plan. He may refuse to answer altogether and I had no way to wait it out. On the hill, I could simply not leave. At home, it was a different story. Although, it was true – I did need something to do.

Often I'd visit Chewy's grave and spruce up the flowers around it then sit with him for a while. I missed the old donkey, greatly. But Alden told me he had a good life and I was content with that. The first few months crawled by slower than ever before. I knew I'd never stop missing the archaic donkey as long as I lived, but it did get easier.

A year passed, and then another, but I made it my duty to visit him every single day – and I'd never missed one.

But Alden and I decided to visit him on the way to the hill, so that use of time was crossed off (though Alden argued I could go twice).

My hair was tied into a messy bun to prevent it getting in the way of the cooking. I wore an apron – not because I needed it, I just felt like it.

Heading to the gas-powered fridge (we'd no electricity), I grabbed the watermelon we'd saved for the occasion and began cutting it into pizza-shaped slices. I was tempted by the red glow, but managed to avoid eating it. I wanted to save my appetite – who knew how long we'd be up there?

Stuffing them into a plastic container, I swung over to where I'd left the sandwiches and packed them up too.

After I'd carefully placed them into a bag, I swept the kitchen for items I might've forgotten. In the end, I'd managed to forget apples and carrot sticks (my favourites) and I playfully hit my palm to my forehead, saying, 'Idiot.'

Arching my back into a well-needed stretch, I checked the time. Alden would be back in half an hour or so. Pondering on what to do, I figured I'd head to the bathroom and fix my thick bed of hair.

Looking into the mirror, I weaved the long, blonde, straight strands into a plait. I kinda liked the way I looked, now. I certainly had more self-confidence thanks to Alden.

I clapped my hands together in satisfaction; headed downstairs and collapsed onto the sofa to wait.

One thing I'd mastered was the stairs. I was just as good on them as I was when I had two working legs – perhaps better. And I was proud of myself for that.