It’s the bruises that alarm me the most.
There are marks on her shoulders and upper arms. Her thighs are covered with discolorations ranging from dark purple to brownish-yellow. There are additional bruises on her breasts and rope burns around her ankles. She smells of old sweat and semen.
“Oh, fuck, Hannah.” I look away for a minute. When I look back, there are tears in her eyes. I run my hand over her cheek and whisper to her. “It’s over. They’re never going to touch you again.”
The tears leave streaks on her dirty face. With no response from her, I decide to get her cleaned up before putting clothes on her. I try to wipe her face off with a wet cloth, but I can tell right away that it isn’t going to be enough. I won’t be able to hold her up in the shower even if the water does work, which it doesn’t.
I look to the large basin. It’s not bathtub-sized, but she’ll fit in it as long as she’s sitting up. I decide to go that route and quickly warm water on the propane stove to fill the basin.
Coaxing Hannah to stand and walk over to the basin, I lift
her over the edge and then lower her into the water.
“It’s warm.” They’re the first words she’s spoken since we got here. I watch her reach down into the water and let it cascade through her fingers.
“Yeah, it’s warm,” I respond. “I remember how much you complained when the shower water went cold.”
I grab a cup from the food prep area and use it to rinse her off and wet her hair. I’m pretty sure she isn’t capable of washing herself, so I grab some shampoo from the storage area and start working on her hair. It’s grown much longer since I last saw her, and it’s a tangled mess. I wish I had some kind of conditioner for it to help get the snarls out. I’m pretty sure there are other things that work as a conditioner, but I can’t for the life of me think of what they are.
Hannah doesn’t even seem to be aware of what’s going on. She just keeps placing her hand in the warm water and watching it run through her fingertips when she raises her hand up again.
Once her hair is lathered up, I grab the cup and start rinsing the shampoo out. I can get most of it without her help, but I don’t want the suds to run into her eyes.
“Lean your head back a little for me.” I place my hand at the back of her head, and she tilts her head back against it. I carefully pour the water around her hairline to get the rest of the shampoo out while she stares up at me with the same dull expression.
“You look like him.” She reaches up and touches the side of my face with her wet fingertips.
“Hannah,” I say softly. “It’s me. It’s Falk.”
She shakes her head.
“He’s dead.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear the words. Of course they would have told her that. They might have even believed it themselves. I put the cup down and place my hand on her cheek.
“I’m not dead, Hannah,” I say. “I’m right here.”
I feel the pressure on my palm as she leans into it. She smiles slightly and then shakes her head.
“It’s a dream.”
“It’s not a dream.” I reach up and push some stray hairs off her forehead. “I’m here. Brett’s dead, and you’re safe now.”
“Safe.” She huffs through her nose. “Simple word.”
“You’re safe,” I repeat. “I’m going to get you cleaned up, get you into some comfortable clothes, and then you can sleep for a while. Okay?”
She doesn’t respond, but she does keep looking at me. I take that as a good sign and start washing off the rest of her. I’m careful around her bruises and her belly, expecting her to cringe from my touch, but she doesn’t. The only time her expression changes is when I wash between her legs. She looks away from me, and her eyes become unfocused.
“Almost done,” I say softly. I grab the cup and pour water over her upper body before helping her to stand so I can rinse off the rest of her. The only towels in the shelter are small hand towels, and they aren’t very useful, but I do my best. I dry off her body, but the water dripping from her hair gets her wet again. I know she used to wrap her hair in its own towel, but the ones I have aren’t big enough for that.
I settle for draping one over her shoulders to catch most of the drips and then dress her in the sweats and T-shirt. The shirt stretches over her stomach, leaving a little gap where her skin shows, but it will have to do for now.
“Okay,” I say, half to myself and half to her, “let’s see what we can do about this.”
I use a large comb, and I discover very quickly that I suck at brushing hair. I can’t get the comb through the tangles at all. At first, I think it’s just because her hair is so wet, but after drying it a bit more with the towel, I still can’t get the teeth through the strands. I actually get the comb stuck in her hair.
Hannah reaches up and takes the comb from my hand. I sit back a bit and watch her twist it back out of her hair, then start combing the strands herself. She starts at the bottom, getting the tangles out there before moving up farther. It works much better than starting at the top as I had done.