Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1) (6 page)

Not confirmed deaths. Simply missing.

I held on to hope that we’d find them though, and as soon as I was released from the hospital, I spent Pastor Floyd’s money and went back to Haiti. They were my purpose. But with each day that passed, my faith faltered. Still, I spent five years searching orphanages around the country to find Jocelyn Marie and Yvon.

Five years of my life.

Until the last bit of my meandering faith disappeared.

There was no purpose. There was no reason. There was no lesson.

The ugly truths had stolen the last bit of my humanity, and I knew no one cared. I didn’t matter.

A small sniffle comes from the door of my hospital room, and I see her—Yanelys. Her name coils itself around my heart like a boa, leaving me barely any room to breathe or for my heart to beat. She’s standing by the door, her once dirty blonde hair now a dark chestnut, cascades around the beautiful face that is never too far from my dreams. Eyes, dark and gleaming with tears, take me in as I try to remember how to breathe. When her bottom lip trembles, my heart slices open with feelings I long ago suppressed.

Her small frame takes over the room, consuming me, and I can’t look away.

“I cared.” She braces her thin arms around her chest. “You always mattered to me.”

SEVEN

YANELYS

TWELVE YEARS OLD

Anxiety grows each time I look at the clock on the classroom wall. It’s almost noon, and Camden still hasn’t come to school. I tap my foot on the floor, eager for the bell to ring, letting us know that class is over. Then, I can leave school. It’ll be my first time skipping class, but I have to know if Camden’s all right.

The beatings started getting worse a month ago. Every day now, he’s hiding a new injury, and my dad has begun questioning us. I want to tell my parents the truth, but I made a promise to my best friend.

He lives in a world where broken promises are his norm, and I don’t want to add to his ever-growing pile of shit.

His reality is a nightmare. What’s hardest to swallow, it’s one he can escape from, but he’s worried. If he reports the abuse and the police take him away, then they’ll also be taking him away from me. He’s told me countless times that he’d rather go through the beatings than not have me at the end of the day.

But even in his sleep, he’s afraid now. Even in sleep, when the body should be at rest, he moans, and if I try to soothe him, he flinches in response. As he dreams, tears pool down his face and soak into my pillow. So, I stay awake while he sleeps, making sure every one of his tears is accounted for.

My worst fears are his reality, and every day, his parents’ hatred consumes us.

A lump forms in my throat when Camden finally walks through the doors, and I swallow hard. He has a slight limp, but our teacher’s too preoccupied with his tardiness to realize he’s hurt. I notice it though, and my foot stops tapping on the floor when he walks past me without looking in my direction. But my gaze stays on him anyway, and my body cringes with his as he eases himself onto his seat.

Not caring if I get caught, I scribble a note onto my notebook paper with the words
How bad?
scrawled quickly across it. I pass it to him, but he refuses to take it. Frustrated because I’ve been worried about him and he doesn’t seem to care, I slam the note on his desk. He stares across the room while the girl sitting behind us giggles, and our teacher coughs to get our attention.

Without looking at me, Camden takes the note, crumples it into a small ball, and then throws it into his book bag. I glare at him, but then I feel my own lips twitch when I see him bite back a smile.

After the bell rings, Camden snatches his bag, but he can’t move quickly, which makes it easy for me to follow him. I grab his arm and don’t pull away until he stops and faces me.

“Lift your shirt,” I demand, using my best no-nonsense voice.

“You wanna see me naked, huh?” His voice is laced with malice, but his eyes track my face for understanding.

I’ve come to learn that he’s only mean when things are bad, so I keep my mouth shut and don’t reply.

Taking his hand in mine, I lead us to the gymnasium. After I make sure no one is around, I lift his shirt and shudder. A quiet cry echoes in my chest when I see the fresh bruises already forming along his stomach and ribs.

Angry, I ball my hands into fists but force them open so I can continue to inspect him for further injuries.

“I’m fine, Yan.” He lowers his shirt before I do something stupid, like kiss his bruises.

“You’re not.” Tears well in the back of my eyes so I blink them back. When I’m certain I won’t cry, I meet his gaze. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Not a damn thing.” He moves away from me, trying to put distance between us, but I hold on to his hand because someone has to hold on for both of us. “Mind your business.”

“You are my business.” I keep my voice low but firm, and his eyes soften. “Should we put ice on it?” I ask.

He shrugs and his eyes dart across the room before they lock back on mine, and he nervously licks his lips.

“My thigh,” he admits. “I didn’t get a chance to clean it.”

Holding his hand again, I guide us to the girls’ locker room, understanding what he hasn’t spoken. He’s bleeding, and he must have bandaged it up without cleaning it, because he wouldn’t want to miss any more school.

Most kids pretend to be sick, so they don’t have to
go
to school. Camden pretends everything’s okay, so he doesn’t have to
miss
.

“How bad is it?” I ask, pursing my lips together into a thin line. The idea of seeing blood hazes my vision, and I hope I won’t get sick and vomit.

“I got it, Yan. I’ll clean it.”

“I’ll do it.”

I bite my inner cheek as our eyes meet again, and he nods his head once before looking back at the floor.

“He stabbed my thigh. I was using a cutting knife to butter my toast, and he got pissed because I should’ve been using a butter knife. I didn’t get a chance to clean the cut, but I covered it up so I could come to school.”

“Nerd,” I joke.

He laughs. “If I hadn’t come to school, I’d have had to wait until tonight to see you. I’d have probably bled to death, waiting for you.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, my heart dropping at his stupid joke. “Besides, I was going to leave after class to check on you.”

“Don’t ever do that.” He brings his eyes back to me. “Don’t skip school or do anything that could ruin your life because of me.”

I roll my eyes at him, but my mom’s words about his intensity creep into my mind, and I shudder.

“Whatever, Cam. Just drop your pants so I can clean your wound.”

My cheeks flush at the same time that Camden’s cheeks turn a crimson red and we look away from each other as he brings his pants down to his ankles. I take the paper towels from the dispenser and soak them with warm water and soap. We both inhale sharply as I remove his bandage and press the paper towel to his open wound.

It’s bad. As in he should probably go to the hospital.

“We have to tell someone, Cam,” I say, already knowing his response.

“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes narrowing. “I told you, they’ll take me away. I can live with this. But living without you…” The desperation in his voice cuts me, and I bleed right along with him.

“You can move in with us.”

He laughs, the sound chilling me.

“Cam, my parents—”

“Stop!” he shouts, making me jump. “We’ve talked about this too many times. Don’t you ever get tired? I told you, no. I’m staying with my parents, and you’re keeping your mouth shut.”

Frustrated, I turn away from him to get more paper towels, and I bat my eyes several times to keep the tears away. I bend down, making it easier for me to have access to his cut and press the towels against his thigh. After a hesitant glance in his direction, I bandage it up again. I’m about to suggest we go to the hospital when our PE coach walks in and starts yelling at us. She advances toward us and separates us, giving Camden just enough time to pull up his pants before she can see his stab wound.

“What were you thinking?” My mom’s disappointment is reflected in my dad’s eyes.

“I wasn’t,” I reply, my stomach dropping as a blush creeps up my neck.

Unable to tell anyone what really happened, I let my parents think the worst. My PE coach caught me between Camden’s legs while he stood there with his pants down. My parents think what everyone else thought when the rumors ran wild throughout the school.

Two weeks of suspension isn’t that bad though. Neither is being grounded for three months. What’s bad is that my parents no longer trust Camden or me, which means I can’t see him anymore—except at night when he climbs through my window and into my room.

I crawl into bed with the memory of Camden and I being ushered into the principal’s office while the girls in the school laughed and called me names, and the boys cheered and congratulated Camden with slaps on his back. Thankfully, our coach had a firm grip on his shoulder, so he couldn’t attack any of those boys. I should’ve let Camden hold my hand when he went to grab it, but shame washed over me in that moment, and I moved away.

It was the only time I’d ever moved away from him, and I know it’s changed us forever. He wouldn’t even look at me after that.

I lie in bed, awake, until two a.m., when I realize Camden’s not coming. He’s never
not
come, no matter what.

Fear grips me, threatening to choke the breath out of my lungs, and I finally run into my parents’ room and wake them. Through tear-stained cheeks, I tell them everything.

I share Camden’s story. Our story.

Neither of my parents says anything, but just as I’m finishing, my dad stops pacing the room and goes to his closet where he comes back with a gun in his hand. I step away from him and run into my mom.

“Stay here,” my dad orders.

But my mom and I follow him.

Not able to match his speed, my mom and I run a few feet behind my dad. I don’t see my dad go to their front door because my focus is on Camden’s bedroom window. When I get to it, I push it upward, but it doesn’t budge. My fists bang on his window in desperation, and I call out his name. My mom moves me aside as my dad shouts obscenities at Camden’s dad. With my heart in my throat, I watch my mom hit Camden’s window with her elbow. She then reaches into the room through the small shattered hole, unlocks the window, and pushes it up.

My mom helps me climb into the still room, and I hear her call 911 as I go to Camden’s bed where I find his lifeless bloody body. I brush his hair back and hear him groan, so I carefully ease myself into his bed and lie down next to him. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for me and tries to move his body closer to mine.

“You’re gonna be okay, Cam,” I whisper repeatedly to him while I continue to comb my fingers through his hair.

His labored breaths fall on my cheek, but I to try to soothe him, even after I hear the sirens approaching.

EIGHT

YANELYS

TWELVE YEARS OLD

My mom and I rode with Camden in the ambulance, but the EMTs made me sit in the front seat while my mom sat with him in the back. My heart, already broken, broke a little more when the doctors and nurses wheeled him away from me and led my mom and me to a waiting room where we’ve been sitting for close to an hour.

I wish my dad were here. He’s good at making me feel better. Not that my mom isn’t, but my dad’s better. And since he’s a firefighter and works with paramedics, he knows a lot of the people in the emergency room, and he’d have had answers by now. But he had to stay at Camden’s house to talk to the police.

I let the tears fall down my face, hoping Camden can feel them and know I haven’t left him. My mom takes me in her arms, and I crawl into her lap, needing to feel like her little girl, being comforted and taken care of.

In my mom’s arms, I close my eyes and reach for the quietest corner of my mind. I think about Camden, needing to believe that the harder I think about him, the more likely he’ll be okay. Images of his bruised body torture me. I hate leaving Camden in the hands of fate. I mean, it’s not like fate has been good to him so far.

“He’s in God’s hands,” my mom says, correcting my thoughts.

Her words sooth me like a balm to my soul and I feel better knowing that because God doesn’t let bad things happen. People do that all on their own, but God fixes things. He fixes people. He brings them together, like He did with Camden and me.

“Let’s pray,” she says.

With my head tucked under her chin, she begins to say “The Lord’s Prayer” in Spanish.

With each word whispered from my mom’s lips, my stomach muscles begin to loosen, and my tears stop. Just as she is halfway through the prayer, my dad opens the door to the waiting room with a doctor and two nurses behind him. I move my bottom, trying to get off my mom, but she holds me tighter. My dad stops at the door and bows his head while my mom finishes her prayer.

“Dad?” I whisper when I hear the word
Amen
.

His head snaps to me. He runs his hands over his face and rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. After a long sigh, he walks over and sits down next to us while the doctor and nurses talk among themselves by the doorway.