CHAPTER 3
PRESENT
HAVEN
The weight of a small body crashes into me and I let out an oomph but keep my eyes closed and try not to smile. Even as I try to pretend like he didn’t just wake me, I take a moment to soak in how mornings like this are a luxury I didn’t think I would ever have.
Now I do and it’s still only the beginning.
I just wish I didn’t feel like there’s something waiting right around the corner for me.
The feeling has lessened since leaving Nevada and arriving in Denver, but it lingers. There’s something about Colorado and I felt it the moment we arrived. It was like my lungs could fully expand the moment I crossed the state line. Every breath got a little easier as I got closer to Denver.
When I pulled up to Safe Home, something started to fall into place inside of me. The rooms aren’t huge and there are times when the noise is almost too much, but I’m safe.
I’ve even been able to start working. I’m damn glad I got my accounting degree.
While I couldn’t do it regularly, I was able to take some freelance accounting jobs over the years.
I’ve started to do the same again while looking for a firm to work for remotely.
It’s helped me feel grounded in a way I haven’t really felt in the last year.
So much of the last year since I ran has felt like I was on borrowed time and existed only as charity.
Working again has given me a purpose I really needed.
Well, the therapy has helped a lot too. And not just for me either. Giving Wilde a chance to talk about the fear he was internalizing, and the constant need to survive which he couldn’t fully understand, has helped to ground him as well.
Colorado is starting to feel like home.
It scares the hell out of me.
What if I relax too much and that’s when he finds me? It almost feels like a silly question because I have no idea if he is even looking for us in the first place.
You know he is. His need for power and control wouldn’t allow him to stop. Not yet.
“Mommy,” Wilde drawls, a slight whine to his voice which has me smiling and pushing my face deeper into the pillow, as if the last thing I want to do is be woken up by my adorable son. “I know you’re awake. You’re thinking too hard to be asleep.”
Before he knows what is happening, I roll and trap him in my arms before I start to tickle him. The shriek he lets out has me hesitating for a moment, fear of sending him spiraling makes me unsure, but then peals of giggles hit my ears and my fingers can move again.
But only for the purposes of more tickles.
“Mommy,” he gasps out between fits of laughter. It’s a sound which makes my heart feel so damn full. He didn’t get the chance to laugh nearly enough in the first three years of his life.
Now he smiles.
And he laughs.
He asks questions.
The eyes he uses to look at the world are keen and curious.
His mind is no longer clouded with fear constantly encroaching which I was unable to protect him from.
Freedom feels suspicious after so many years of being caged. I’m sure Wilde feels the same way even if he doesn’t understand it.
The first time he shouted or laughed a little louder or made a demand was a revelation. He looked around like he was expecting a monster to come around the corner and crush his spirit. He was expecting his father.
But Ryan didn’t appear.
“Don’t tell me you forgot what today is,” he accuses. I don’t have to look at his face to know how serious the look he’s giving me is.
I blow a raspberry on his belly which was exposed during the tickle extravaganza. His laughter ramps up and sounds like pure joy to me. If contentment were a sound, it would be my son’s laughter.
His freedom.
When I pull back, his smile is all sunshine and his eyes sparkle with happiness. There’s a lightness about him I never saw until we escaped.
“Today?” I tease him by tapping my chin and twisting my lips to the side like I can’t remember what he’s talking about. As if I would really forget. “Is there something special about today?”
“Mom,” he whines, his little eyebrows pull together, and annoyance is written all over his face. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Today is the first day of art class.”
“Art class?” I hum. “That sounds interesting. I’m not a good artist, so I don’t think art class will be for me.”
Even though I pout slightly, Wilde’s scowl deepens. “It’s my art class,” he practically growls.
“Ohh,” I hold the word out and nod slowly like I’m just starting to get it, “it’s not for me?”
“No, Mom,” he sighs like I’m a simpleton. His little face scrunches up as he puts his hand on my arm like he’s placating me. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re not very good at art.”
How I stop myself from barking out a laugh, I’ll never know. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that he feels sorry for me and my lack of art skills. He’s not exactly wrong, but I’m not going to say it anytime soon.
Wilde on the other hand is an artist through and through. It started because it kept him quiet. But it also kept him small in real life while he could be big on paper. I have no idea how he realized such a truth, but he did, and it’s obvious in his drawings.
He has a talent he shouldn’t have at four years old, not really. But, then again, maybe I’m just biased. It’s possible. Hell, it’s probable.
Throughout the last year, every shelter we’ve been in has provided therapy and I’ve made sure Wilde has gotten help. Whenever a therapist used art to help talk through the trauma forced upon my son, it’s helped the most.
Here at Safe Home, they were talking about bringing in someone to teach an art class because of how it could help the kids express themselves. Sure, they’ve used art therapy, but the therapy aspect adds pressure and purpose to the art kids create. This class isn’t about that.
I just hope whoever is teaching the class will speak to Wilde like a budding artist instead of a stupid kid. It’s what he needs instead of being placated. I’ve never seen a kid take art as seriously as he does. He’s also way past stick figures and two-dimensional houses.
“That’s rude,” I grumble.
He plants a kiss on my cheek, his lips smacking against my skin and leaving more saliva than needed behind. “It’s okay,” he tries to soothe me, “you’re really good at numbers, but I don’t like those at all.”
“But you know how important numbers are,” I remind him gently.
Thankfully, Safe Home has a homeschooling program.
Registering the kids who come through the shelter in traditional school isn’t always safe.
Having a homeschooling option is amazing.
The care they’ve put into making it exciting and educational for every child staying at Safe Home, regardless of their grade level, is awe inspiring.
Even though Wilde is in Pre-K, he’s working with a kid in kindergarten because of the similarity in learning. I only hope he’s not bored next year.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to send him to school.
He deserves a little normal in his life. I deserve it too. I hope it can happen, but I’m not holding my breath.
Today, while Wilde has his art class, I’m finally meeting with the lawyer who has been working for free with the shelter for a little while. Knowing some of the problems some of the other women here at Safe Home are dealing with, including trying to get divorces, I was more than willing to wait.
While it made me feel unwanted and unloved, I guess I should be thankful Ryan and I didn’t get married. Talk about complicating matters. I have enough to worry about when it comes to custody. I’m sure we’ll have a plan on how to deal with it all by the end of the meeting.
“When will I ever use numbers?” His question is so innocent and filled with knowing, like numbers are just ridiculous, that I’m incapable of stopping myself from laughing.
He huffs out a breath like I’m insufferable as he jumps out of my bed and plants his hands on his hips.
“You’ll use numbers,” I promise, but from the look on his face he is not at all convinced.
That’s when I notice he’s not in his pajamas anymore and I can’t help but ask, “You’re excited about art class, huh? ”
“Yes,” he hisses as if I’m the one being ridiculous.
“I like your outfit,” I start, “but it looks like your shirt might be on backwards. Can I check?”
His little cheeks turn red, and he looks down at the ground. The embarrassment coming off him has me sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed quickly. I grip his shoulders and pull him a step closer to me.
I hate that I’ve embarrassed him.
“Wilde,” I whisper but he doesn’t look at me, “it’s not a big deal to turn your shirt around.” He nods slowly, but the way his little spirit has been snuffed out by something so small kills something inside of me. “I’m proud of you that you got dressed all by yourself today.”
His head snaps up, and he looks at me with wide eyes.
It’s far from the first time I’ve told him how proud I am of him, but it hasn’t been easy for him to hear because he always made snide comments.
If adults can’t hear the positive words when negative ones seem so much louder, how can a child do any better?
“Your shirt being backwards is a little detail which is easy to miss. I’m not mad,” I assure him and hate the way his little shoulders drop with my words. “Here,” I pull on his sleeve, “tuck your arms inside of your shirt.”
He does it and the corner of his mouth tugs upward slightly like he’s fighting a smile. I quickly spin his shirt around him without taking it off and make an engine noise as I do. His giggle feels like a win; a huge one.
“There. Now you just stick your arms back through and you’re good to go.”
“That was kind of fun,” Wilde whispers conspiratorially.