Chapter 33 | Heather #2
"Come in," I said gently, not moving toward them but opening my posture to show invitation without pressure. "There's more food being made than any reasonable group of people could consume. We need help eating it all."
Susie moved among them with characteristic boldness, claiming plates and silverware for distribution. "Trust me," she told them with the authority of someone who'd tested the waters and found them safe, "Dante's cooking is worth whatever leap of faith it takes to believe this is real."
Slowly, they entered the kitchen, drawn by scents that promised nourishment and the sight of children their own age moving freely without fear or hesitation. The girl who'd accepted Tomas's blanket moved first, followed by the others in gradually increasing confidence.
We continued cooking with steady focus. Dante added muffins to the oven and prepared eggs Benedict, and I continued perfecting my waffles, which Loubie Lou tasted and approved of.
“How are you doing?” Dante asked me, as I felt his body cuddle up to the back of me, helping me stir waffle batter.
I sighed, swallowing hard. “It’s going to take a while, but I’m okay right now.”
He let go of the spoon and spun me around gently, so I curled up in his arms, my head resting on his chest. “I’m always here for you. For anything you need.”
I nodded and thanked him. He kissed the top of my head and pulled back. “Come on then, these waffles will not cook themselves.” I laughed, swatting him on the shoulder.
After everyone had eaten until their tummies were ready to explode, the lost girls had eased into our family.
Their once withdrawn faces now looked bright and held genuine smiles.
I looked around the kitchen at everyone.
We were once all broken, cast aside or abused, but now, we’d come together to create a great big dysfunctional family, and I loved every part of it.
Cole took time in checking everyone over. It was nothing invasive, just a basic assessment to make sure they were healing properly and didn't need immediate medical intervention.
Maya volunteered first for her check-up.
Cole’s movements were deliberately slow, his hands remaining in her line of sight throughout the examination.
When he checked her pupils for responsiveness, he narrated every action: "Equal and reactive, which is good news.
No signs of serious head injury." His voice carried the same calm professionalism he'd shown when treating Dylan's cold, medical expertise stripped of any authority that might feel threatening to someone whose autonomy had been violated.
The rope burns on her wrists drew his particular attention, though he approached them with the same careful consideration.
"These will heal," he said, gently cleaning the abraded skin with an antiseptic.
"No signs of infection, which means your body is doing exactly what it should be doing to repair itself. "
Each girl's examination revealed similar patterns.
.. malnutrition that would require time and proper feeding to address, exhaustion that went deeper than simple sleep deprivation, rope burns, and bruises.
But Cole's clinical observations emphasized recovery prospects rather than dwelling on trauma details.
"You're all remarkably resilient," he told them when the examinations were complete, packing away his supplies. "Your bodies are already beginning to heal. With proper nutrition, rest, and time, there's no medical reason you shouldn't make a complete physical recovery."
Sara, the blonde girl who'd shown flashes of her former confidence, surprised everyone by speaking directly to him. "What about the other stuff?" She asked, her voice pained. "The things they did that don't leave marks you can see?"
Cole's expression grew gentler, if such a thing were possible. "Psychological healing takes longer than physical healing," he said honestly. "But a friend of mine will stop by to see each of you.”
“Who is she?” Sara asked.
“She’s a psychologist, and an expert with trauma victims. I’ve seen real progress with many of her patients.”
Sara smiled slightly then. Hope lit up her eyes.
“You have to remember,” Cole began. “What you’re feeling is real, and mental wellbeing is as important as physical health.
It's just as real, and healing from this is possible.
You're not broken, any of you. You've been hurt, but hurt isn't the same thing as broken.”
I felt my chest warm with pride watching him handle their questions with such a perfect balance of honesty and hope.
These girls needed to understand that recovery was possible without minimizing the magnitude of what they'd endured.
They needed medical authority that validated their experiences while promising that those experiences didn't define their futures.
The youngest girl, who couldn't have been more than thirteen, had remained silent throughout her examination but had accepted Cole's gentle care without flinching. Now she looked up at him with eyes that held the first traces of trust I'd seen from any of them.
"Will we always be scared?" She asked. The question carried the pain of someone whose world had been reduced to fear and survival for so long that other emotional states seemed like impossible luxuries.
Cole knelt to bring himself to her eye level.
"Fear is normal after what you've been through," he said simply.
"But it won't always be this big, this overwhelming.
With time, safety and people who care about you, fear becomes just one feeling among many others, instead of the only feeling that seems to matter. "
His words carried genuine compassion. It was exactly what these traumatized children needed to hear. They needed to believe that healing was possible.
Around the kitchen, I could see shoulders relaxing further, see small faces beginning to show interest in the abundance of food that represented not just nourishment but the promise that their basic needs would be met without struggle or compromise.
They were safe now, and slowly, carefully, they were beginning to believe it might be permanent.