“I thought you did.”
“Not with you, I didn’t.”
Two years’ worth of battling his hateful words still hadn’t thickened her skin enough to prevent their sting.
“But you want to go.”
He shrugged.
“And you’ll get hungry and not want to have to come home with me for lunch. You like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which is what I packed.”
He didn’t budge, his expression sour.
“So...you carry the cooler down with your lunch and I won’t walk beside you once we get to the beach. Or put your towel down by my blanket.”
Muttering something under his breath, Elliott took the cooler from her, put it on his board and stood sullenly by the door, waiting for her to unlock it and set him free.
* * *
SUNDAY DIDN’T GO much better. He didn’t think he should have to make his bed because Sundays were days of rest.
“Making your bed keeps the sheets clean for when you climb back between them,” she told him. Sara had told her to set boundaries, to give him rules and chores—not too many, but enough—and then to stick to them. To build a source of security, and also a sense that she meant what she said. That her word was something upon which he could rely.
But it was Sunday. After spending the day before utterly alone at the beach watching her son in the water, watching him sit on his towel several feel from hers while he ate his sandwiches and walking behind him back to the car, she was tired.
She didn’t want to fight with him, and an unmade bed wasn’t a big deal.
But keeping her word was.
“Bed made before breakfast,” she said. “Come on, Elliott, you know the rules.”
“Yeah, like you think beds aren’t dirty.” The words were soft. Barely reaching her. But their slap took her air.
He’d heard her say words Frank had made her say. She hadn’t known then. She did now. More, Frank. I’m a dirty girl in a dirty bed.
Turning her back so he wouldn’t see the sudden flood of tears, she said, “I’m making pancakes. When your bed is made, you can join me for breakfast. If you choose not to make it, you will not be eating this morning.”
He was in the kitchen before the first pancake was off the griddle.
He didn’t apologize. An hour later, when she was back in the kitchen and once again packed and ready for a day at the beach, he picked up the bag with the drinks and paper towels and put it on his boogie board. He left the cooler for her to carry.
Faye didn’t thank him, didn’t say a word. She didn’t want to push him to the point where she’d be forced to make them stay home. The idea of spending all day cooped up in their apartment with him was too much to contemplate.
She could force him to go shopping with her but knew that if she did, he’d very likely just make rude comments to and about her the entire time—loud enough for others to hear.
With the blanket bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other, Faye picked up the cooler. She walked a couple feet behind her son when they arrived at the beach. Kept an equal distance when she ate her sandwiches. He ate every bite of his.
She watched him play. He made friends with a couple of brothers that were about his age and laughed so loud in the waves she could hear him from her spot on the beach.
And Sunday night, as she waited for him to climb into bed—he wouldn’t let her tuck him in—and turn out the light in his room, he gave her three words that made all of the effort worthwhile.
“Today was fun.”
The words sang her to sleep and took her to work on Monday. They were still ringing in her ears when she picked Elliott up from The Lemonade Stand Monday afternoon. Still in uniform, she’d be heading back to the station for the rest of her twelve-hour shift as soon as she dropped him at home with Suzie. She’d be on call all night, as well.
Reese, thank goodness, was off on Mondays. At least she’d been able to relax as she did her chores at the station, worked out and helped prepare the noon meal. There’d been no looking over her shoulder or worrying about being hit with completely inappropriate and unwanted sexual feelings at the unexpected sight of him in the distance.
She’d barely stepped inside the private section of the Stand when Elliott approached, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and said, “Let’s go,” in a tone that didn’t bode well.
Head slightly bent, he didn’t look at her. When he brushed against her on his way to the door, he didn’t do so gently.
If Lila or Sara had been present, he’d have been reprimanded for that. Faye knew she was expected to say something, as well. And she would.
Sometime before her son went to bed.
But more pressing than her son’s long-term counseling was finding out what had upset him. She had to deal with one before she could have any effect on the other.
He didn’t immediately and automatically listen to her, as he did Sara and Lila. That hurt her feelings more than it should.
Reminding herself that Elliott loved her, she pushed the automatic unlock button on her key fob so he could get in the car as soon as he reached it.
If he thought he was going to subject her to another sullen and silent ride home, he had another think coming. She had to go back to work. And she wasn’t leaving him this way.
Her son was angry with her for letting his father hurt her. At himself for being angry with her. At the world for giving him a father who was mean instead of loving to his mother.
She looked weak in his eyes for not stopping what was going on behind closed doors. And her weakness was a huge source of his insecurity.
Reminding herself of what they were dealing with—as she’d been counseled repeatedly to do over the past two years—Faye got in the car ready to speak.
“How could you?” Elliott practically spat the words. His blue eyes, once so sweet and trusting when they looked up at her, were more like points of glass.
Laced with bitterness.
Nothing an eight-year-old should be experiencing, let alone shooting toward his mother.
“How could I what?” she asked, banking down the hurt feelings to focus on him.
“You told on Kyle.”
“Elliott...”
“You did. I know you did.” The boy was looking straight at her, his thin shoulders far too little to bear all of the weight he continued to put upon them.
She’d spoken with Lila briefly that morning to find out what the situation would be with the older boy. She’d wanted to prepare Elliott for the other boy’s absence if nothing else.
Lila had assured her that everything was fine. She claimed Kyle had had nothing to do with the fire and that he and his mother were still at the Stand.
“I don’t...” She couldn’t lie to him. She knew what he was talking about. She just didn’t know how much he knew.
“Can you calm down enough to tell me about it? And then I’ll tell you what I did or did not do.”
“There was a fire Friday night by his aunt’s house. He and his mom had a safe trip to visit her for something...”
Safe trip. It was one of the terms they sometimes used with kids to describe trips away from protective custody during at-risk domestic violence times. A term most kids never heard. The fact that it had become a normal part of her eight-year-old son’s vocabulary hurt her heart.
“He went out to look and then when they got back to the Stand, he had to go talk to Chief Bristow in a little room with his mom there.”
“Maybe that was just to see if he knew anything.”
Elliott shook his head. “You told, Mom. Kyle never saw anyone he knew so no one else could have told on him. It had to be you.”
She took a deep breath. “You said Kyle is in trouble,” she said. “What kind of trouble is he in?”
>
The little boy’s shrug was telling—most particularly to a mother who used to be able to read him like a book.
“He’s not in trouble, is he?” she pressed.
Elliott shrugged again and folded his arms against his chest as he stared out the front windshield.
“You’re a snitch.” The boy’s tone had softened considerably. His chin rested against his chest. “You snitched on my friend.”
“I told Chief Bristow that I recognized Kyle,” she said. She’d promised him the truth and she was not in a position to go backward on the climb to rebuild his trust. “But I did so for his sake as much as anything else,” she said. “I was concerned about him being out on the street where his father could have had access to him.” She didn’t figure then was the time to tell her son that officials believed the fire was part of a serial arsonist’s work.
Elliott looked at her.
She started the car and drove home, feeling his stare the whole way.
When she pulled into their apartment’s drive, he didn’t immediately reach to undo his seat belt.
“Look, Elliott. I’m not perfect by any means. But I did the right thing Friday night. And I would do it again.” They’d told her to be firm. To be consistent. To set boundaries.
He sat still, staring out the front window.
And she forgot counseling for a second. “You hate it that I didn’t tell on Dad for what he was doing.”
“So?”
“So, I wasn’t a snitch then. And it was wrong.”
His gaze swung toward her and she continued.
“Sometimes you have to tell,” she went on. “And if there’s a possibility that someone could get hurt, you have to tell every time. That’s something I know now.”
She’d known it then, too. She just hadn’t realized that the price of staying had been far greater than the one they’d paid for leaving.
She hadn’t known that Elliott had been affected by, or even known about, Frank’s abuse. She’d been trying to give her son a secure home, with nice things, all the bills paid, a loyal father who came home every night. She’d hoped that as Elliott grew out of boyhood into pre-manhood that Frank would take over—or at least take an interest in the child he’d fathered.
She’d thought a lot of erroneous things back then.
“Did you tell Kyle I told on him?” she asked now, wondering what kind of position her son had put himself in. Wondering if the bond with the older boy would pit them both against her.
“No. ’Course not,” Elliott said. He opened the door and got out.
He didn’t speak to her again as she settled him upstairs in their apartment with Suzie. Not even when she told him good-night and that she loved him.
But she heard Suzie’s voice behind her.
“That’s your mother. A good man responds when his mother speaks to him. And little boys who need their mother’s love are allowed to accept it. No matter what.”
She was smiling as she skipped down the stairs.
She might feel sometimes like she was facing her battles all alone.
But she wasn’t.
She should remember that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE’D BEEN A house fire over the weekend. Reese completed his inspection report on Tuesday. Faulty wiring. No gasoline on the premises.
While he hated to see anyone go through the trauma of losing irreplaceable belongings, he’d been relieved to know that arson wasn’t involved.
On Tuesday, he got the report back from LA regarding Friday night’s fire. He’d been planning to process the evidence himself, but with the weekend fire he’d been unable to do so. The fleck of shiny white he’d pulled out of the small pile of burned ash turned out to be paint that had flaked off from something.
What kind, he didn’t yet know.
But it was something else to add to size-ten tennis shoes. Something else that taunted him, dangling just out of reach when he had trouble sleeping at night.
Still, thoughts of the arsonist were preferable to thinking about Faye Walker. Or her son.
On Wednesday, he ran into her in the station’s kitchen. He’d been leaving with a cup of coffee in hand. Dressed in black Lycra shorts, a black tank bra and a white muscle shirt over top, she’d clearly just come from the fitness room. Her hair was pulled back, her skin was flushed, her forehead covered with beads of sweat.
He was swamped with memories. Specifically, a vision of her after making crazy love with him on a pool table in a frat house. She’d been visiting him for the weekend. They’d found the house empty after a bike ride along the coast. She’d been dressed pretty much the same—she’d hoisted herself onto the table, scooted back and dared him.
In less than ten seconds, he’d pulled her shorts down to her ankles and had brought her to almost instant satisfaction.
Had he been nuts? Had she been?
“Did you find out where your son got the matches?” He blurted the words to cover up the rest of what was going on in his mind.
He didn’t want to know any more about the boy. Didn’t even want to think of him.
Pictures of what might have been, of Faye and her son at home, in the kitchen, watching a movie, on the sand at the beach—would only make life messy. And hard.
She’d been backing up, as though to turn tail and run. But stopped and looked at him.
He didn’t get her expression. Had never seen the doubt and uncertainty mixed in with her usual strength.
“No,” she said. That was all. Nothing else.
She turned to go. He wanted to call her back.
To say what? To what end?
They were strangers. Had nothing to discuss. House rule.
Because this was his house.
* * *
FAYE WAS STILL shaking inside from her encounter with Reese when she lay in bed that night. On call for another eight hours, she didn’t dare take so much as an aspirin to help her sleep. What she needed to do was relax.
Not think about how close she’d been to throwing her arms around Reese when they’d had their near collision that morning.
He’d asked about Elliott and her heart had started beating such a fierce tattoo she’d thought she might have to sit down.
Did he think about them? Did he care maybe even a tiny bit about her and her son?
She couldn’t want him to. Didn’t dare want him to.
And yet...
No. It was only latent feelings from her pre-abused days. Going back to muscle memory from when she was emotionally undamaged.
Sara had warned her. She was vulnerable.
She had to stay aware. Keep control of her feelings through strong mental determination. Not let herself be convinced by a psyche that yearned for easier, happier times.
She would not let that happen. She’d die first.
Her son had barely spoken to her when she’d called him at bedtime, as she did every night she was at the station before he went to sleep. He’d said enough to keep Suzie from calling him out, but that was it. He was withdrawing from her. She could feel it and she was panicking.
Eyes closed, she concentrated on a series of mental relaxation techniques she’d learned over the years. Not just because of Frank, but because she worked a high-adrenaline, high-drama job. Finding and maintaining her center was paramount to being successful in her career.
“Let me out!”
Faye was out of bed before her eyes had completely sprung open, through her open door and across the hallway to her son’s room.
Elliott stood at the barred window, clawing at the curtains. “Let me out!” he screamed again.
It took everything she had not to wake him. To bring him back from whatever hell he’d sunk into. To hold his arms to his sides until t
he panic within him calmed.
Standing back, watching for any sign that he could hurt himself, she prayed for his angst to end, for peace to settle over his young soul and lead him gently back to bed.
“Let. Me. Out!” The growl was not a sound Faye recognized. It was as though the body standing there did not belong to her son. He grabbed the curtains, pulling at them as hard as he could. Yanking as though to pull the rod off the wall. “Let. Me. Out!”
She couldn’t just stand there. Crossing the room, she took hold of the curtain, just above Elliott’s desperate clutch. She withstood his jerks, a countermeasure to the damage he could do. Her arms ached but she didn’t know what else to do.
She hoped that he was going to grow out of the nightmares—brought on, his counselors agreed, by the fact that Frank had abused her at night. The sound had woken their son, who’d lain alone in his bed and listened to every vile word as Frank described what he was doing to her. And told her over and over that she liked it.
After another couple of yanks—during which she was thankful for the fitness training her job required—Elliott let go of the curtain. As though he’d merely been up to go to the bathroom, he moved sleepily back to his bed. Lay down. And continued to sleep.
Gently pulling the covers from beneath him, Faye arranged them around his small body, smiling at the car pajamas he’d chosen. She’d been afraid, when she’d bought them, that he’d think they were too childish for him. Instead, they were his go-to choice.
Her little boy was still in there.
They just had to find a way to set him free.
* * *
A BAD ACCIDENT occurred on the freeway just above the Santa Raquel exit in the very early hours of Thursday morning. Reese heard about it from Brandt, who called him just past six—Reese was already out of the shower, in the middle of shaving.
“Three cars, all guys, mostly college aged,” he said. “Looked like maybe they were drag racing. Alcohol was clearly a factor...”
Santa Raquel Police Department’s issue, not his, thankfully.
The Fireman's Son Page 6
