Scars and Tats

by Kristi Pelton

  A dry erase board covered a portion of one wall. Things were written on it that I didn’t understand.

  “This isn’t like a normal gym?”

  I already knew that—that is what intrigued me. But I wasn’t sure how to get started or what to do.

  “No. Crossfit is a little different. Non-traditional. Challenging. There’s a WOD every day that we complete for time.”

  “A what?”

  He tilted his head toward the wall with the board. “It’ll take a bit to understand it all, but I promise it’s easy. We have great people here that will help you every step of the way.”

  He pointed to the board. “The WOD. Workout of the Day. This is the pre-WOD. This is the WOD. So when you get here, we have some stretching exercises we do to get warmed up. Then we focus on one particular area of the body. Some days it’s something overhead. Some days are squats. Cleans. Deadlift. Things like that. And you’re looking at me with this confused look on your face,” he laughed.

  His brown eyes sparkled. It was clear he loved what he did.

  “It’ll be easier than it sounds. Would you like to try?”

  I nodded, then looked down at Beck.

  “We can try him in the play area?” Layne asked.

  There was no way I was going outside to run like the other women I usually saw and leave him inside.

  “Maybe another time,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Ma’am?”

  My eyes found his. “He wouldn’t be out of your sight.”

  Beck hadn’t been out of my sight in months. Most nights he slept with me.

  “The other girls run outside,” I stated.

  “Some of the WODs have running. Some don’t. Today’s doesn’t. Those girls are over-achievers.” He smiled again. “They run for no reason. Who does that?”

  I laughed this time. Trying to channel Rock’s mother, I knew getting physically stronger would make me mentally stronger as well. It was time. I lifted Beck and put him in the play area. He didn’t fuss even a little bit. I released a deep breath and faced Layne.

  “Don’t waste a breath like that, you’re going to need every last one.” A threat loomed in his words followed by a wicked laugh as he turned up the music.

  Beck played the entire forty-five minutes it took me to complete the WOD. I wanted to die. I couldn’t breathe. I knew now why the clown on his shirt was puking. And I knew that I was definitely coming back.

  “You ok?” Layne asked, handing me a bottle of water.

  I nodded but wasn’t sure the water would make it down my throat. And even if it did, if it would stay there.

  “I have some paperwork for you to fill out, if that’s ok?” he asked.

  Paperwork. That meant name, address…

  “You said the first month was free,” I panted.

  “It is. You don’t have to pay anything until your second month.”

  “I don’t like paperwork.” I managed to stand and retrieved Beck’s stroller.

  Layne didn’t say anything.

  “Come here, big guy,” I said, picking up Beck, who now fussed.

  “I only need you to initial something for now. It’s a release. That’s all. It says if you get hurt or overdo it on my watch that I’m relieved of responsibility.”

  “By overdo it, you mean die?”

  “Basically.” He grinned.

  There were two sheets of paper. When he handed me the pen, I initialed my MM on the release paper.

  “What’s this one?” I asked.

  “It’s a social media paper. It just means I can put you on Snapchat, Twitter and Facebook. Or the website for the gym.”

  I didn’t know what Snapchat even was and I stepped away from him. “No. No.” I shook my head. “I can’t do this.”

  “Hey. It’s ok.” He took the paper back and ripped it. “You don’t have to sign it. I won’t…”

  “No pictures. No videos. Ever. May I pay in cash?”

  Without asking questions, he agreed.

  His eyes were wide as he watched me leave. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. No paperwork. No pictures. No bank accounts. No name.

  Chapter 6

  We must each walk through life on our own, but we don’t have to do it alone. (Sheri Dew)

  Twelve months. That’s how long it took before I was willing to share my name, and it was only my first name that I offered. Layne never pressed and accepted my cash payments without complaint. He knew something was up…I’m sure he suspected that I was some sort of criminal or something, but he never said a word.

  It took another year after that to share even a bit of my story. I’d become stronger than I ever imagined. And I’d learned all the terms of crossfit with the help of my new friends who simply knew me as Mela. They knew Beck’s name too but they’d given me no reason to think they’d hurt me in any way. They…Molly, Syd, Grace, Kimber and Bella…were my anchors. They kept me going without a single question of who I was or where I came from. During the WODs when I didn’t think I could go on…they pushed me. They made me believe in myself in a way I didn’t know was possible. At age 29, I was mentally, physically and emotionally stronger than I had ever been. Oh, how I wish Ian could see me now.

  ***

  If only it were still Christmas, I thought, in awe of the amount of snow that had fallen through the morning hours this spring. Beck in his newly four-year-old way pressed his forehead against the floor-to-ceiling window, watching in wonder as his breath formed a pillow of condensation that quickly disappeared. Over and over again.

  The teakettle whistled, and I fingered through his hair as I walked past.

  “Momma. Snow.”

  I laughed. “Yes, buddy. Lots of snow.”

  The whistle of the kettle faded when I pulled it from the heat, pouring Beck a hot chocolate and me my tea. The two ice cubes in his mug began to melt instantly.

  “Momma, Layne.”

  Stirring honey into my tea, I put one more ice cube in his cup and carried the miniature marshmallows over to him.

  “No, buddy. We won’t see Layne today,” I explained, sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, which needed wood.

  “Layne is right there,” he said, tapping the window.

  A sudden chill shuddered up my spine as the hair on the back of my neck stood. In slow motion, my eyes moved to where Beck pointed. The figure stood a hundred yards away, thigh deep in snow. My heart began to pound. The pack on his back showed over his shoulders. I watched through the glass as the steps he tried to take led him in the direction of the cabin.

  Sitting my mug on the end table, a jolt of panic shot through me but was quickly calmed by a wave of courage—of confidence.

  “Beck. Come here. Now.” My words were terse, and he immediately padded over to me.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t know who this is, and my job is what?”

  “To protect me?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “To protect you. Always.”

  He smiled.

  “Go. Go now to your cubbyhole. You know where your food is. You know where the water bottles are. You don’t come out until Mommy comes to get you.”

  “Or Layne!” he shouted.

  “Yes. Or Layne. But you and Layne have a code word and no one else knows that word. So don’t come out unless you hear that word. Got it?” Tears started to sting my eyes, but I fought with every ounce of my being not let them win.

  “Yes. Go now?”

  “Yep! Go now, buddy. I love you.”

  “I love you more!” he yelled as he ran to his hiding spot.

  The moment he was gone from my view, I turned my sights on our visitor. Thank God the snow was causing him to struggle. I unhinged the loaded shotgun from the back of the front door, then retrieved the forty-caliber from behind the coffee mugs. Both guns were pumped and cocked with the chambers full in a matter of seconds. Without a coat, I stepped out onto the porch.

  “Turn arou
nd right now and go back the way you came. Follow your tracks!” I yelled.

  He stopped, held his hands out to the side and swayed a bit in the wind. “I need help.” His voice was muffled from the scarf covering his mouth.

  “You won’t find that here. Move along,” I shouted, then tucked the pistol into my pants. Raising the shotgun to my shoulder, I nestled it tight, resting my cheek against the cold steel while I sighted him down the barrel. The pistol would be a better choice—but the shotgun may have more effect. Rock’s mom had taught me well.

  “Please,” he said weakly, swaying again.

  I watched as the snow cascaded. There was no wind.

  “Mister. I’m warning you now. Don’t come closer.”

  After another strenuous step in the near three-foot-deep snow, he stumbled backward—falling. He lay there for a minute. Hurriedly, I seized the opportunity to grab the binoculars—Beck’s toy, plastic ones, but they worked nonetheless.

  Bursts of steam puffed from his mouth straight into the air. One hand rose weakly, then collapsed back down, disappearing into the powdery snow. Through the scratched-up binoculars, I watched as he mustered up enough energy to heave himself upright. Still sitting, he pulled the scarf away from his mouth exposing red, swollen lips. Quickly, I lowered the binoculars, taking him in more thoroughly. His shoes and legs were hidden in the snow. Chunks of snow clung to the North Face jacket he wore. His eyes were heavy…thick lids blinked deliberately and sluggishly.

  Snow fell so heavily…a thin blanket covered him in the minute I stood frozen. Making a hasty decision, I dashed into the house once again and grabbed the handcuffs Rock’s mom had given me. From the time I darted inside to when I got back out, he hadn’t moved. Just inside the door, I clicked my snowshoes in place and threw my coat on. The pistol tucked tightly into my waistband, handcuffs in my coat pocket, and ski poles in hand…I began my trek toward him.

  When I purchased the snowshoes, I had no real intention of wearing them too terribly much but they’d been on my feet more than I thought they would. Our unwanted visitor was still on his back with little to no movement. His breaths were visible in the puffs of steam in the air.

  “Please don’t shoot me,” he begged albeit weakly.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I got caught in the storm.”

  Frozen snot trailed over his upper lip.

  “Why were you out here? I mean to begin with. What brought you here? There’re no trails this way.” My demanding questions spewed out quickly.

  The puffs of air turned to short raspy pants.

  “Lost. I…just…wanted—to get lost.”

  I didn’t believe him. Anger consumed me as my hand trembled when I reached to touch him. Be strong always. The second my fingertips brushed his fiery skin; I sucked in a quick breath. He was burning up. Fever. Damn it!

  Instantly, I turned around hoofing it back to the cabin and yanked Becks sled out of the corner of the front porch. Within a minute, I was back at his side. A low groan slid up his throat as I lifted him by the shoulders and scooted his upper body onto the sled. After I’d boosted his legs over, I began the trek back to the cabin remembering Beck was still in hiding. My quads and glutes burned from the haul.

  Once I pulled him to the porch clearing the steps, I took a minute to breathe. Thank God, I’d trained enough to be able to heave his ass up there. He seemed to have lost consciousness at some point because as I cuffed him, he didn’t flinch. It wasn’t until I’d lugged him inside next to the fire that I exposed his hands—finding bluish tinted fingers. Instinctively, I blew on them as if they were Beck’s little fingers and I’d done that a hundred times when he’d gotten cold. How could this man’s fingers be so cold yet he was burning up with fever?

  I tossed his gloves near the fire so they could dry out and warm up. The sooner I could get him out of here, the better. His fingers were swollen.

  I hustled toward the hideout. “Beck!” I shouted with a whisper. “WOD. It’s ok. Come here. Mommy needs your help.”

  When I pulled off the man’s stocking cap, I was captivated for a moment by his face. Though his cheeks appeared sunken in and dark rings circled his eyes, he was a beautifully, rugged man. His thick brows matched the overgrown beard. The tip of his nose was shiny and bright.

  “Mommy. Who is that?”

  Directing my attention toward Beck, I gave him a serious look.

  “This man is sick. I need you to get me two of your cereal bowls of warm water. Not hot, ok?”

  He nodded eagerly, and I watched him grab his stool and heave it into the kitchen. I felt awful keeping the man handcuffed, but I couldn’t take a chance with someone I didn’t know. I heard the water running in the kitchen and, in this moment, I was proud of the way I’d raised Beck. He needed to be independent if necessary—even if at barely four years old.

  Hustling to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, I grabbed the lip butter and the ibuprofen. I darted to the kitchen and snagged a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” Beck said, walking slowly trying not to spill any water from his miniature cereal bowls—his tiny hands could barely manage.

  We met near the visitor. I took the bowls from Beck.

  “Nice job, buddy. Thank you.”

  When Beck knelt next to him, my heart skipped a beat. Gripping Beck’s shoulders, I shook him just enough to keep his attention and for him to realize I meant business.

  “We don’t know him, Beck. You must keep your distance from him. Deal?”

  He nodded, backing up. “Pickle,” he whispered.

  I shook my head. “You are so silly. It’s dill not deal.”

  My beautiful son smiled, then found a seat on the sofa.

  Kneeling next to the stranger, I balanced the bowls of water on his thighs, and then rested his fingers in the water. I tipped his head, angling his neck so his face pointed toward the ceiling. I attempted to pour some of the water through his parted lips. He instantly sputtered and choked—liquid coming back out, but thankfully his eyes opened.

  “Mister,” I said.

  His glossy eyes tried to focus.

  “I need you to swallow this.” I kept his head upright, dropped three ibuprofen into his mouth and then tipped the bottle to his lips. When I saw his Adam’s apple jut out and back in, I knew he’d swallowed them. That was a start.

  “Mommy. What’s his name?” Beck asked from the sofa.

  His jeans were wet. Jeans? How ill prepared was this idiot for the storm? After I moved the bowls of water, I unfastened his jeans and began tugging them off. The elastic band of his underwear read Armani. Perfect…wealthy and dumb.

  I fought looking at his crotch but the damn trunks hugged him tightly, and honestly, there was no ignoring the relaxed bulge. Once I had his jeans off, I laid them out in front of the fire, adding more wood, and then covered his lower half with a quilt. Out of sight, out of mind. And I certainly didn’t need Beck asking questions.

  His lips were in pretty bad condition so I slathered a thick layer of the lip butter over them. His lower lip was full…plump. Jesus… narcolepsy really wasn’t my thing. But, hey, he was only unconscious not dead

  “Mommy. What’s his name?”

  “I’m sorry, Beck. I don’t know. Hold on a sec.”

  I reached for his jeans, and, sure enough, the back pocket held a wallet. When I opened it, a Colorado driver’s license lay behind a thin piece of plastic.

  “His name is Jackson,” I announced. “Jackson Winslow,” I whispered beneath my breath and stole a long glance at our bearded stranger.

  For the first time, I noticed his hair was longer on one side. This man…this stranger was stunningly handsome. Ruggedly beautiful. I shook my head trying to erase any desire. It had been so long since I had felt the touch of a man. Yet, this man could have been sent here to find us…to hurt us…to take Beck. He was off limits.

  Night was falling and the moon cast a beautif
ul reflection off the three-foot blanket of snow. Beck and I played checkers at the kitchen table. The flickering light of the fireplace flung shadows over the walls. Our stranger seemed to be resting peacefully.

  Even though I felt bad for him being cuffed, my sole purpose for living sat across from me, and I had to do whatever was necessary to protect him.

  “Buddy. Want to sleep in the hideout?”

  Beck’s eyes about bulged out of his head.

  “Can I?”

  I stood up. “Yep. Let’s get you in there and situated.”

  Beck hopped out of his chair, dashing up to his room. There wasn’t anything that could make me smile bigger than witnessing his enthusiasm for life. The boy was a spitting image of his father. Most days that was good.

  There was no way of knowing or even speculating what the night could hold…so I told Beck he could come out if he needed.

  Once he was hunkered down under his covers, inside his tent, with his night light on…I closed the door. I hustled to my bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face, threw on my comfy sweats to sleep in, then grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before I stared blankly at the heap of man on my living room floor.

  When my eyes finally adjusted to the glow from the fireplace, I noticed Jackson twitching. As I crept closer, I saw he wasn’t twitching; his body shook with tremors. Instinctively, the back of my fingers felt his forehead. Wow. He was burning up. Again.

  Immediately, I ran to the kitchen, wetting a rag with cold water. Back in the living room, his eyes shot wide as the cold material made contact with his skin.

  A small groan echoed up his throat, but as fast as his eyes opened, they closed. Without thinking, I yanked all the covers off of his body. I hated the ignorance of the—smother the fever philosophy. His body needed to cool down…quickly. Leaving him uncovered and with the cloth on his forehead, I got another bottle of water and snatched both the ibuprofen and the thermometer from the cupboard.

  When I slid the digital thermometer between his lips, I realized some of the redness was gone. The lip butter was helping. Once again, his eyes opened. For the briefest of moments, our eyes met before his closed again.

  At 104, the thermometer stopped blinking.