SquidgeWorld Archive

Leaving 05

The Closet

He'd been nervous for a week -- antsy and unsettled. Now antsy on Blair Sandburg is not all that unusual -- he can be pretty hyperactive. But unsettled is another matter entirely. I mean, this is Sandburg -- the man who can meditate anywhere, process anything. And he was still unsettled over the box I found a week ago.

I'm convinced he needs to talk about it.

And that should be a big fat clear announcement that Sandburg's behavior is anything but normal. Because when I start wanting to talk about things ... Well, let's just say that can be a little unsettling, too.

He told me some things about his past -- about life with Naomi, and it bothered me. And he hinted at some other things -- about life when Naomi wasn't around, and that bothered me even more. A lot more. I still didn't know everything that had happened to him as a child -- and maybe I never would -- but I was ready to hear as much as my partner was willing to tell. And I thought he might be ready to start telling tonight.

I'd been scared for Blair that night -- the night I found the box. He'd exhausted himself just telling me about those little scraps of tissue he'd collected. His paper kisses. He'd fallen asleep with his head in my lap and then twitched and moaned all night long. I hadn't slept, but instead, had kept watch over him, soothing him when he cried out and chasing away the worst of the dreams.

But it's been a week now and things are pretty much back to normal. He's still burning the candle at both ends -- school and work -- but that's just Sandburg. He thinks I don't know what he's doing, but I do. He's trying to stay so busy, he doesn't have time to think.
And he's trying to keep himself so exhausted, I'll take pity on him and keep making him go to bed rather than insisting we talk about what happened a week ago.

But it's there. Between us. All the time. Kinda like the elephant in the living room. We know it's there, but we don't admit it and so we just keep walking around it and pretending not to see it and every now and then we sweep up the shit and throw it out.

Elephant shit.

That would be the nightmares he's still having. The ones he never remembers in the morning. The ones that pull me from my bed in the dead of night and send me scrambling down the stairs with my gun in my hand because he sounds like he's dying. The ones where he's screaming, 'Stop! Stop! I'll be good!' The ones that have me pleading with him to wake up, begging him to stop crying. The ones that see me sitting on that damned futon -- I've got to get him a real bed -- all night long, holding him, just so that we can both get a little bit of sleep before we start another non-stop day.

Elephants don't make enough shit for what we've been dealing with. What's bigger than an elephant? A whale. It's whale shit. Sandburg's floating in an ocean of whale shit, and I'm baling it out as fast as I can, and it's not enough. It's just not fucking enough. He's drowning in the shit, and I can't do anything about!

But we closed two cases today, and we're both feeling pretty good. He got his results back on a test he took last week, too, and he scored well. So we've got some good stuff behind us. That should be strengthening.

So I figure we're both strong enough to start to deal with some of the shit. I'm getting pretty tired of baling, and I know Sandburg's gotta be tired of swimming in the stuff.

So he's cleaning the counters while I finish putting the dishes away and I decide to get it going. "We gonna talk about this tonight, Chief?" I ask.

He just looks at me, this sorta haunted look on his face and then he pulls himself up and nods. Good, I think. We can do this. But then he shrugs and I think, well, maybe not. But then he shakes his head and I'm thinking, hell, I can bale a little longer, if that's what he needs. But then he's shrugging again, and staring at the floor and I realize he doesn't have a clue. He doesn't know how to do this. Blair Sandburg, the man who knows everything, doesn't know how to begin to tell me about his past.

He's terrified.

So I do the only thing I can -- the thing I always do when he gets scared. I wrap my arms around him and hang on tight. He's leaning into me, almost clinging to me, and I whisper, "You've kept things locked up for too long, Blair. It's time to talk about it."

He keeps his head buried against my chest and I have to strain to hear him, but he starts talking. There's a desperate edge to his voice -- almost as if he knew if he didn't start telling me that second, he'd never start.

"She didn't always leave me behind, you know," he says. I nod and start leading him to the couch. It's where we ended up last time -- might as well get comfortable from the beginning. He kicks his shoes off and I smile, then he's snuggling up against my side and I put my arm around him. I wouldn't dare say this is harder on me than it is on him, but it is hard for me. I don't think I could bear to listen to what I know is coming if I couldn't hold on to him. I need that connection as badly as he does.

"There was this one place ... we were there for almost a year I think. Maybe longer." He pauses and I can see he's trying to get the times right. "I was still pretty young when we lived with Don."

Don. I have a name now. It's a beginning. By the time this is over, I'll have even more to go on. And then, by God, I am Going To Do Something.

Sandburg's still talking so I pull my attention back to him. "I think I had my fifth birthday right after we left. And ... I used to be invisible there."

Invisible? What the hell had happened to him that he felt he was invisible? Or -- the thought chills me -- did he need to be invisible? I pull him closer and feel him nod against my chest.

"Really, I was. I could be small and quiet and no one would even know I was there."

I hate this. Have I mentioned how much I hate this? I hate hearing about what happened to him when he was a child, a baby and no one would protect him. I just fucking
hate this. I clear my throat, and keep a tight hold on him and try for normal. A little chuckle -- didn't even really sound forced -- and I say, "You? Small? Yes. But quiet? Now that I find hard to believe..."

He's nodding desperately, head going up and down and up and down. "I was, Jim. Really. Don didn't like kids so I was real careful to be quiet and stay out of the way." I'm gently rubbing his arm, hoping he'll focus on that but he looks up and I can tell he sees that my jaw is tight and the muscles are twitching. I'm definitely gonna need to see a dentist if this keeps up. TMJ -- here I come.

"How old were you, Chief?" I ask and the words are bitten off through clenched teeth, but still sound almost normal.

He shrugs. "Four, maybe five."

Four??? He was four?? I still don't even know what happened but I'm fixated on the number. Four. Four years old. Forty eight months. Not even old enough to go to school. Four years. The same time it takes to finish college or an enlistment. To pay for a car. Two and two-thirds times the length of time I was in Peru.

He was four years old.

That's a fucking baby!

He shivers and I pull the trusty old afghan down and tuck it around him. I suspect this cold is not from the temperature, however.

"There was a closet in the hall, and when I was invisible ..."

I tighten up and he pulls away and looks at me. I don't like hearing him say that. My Blair should never have had to be invisible. It -- bothers me.

"Look, Jim," he says, "I know I wasn't really invisible, okay? It just felt like it at times."

I nod but there's a frown on my face. I still don't like it.

"Do you want to hear this?" he asks, and I feel guilty. I'm making this about me, and it's NOT.

So I refocus on what he wants, what he needs. "Do you want to tell me?" I ask quietly. I school my face to patience and try to look like I am willing to listen or just be here, or do whatever he wants me to do.

He stares at me for the longest time, and I can tell he's not just trying to figure out if he can do this. He's assessing me -- trying to decide if I can handle it. I must pass muster, 'cause he nods slowly, his eyes still on mine. I reach out and touch his hair, smoothing the unruly strands and then tuck them behind one ear. I pull him back into my side and settle him, holding him close. I'm not letting go for a minute. There's too much at stake.

"I had practiced on the closet door in the hall. I could open and close it without making a sound. I used to hide there. It took a while, because I was little, but I could get the door to close so that the latch caught without making a sound. When we first moved in, I used to just scoot into the closet, but if Don heard the door, he'd pull me out. So -- I learned to do it quietly."

"Why did you have to hide, Chief?" I ask him. I think I know the answer, but I need to hear it.

He shrugs. "They fought. Don and Naomi. It scared me."

Hmmm. Not the answer I was expecting. Still. It's his story. "Weren't you scared in a dark closet?" I ask.

"At first. But after a while, it just felt safe. Like nobody could find me there. A little light would sneak in under the door and I got Naomi to get me a flashlight."

He frowns. I can feel it against my chest and I wonder what's going through his head. What isn't he telling me?

"I kept it hidden in a boot in there. I can remember how it felt when I'd first slip into the closet."

His heart rate just doubled and I stroke his hair again. It seems to work as his breathing evens out and his heart slows some.

"The closet went under the stairs. I used to slip in, then crawl toward the back." He's touching his hair now and I have this odd image of a cat who's had its fur rubbed the wrong way. Did I do that? But then he speaks again and I realize his movement had nothing to do with me or my touch on his hair. It's a memory. "The coattails would brush against my head. It was -- weird."

There's still something he's not telling me -- something about this Don, but I can wait.

"I had to get all the way to the back before I could turn on my flashlight -- I didn't want Don to know I was in there. Once I was under the stairs, I could see all the boxes. Christmas, and out of season clothes, and sports stuff, and old school books."

"How'd you know what was in the boxes?" I ask.

"They were labeled."

Labeled? He was four, for Christ's sake. "You could read when you were four?"

He's slow to answer. "I guess so. I never really thought about it." He pauses and I can tell he's still considering my question. "You know, I can't remember not being able to read."

It makes me laugh. He's brilliant, this man! Incredible! I pull him close and whisper, "My brainy anthropologist. I always knew you were a genius."

He flushes with pleasure and smiles, then frowns as he continues his story. "Anyway, behind the boxes, there was a place right under the stairs. The floor was wooden and the ceiling sloped. It was my special place. No one ever went there but me, and I was careful so no one would know I was there. I kept Bear there."

"Bear?"

He gets this stricken look on his face and I realize he hadn't planned to tell me about 'Bear.'

"Uh, my teddy bear," he explains, a little embarrassed.

It makes me laugh again and I smack his head gently. "You don't need to be embarrassed, Chief," I tell him. "You were only four."

"Did you have a bear?" he asks, apparently determined not to be the only bear owner, but I shake my head.

I didn't have a bear. "No. Not a bear." I smile at him and admit, "A blanket."

"Oh."

"My father took it away when Stevie was born. He said I was too big for it." I don't tell him that I managed to rip a piece of it off and that I carried it around for months afterwards and even years later slept with it under my pillow. I connected that blanket with my mother -- I still had the scrap of material.

"Oh," Blair says again. "That's what Don said about Bear, too. And the flashlight. He threw them away. But I got them out and hid them in my special place."

"I'm sorry," I say as softly as I can and my hand is in his hair again. I'm trying to soothe him with my touch, but touching him soothes me as well. I haven't thought about my blanket in years.

"I had Bear and my light and some old blankets and a pillow in there. Sort of my own nest, you know?"

I nod and keep a firm hold on him.

"I'd hide there when I knew the yelling was going to start. It was -- safer. I could hear my mom stomp up the stairs, then Don followed. His steps were heavier, harder sounding."

"Did this happen a lot, Chief?" I ask.

"Uh, well, yeah. When we were with Don."

"Why did Naomi stay?"

He shrugs. "I really don't know. I was too young to understand even when she tried to explain things to me."

She tried to explain things to him. Somehow that calls to mind a strange conversation in which a naive woman-child tries to explain things that are way too mature for a young child who tries desperately to understand. Because it's what Mommy wants him to do.

"I just knew we were there and then we left. That's the day I'm telling you about -- the day we left."

"The day you left." I thought he was going to tell me about Don. But, okay -- the day they left.

I look over at him, kinda leaning forward to see his face. I'm wondering how he's doing, really, and it surprises me. There's determination in his face. And strength. And complete trust in me. He wants to tell me this.

"Yeah. The day we left. I was under the stairs. I heard Naomi go up. I heard the door slam. Then I heard Don go up. And the door opened and slammed again. I knew they'd be screaming any second.

"Their voices were muffled, and I couldn't always make out what they were saying. I could hear my mom and I could hear Don, and sometimes I could hear both of them at the same time. I used to hold my breath -- I was afraid they'd hear me listening." He laughs a little. "Silly, huh?"

"None of this is silly, Chief," I say quickly. "It must have been really scary." Fuck. It must have been fucking terrifying. I think back to some of the fights I overheard between my parents before my mother left. Stevie used to run crying into my room and we'd huddle together in my bed. Fucking terrifying.

He nods and I know he's remembering, just as I am.

"I used to think it was my fault, but then I'd think -- how could it be my fault? I was just a little kid. But I can remember sitting there, under the stairs and I'd be holding Bear and I'd tell him, 'Shhh, Bear, it's not your fault.' Like that would make things better or something."

Stevie used to ask me the same thing, in this damn baby lisp he had till he was six. 'Was it me, Jimmy? Was it something I did? I can be a good boy, Jimmy, I can.'

I sigh and bend close and drag out the words I used back then. "It wasn't your fault," I say, speaking right into his ear.

"I know."

"You were just a little boy."

"I know."

"Hardly more than a baby yourself." I lower my voice as I speak, because I want him to focus on my words -- to be totally connected to what I am saying.

"I know."

"You weren't responsible, Blair," I finally whisper. "You. Were. Not. Responsible."

He nods, looking miserable. "I felt responsible, all those years ago. Sometimes, I still feel responsible for all the times we had to leave, all the times it didn't work out for Naomi. It must have been so hard on her always having me there in the background."

"Aw, shit, Blair," I mumble, thinking I could cheerfully kill his mother right now. She wasn't malicious -- not even I believe that. She was just so damned -- clueless. Young. Immature. Selfish. Take your pick. I scrub at my face, searching for words. Words are Blair's forte, not mine, but I need words now, need to say the right words. "You were the child. She was the adult. You were not responsible for her love life -- for her life at all."
I lean over and gently kiss the side of his forehead. "You were the good part of her life, Chief. She was lucky to have you."

His face lights up for a moment as if he can't believe I just said that. Or -- maybe he can't believe I just did that. The illumination lasts about 10 seconds and then fades and he starts to speak again.

"I heard her come down the stairs again. And then he followed. I pulled the blankets over my head and scooted around so that I could see the door. I could see his foot when he stepped in front of the door. It was like a black shadow stomping out the light."

He's scared. I can smell it. This must be so hard for him. I keep my arm around him and keep touching him, reminding him he is not alone and I am here. Trying to let him know that he's home now, and it's safe and I'm not leaving.

"Naomi was putting away the dishes. I could hear the cabinets opening and closing and the dishes sorta clinked when she stacked them away. And Don was in there, yelling at her. He kept saying something about 'your bastard.'"

He wiggles around a bit and then looks up at me. "That was me," he says, like I wouldn't know. "Even then, I knew that was me."

I rub my face again, then hug him. What can I say to that? He was four fucking years old and already he was being called a bastard. What can I do about that?

"My mom was screaming back at him. I remember every word they said."

"What do you want, Naomi? You wanna run again? Take your little bastard and hit the road? Is that what you want? Running, moving, never settling? How long do you think you can keep dragging him from place to place to place?"

"I don't know what I want."

"That's the fucking problem. You ..."

"You have no idea what I want."

He's yelling now, alternating parts and it's scaring me. "Blair," I say sharply and I give him a little shake. "Stop."

"I know what I want. And I don't want to be watching you curl up in a God damned ball every night."

"It's your smell, Don. I can't stand the smell. Do you think I'm stupid? That I don't smell the booze, smell your little whore girlfriend? And your temper. What do you think this is doing to Blair?"

"Blair!" I say more forcefully, but he's lost in the past, playing both roles in a scene he should never have witnessed. "Blair, buddy," I beg, "please stop. Please come back to me." Is this what he feels like when I zone? This overwhelming helplessness and paralyzing fear?

"Why do you always bring that bastard into this? He has nothing to do with this. Nothing."

"A dish crashed onto the floor. 'He has everything to do with this, you asshole.'"

I roll off the sofa and kneel before him. "Blair! Blair! Stop it!" I shake him, and then I shake him harder, but his face just goes white and he's suddenly freezing, but the words, the angry, hateful words are still pouring from his lips.

"What do you plan on doing, Naomi? Where are you going to go this time? How many times do you think people are going to take you in? You have no money, no skills, nothing to offer but yourself, and let me tell you, that ain't a whole lot. And you drag that whiny little bastard around with you -- like anyone would want him. He gets into everything, always asking questions. He's nothing but trouble ..."

"He's just a little boy!"

I'm terrified. God forgive me, I don't know what else to do. I slap him. And then scream in his face, "Blair!!" I'm shaking him furiously and suddenly -- finally -- he looks up, confusion on his face.

"Huh?" he asks and I don't know whether to scream again or cry. He's so damned cold. I put my hand on his forehead. Definitely sub-normal. Then I grasp his chin and hold him still and look at his eyes. His pupils are normal and reactive.

"Am I okay?" he asks and I don't know what the fuck to say.

"I don't know, Chief. Are you?"

"I th-think so," he stammers. "I just feel a little -- strange." He shivers again and I get to my feet and head for the linen closet. At last -- I have something to do. I retrieve the blanket then lay it over the afghan and begin tucking.

He nods at me, but then starts shaking again.

"Tea," I say out loud as I search for something else I can do. I feel so incredibly helpless about all of this and I have to do something or I think I will go insane.

He's trying to get up and I can't figure out why, but I push him back down and start tucking again. "Stay here," I growl, my voice deeper and rougher than I wanted. "Stay under the blankets and get warmed up." I move quickly and I'm in the kitchen before he can say anything. When I look back, he's snuggled down in the nest of blankets I've made, and I feel better. I did something. I busy myself with the makings of tea and the routine motions calm me. I feel better. I'm doing something.

I pour the hot water into the mug and drop a tea bag in -- orange spice. I add honey and a splash of orange juice and then I'm holding it out to Sandburg. He's still shaky, so I keep my hand over his as he takes the first couple of sips.

"Thanks," he mumbles and I feel good. I've done something. I've made it better. I feel ridiculous, but still -- that's how I feel. Like I want to announce to the world -- 'I have made TEA!!' I'm an idiot. I sit again and then rearrange everything. Sandburg, the afghan, the blanket, the pillow I snagged from his room. All of it gets moved and shifted and tucked and adjusted and finally, we're comfortably ensconced again and Sandburg has his tea -- that I made. I touch him again, and he's not so cold and I feel a wave of smugness. The part of me that feels good about doing something -- even making tea -- gets right in the face of the part of me that feels ridiculous and says, 'See? I told you he needed tea!'

"What happened, Jim?" he asks and my sense of accomplishment slides away.

"I think you had a flashback, Chief," I say softly. Frankly, I'm worried.

"No way, man. I was just a kid!"

I shrug. "That's what it looked like to me." And believe me, I've seen more than a few, so I know what I'm looking at. "You were sitting there, yelling. It was almost like you were reciting lines from a play -- a scripted argument. And then your eyes glazed over and your temperature plummeted and you started shaking." I grip him harder, making sure he's warm against me and his blankets are covering every inch of him. "Oh, and you were non-responsive."

"Oh."

Oh? That's all he's got to say? I look him dead in the eye and say, "You've got some serious repression of your own going there, Chief. You realize that, don't you?"

He shrugs. "I never really thought of it as repression, Jim, more that there are some things from my childhood I just prefer not to think about."

His hand comes out and I hand him his tea almost without thinking as I make a rude noise. "You'd never let me get away with that kind of an answer, Blair." And he wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. And what's more -- he knows it, too. "You want to tell me the rest tonight? Or have you had enough?" I'm trying to be patient. I think he needs to finish this, but I'm going to let him set the pace. What I think he needs isn't the deal tonight. Tonight -- it's whatever he needs.

He's quiet for a long time and I think he's going to fall asleep, but then he says in this tiny little boy voice, "I kept crayons and a pad under the stairs. Sometimes I was there for a long time, and it was something to do."

His tea is gone and I take the mug from his hands, then tuck him back in.

"They'd gone out on the porch after the kitchen. I couldn't hear them anymore. So I was drawing."

Something electrifies him and he sits up.

"Do you know what I drew? Over and over again?"

I shake my head and wait.

"A cat."

Still waiting.

"A black cat."

I shake my head again.

"A big black cat."

Oh, shit! Even then. Even fucking then. Why, when there was nothing I could do? I pull him to me and hug him hard. "Oh, Chief," I sigh, "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

I've got him clutched to me, plastered against me, but he slides his hand up between us and pats my chest. "It's okay, big guy. You were, what? Fourteen?"

Fourteen. Fuck. I nod. "I didn't know."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't even know me then."

I take my hand and trace his jaw, brushing against his stubbly skin as gently as I can. "I wish I had. I wish I could have -- done something." I sigh again. "I wish I could do something."

"You are," he whispers. "You're listening."

I don't know what to say, so I fuss with the blankets and shift and rearrange again, and finally I have him settled where I want him. By my side and under my protection. It makes me smile. "So," I say, "a big, black cat."

"Yeah." He's smiling, too. "I liked black cats."

We're comfortable now and I think we both just want to enjoy it, but then he starts again.

"They came back in. I could hear the back door fly open and Mom was kinda running down the hall. Don caught her right outside the closet." He throws his arm around my chest, clinging to me and pulls himself even closer to my side. "He grabbed her. I think he hit her."

He shudders, and I wish I could just pull him into my skin.

"I crawled under the blankets in my special place and hid. I was really, really scared."

"I bet." I say the words under my breath. It scares me -- what must it have been like for a four year old?

"I think maybe Don was sorry he hit her, because then he went to the front door. Naomi was screaming at him about 'Where do you think you're going?' and 'This conversation is not over.' Don just said he was getting the hell away from her." He buries his head against my shirt and murmurs, "He was getting away from her and her bastard son."

Aw, fuck! I can't deal with this. I drop my head into his hair and breathe deeply. My hand is on his arm, rubbing up and down and I'm kissing his head, over and over again,
not really thinking about it, but just doing it. I have to do something.

"Naomi told him that if he left, she wouldn't be there when he got back and he told her to make sure she took me, 'cause he'd be damned if he was gonna end up stuck with me -- not the way she'd stuck her other friends so many times before."

He was four when he started collecting his paper kisses. I can't help but wonder if there's a connection.

"I could hear his car. The door slammed and then the engine started. He kinda revved it, like he was going to race and then he backed out real fast and the tires squealed. I could hear him going down the street and when he turned at the corner, the car squealed again."
Blair is silent for a minute, then says, "And then it got very quiet."

He's shaking again, but I'm there. I whisper to him, nonsense words I used to use with Stevie. I've remembered; it's not the words, but the tone and the touch that calms.

"Naomi started crying then. I was holding my breath, listening, and I could hear her. She was on the floor, right outside the closet, leaned up against the door. I kinda crept back out there and lay on the floor by the door. I had my head down next to the crack under the door and I could see her dress. It was blue, with little tiny flowers on it. And she just cried and cried and cried. And so did I."

And so did I.

I'm sitting very still because -- This Is Not About Me. I know there are tears in my eyes and tears on my face but -- This Is Not About Me. Sandburg looks up and I see the surprise in his face and it kinda hurts. What? Did he think I wouldn't care? Did he think I could just listen to this like none of it mattered? But -- This Is Not About Me.

He reaches for my face but I stop him. One hand wrapped around his wrist and I stop him. I am always surprised by how small his wrists and hands are, because he's so damn strong. He's stopped his forward movement now, but if he really fought me, I'd have to let him go. Oh, I could stop him, all right, but he's so damn strong I'd have to hurt him to do it. And hurting him is one thing I am not about to do. I shake my head and hold him. "When did you leave?" I ask and my voice is almost normal.

"Naomi finally went upstairs and I got out of the closet. It took longer, because I was kinda shaky and I still didn't want anyone to hear me. I felt -- broken. It was like my legs wouldn't work -- like I couldn't walk. So I crawled to the stairs. I went up really slowly; tested every step for creaks before I'd move up. I used my elbows for leverage and just sorta pulled myself up."

That had to be scary. I wonder why he wouldn't walk? Was he trying to be smaller, less visible? Did he think it was safer that way?

"I finally got to the top. I peeked over the last stair and I could see Naomi. Their room was at the end of the hall and the door was open. She was lying in the bed with just a lamp on for light and she was talking on the phone. She was still crying."

His voice is so full of pain, so full of anguish for his mother. His precious, precious mother whom he loves so well. He was four fucking years old and she was crying and he was going to comfort her. Rage suffuses me and I blank my face so he won't see.

Why were we doing this again? Oh, yeah. Because Blair needed to talk about it.

"I crawled down the hall to her room and then slid under the bed. It was dark under there, too, and I remember wishing I had Bear and my flashlight. I sorta reached up and poked a hole in the bottom of the box spring. I think I was trying to reach her. Get as close as I could."

I pull him closer. He can get as close as he wants to me. I hold him tight but my mind is caught on an image. Four-year-old Blair, small for his age and probably still round with baby fat. Crawling on the damn floor because he was too afraid to get up and walk. Crawling up the stairs and down the hall to be with his mother because she was crying. God! If I hold him any tighter, he won't be able to breathe.

"Naomi was crying again and I remember she asked, 'Why doesn't he love me anymore?' So I crawled out from under the bed, and my legs worked again and I climbed up next to her -- behind her. I reached out and put my arm around her waist and it must have scared her, 'cause she jumped. 'I love you, Mommy,' I said and I hugged her. But she didn't hug me back."

Bitch. Fucking bitch. She didn't hug him back. How the hell could she not hug him back? I clutch him to me, afraid to let go. I'm afraid if I don't hold him tight enough, he'll shatter into a thousand pieces and I'll never get him put back together again. How the hell could she not hug him back?

"She rolled over and looked at me and I asked, 'Are we leaving again, Mommy?' and she nodded.

"'In the morning,'" she said. "'Now go get in your bed and I'll come tuck you in shortly.'"

"So I went and got Bear and put all my important stuff in my backpack, and I went to bed."

I smile. I can't help it. He had a backpack at four. God, what I would give to have seen it.

"When I woke up the next day, we were already in the car, going to the next place."

It's over. He's told it all. He moves then and I think he's just now realizing he's been crying for ten minutes and it scares him. It panics him. His breath grows ragged and he's struggling for air and he flails his arms at me like he doesn't know what to do.

But I do. I know just what to do.

I hold him tight and whisper over and over again, "It's all right. It's all right. It's over, you're safe. It's all right. You're home and you're not leaving and I'm not leaving and everything is going to be okay."

I say it over and over and over again, until my chest aches and my voice is raw, and then I keep saying it.

And slowly he relaxes and his eyes close, and he leans fully into me, trusting me to be there, trusting me to keep him safe. Trusting me to make it all right, like I said it would be.