SquidgeWorld Archive

Leaving 04

Are We Leaving Again, Mommy?

It all started with the box -- my box of paper kisses. Jim's been patient, but I know he wants to know more about what things were like for me when I was a kid. I've already revealed far more than I intended. And I'm not quite ready to talk about some of this stuff -- the stuff I suspect he really wants to know. My Jim, brave protector of the underdog. I suspect when I finally do tell him, he'll be doing searches and tracking down people and issuing warrants -- even if it was years ago that all those things happened.

That's just Jim. He's the kind who needs to do something.

I was a little -- fragile -- after he found my box. I ended up sleeping on the couch, my head in his lap, and he never moved all night. God only knows how much sleep he actually got, but I was grateful for his presence. I know there were at least two times that my dreams got a little -- weird -- and it was his voice that chased away the fear and soothed me back to sleep. Too much had been stirred up that night.

But it's been a week now and things are pretty much back to normal. I'm double shifting between school and the precinct, but that's par for the course. And today was a good day. We closed two cases tonight; he's got that look that means since it was a good day, we can deal with some bad stuff. I haven't figured out how his mind works, I just know that's what he's thinking.

I'm wiping down the counter and he's putting the last of the dishes away when he turns and looks at me. "We gonna talk about this tonight, Chief?" he asks and I nod. Well, I nod and then I shrug. And then I shake my head. And then I shrug again. And stare at the floor. And wonder what the hell was I thinking when I told myself I could do this.

I'm just about to shake my head again when I feel his arms wrap around me. He hugs me hard and I lean into him, desperate for his support. "You've kept things locked up for too long, Blair," he says softly. "It's time to talk about it."

My head is buried against his chest and I'm sure my words are muffled, but I start anyway, knowing that if I don't, I'll never be able to.

"She didn't always leave me behind, you know," I say, and I can feel him nod even as he leads me to the couch and pulls me down. I kick my shoes off without being told this time, and snuggle up against his side. His arm is around me, and I feel safe.

With him beside me, maybe I can do this. Maybe I should do this. Maybe it's time to drag the memories out into the light of day and strip away their power.

"There was this one place... we were there for almost a year I think. Maybe longer." I wrinkle my brow -- I'm not real clear on timeframes. "I was still pretty young when we lived with Don. I think I had my fifth birthday right after we left. And ... I used to be invisible there." His arm tightens around me and I keep my head down, but nod. "Really, I was. I could be small and quiet and no one would even know I was there."

He clears his throat, and his arm is still tight around me and I wonder if I've said something wrong. Is he mad at me? But then he chuckles a little, even if it does sound forced, and says, "You? Small? Yes. But quiet? Now that I find hard to believe..."

I nod earnestly. "I was, Jim. Really. Don didn't like kids so I was real careful to be quiet and stay out of the way." I kinda look up from where I'm tucked against his side and I can see the muscles in his jaw twitch, but his hand moves gently on my arm and I wonder how he's able to do that -- be so tense in one place and so soft and gentle in another.

"How old were you, Chief?" he asks and I can hardly tell his teeth are clenched.

I shrug. "Four, maybe five." I shiver and he covers me with the afghan, tucking it in around me.

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

He stiffens and I pull away to look into his face. He seems worried about me. "Look, Jim," I say, "I know I wasn't really invisible, okay? It just felt like it at times."

He nods.

"Do you want to hear this?" I ask.

"Do you want to tell me?" His words are spoken so softly, if I hadn't been looking right at him, I would have missed them. His eyes are soft, filled with patience and a desire to listen -- if that's what I want.

I stare at him for a long moment, then nod slowly. Yeah, I think I do want to tell him. It's time. His hand strokes my hair, pushing it behind my ear and then he pulls me back again, settling me beside him, holding me in the shelter of his arms.

"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?" Jim asks me quietly.

I shrug. "They fought. Don and Naomi. It scared me."

"Weren't you scared in a dark closet?"

"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." I frowned. I remembered that fight. Don didn't think I needed a nightlight -- I was too big for baby stuff like that. But I wasn't going to tell Jim about Don -- not now anyway. Just about leaving.

"I kept it hidden in a boot in there. I can remember how it felt when I'd first slip into the closet." My heart picked up -- and Jim's hand stroked my hair again. I should have known that if I realized my heart rate had increased, then my Sentinel would too.

"The closet was under the stairs. I used to slip in, then crawl toward the back." I lifted my hand and touched my hair, not even realizing what I was doing. "The coat-tails would brush against my head. It was -- weird."

It was scary, but I can't tell Jim that either. And besides, I knew it was just the coats and the coats were better than Don.

Jim was waiting, so I went on. "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?" Jim asks me.

"They were labeled."

He looks at me in surprise. "You could read when you were four?"

I frown. "I guess so. I never really thought about it." I'm still frowning, thinking. "You know, I can't remember not being able to read."

He shakes his head and laughs, but pulls me close, leaning down to whisper against my hair, "My brainy anthropologist. I always knew you were a genius."

"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?"

Oh, damn. I wasn't going to tell him about Bear, but it just slipped out. Now he'd know about the flashlight, too. "Uh, my teddy bear," I explain, a little embarrassed.

He laughs shortly and cuffs me on the head. "You don't need to be embarrassed, Chief," he says. "You were only four."

"Did you have a bear?" I ask and he shakes his head.

"No. Not a bear." He looks at me as he says, "A blanket."

"Oh."

"My father took it away when Stevie was born. He said I was too big for it."

"Oh," I say 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," he says softly and his hand is in my hair again, trying to smooth the unruly curls.

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

He nods and holds me close.

"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?" Jim asks.

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

"Why did Naomi stay?"

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

He leans over and looks at my face, checking me to see how I'm holding up. And I'm surprised. This is hard, but I can do this with him here. And I find that I want to do this -- I want someone else to know. I want Jim to know.

"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." I gave a little laugh. "Silly, huh?"

"None of this is silly, Chief," Jim says quickly. "It must have been really scary."

I nod. It was. "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."

"It wasn't your fault," Jim says, his lips at my ear.

"I know."

"You were just a little boy."

"I know."

"Hardly more than a baby yourself." His voice gets softer each time he speaks.

"I know."

"You weren't responsible, Blair," he whispers to me. "You. Were. Not. Responsible."

I nod, 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," Jim mumbles and he rubs his face. "You were the child. She was the adult. You were not responsible for her love life -- for her life at all." He leans over and brushes a chaste kiss against my temple. "You were the good part of her life, Chief. She was lucky to have you."

I'm incredibly touched by his words and wish I could really believe them. But ...

"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."

Jim's arm is around me again and I'm glad. This part was scary. I mean, I know it's just a memory -- it's in the past and it can't hurt me, but it's still scary.

"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.'"

I roll my head up and look at Jim. "That was me," I say, like it needs explaining. Like Jim might have missed it. "Even then, I knew that was me."

He rubs his face again and hugs me. I don't think he knew what to say to 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."

"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?"

"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.'"

"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!"

"Blair!!"

Jim is shaking me, and I look up, confused. I was still sitting on the sofa, but he'd moved. He was kneeling in front of me now and his whole face just screamed worry. What happened?

"Huh?" I ask in an atypically non-articulate fashion.

Jim's hand is on my forehead and I wonder if I'm sick. Then he's holding my face and looking into my eyes and I try to look like I know what's going on. "Am I okay?"

He just kneels there, studying me, then shakes his head. "I don't know, Chief. Are you?"

I lift my hands and scrub at my face. I was a little confused. A little upset. I hadn't thought about this stuff in years. "I th-think so," I manage to stammer. "I just feel a little -- strange." I shiver as a chill sweeps over me, and Jim rises smoothly to his feet. I can hear the linen closet open and close and before I know it, there's another blanket over me. I nod my thanks but the movement is lost in another whole body shudder.

"Tea," he says as he watches me.

I start to rise, to go and make the tea and he pushes me gently back onto the couch.

"Stay here," he growls, but I hear the concern in his voice. "Stay under the blankets and get warmed up." He turns and is in the kitchen before I have a chance to protest, so I just shrug and snuggle under my covers. I can't imagine why I'm suddenly so cold. Or why I'm trembling like this.

Jim's back now and he's pushing a mug of tea into my hand. I breathe deeply -- the orange spice smells so good. "Thanks," I mumble as Jim sits beside me, readjusting me, the afghan, the blanket, a pillow that has appeared from somewhere, until all of us are in a comfortable cocoon. I'm sipping the tea, and with that and the blankets and Jim's solid body that I'm resting against, I begin to feel warm again.

I drink again, then pass the mug to Jim and he sets it aside. I'm tired now. I feel like I've run a marathon and yet, I don't think I've finished. I look up at my partner and he still looks worried, but not as much so as he did fifteen minutes ago. I'm still confused, so I ask, "What happened, Jim?"

"I think you had a flashback, Chief," he says softly.

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

He shrugs. "That's what it looked like to me. 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." He tightens his hold on me. "Oh, and you were non-responsive."

"Oh." What else is there to say?

"You've got some serious repression of your own going there, Chief." He looks me in the eye as he speaks. "You realize that, don't you?"

I shrug. "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." I reach out and he hands me my tea. It amazes me how in tune he is to my wants. I sip again, relishing the sweet spiciness and welcoming the warmth.

He snorts. "You'd never let me get away with that kind of an answer, Blair," he says, and he's right.

Damn! Have I really been repressing things all this time?

"You want to tell me the rest tonight? Or have you had enough?" His voice is patience personified. He'll listen if I want to talk, support me if I get upset, be here for me no matter what. And if I say I've had enough, he'll hold me on the couch, or tuck me in my bed, or simply sit with me if I can't sleep. He's letting me hold all the cards and he'll let me do whatever I need to do. I love this man.

"I kept crayons and a pad under the stairs. Sometimes I was there for a long time, and it was something to do."

He nods and takes the now empty mug from my hands, then tucks me back in.

"They'd gone out on the porch after the kitchen. I couldn't hear them anymore. So I was drawing." A thought occurs to me and I sit up. This is important and I want to see Jim when I tell him. "Do you know what I drew? Over and over again?"

He shakes his head, a question in his eyes.

"A cat." I watch him as I speak.

"A black cat." He doesn't realize yet.

"A big black cat." I see the understanding dawn in his face and he reaches out and draws me to him, hugging me hard.

"Oh, Chief," he says with a sigh. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

I work my hand up between us -- no mean feat as he's clutching me hard -- and pat his chest. "It's okay, big guy. You were, what? Fourteen?"

He nods miserably. "I didn't know."

"It wasn't your fault." I repeat his earlier words to him. "You didn't even know me then."

His hand comes out and strokes my jaw, moving slowly from ear to chin and resting lightly there. "I wish I had. I wish I could have -- done something." He sighs again.
"I wish I could do something."

"You are," I tell him softly. "You're listening."

He watches my face, then nods and resettles us. Once again I am cosseted with blankets and coccooned against him. "So," he says, and I can hear a smile in his voice now. "A big, black cat."

"Yeah." I smile, too. "I liked black cats."

We sit there for a while and then I take a deep breath and plunge ahead. "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." I close me eyes and burrow closer into Jim. "He grabbed her. I think he hit her." I shudder and Jim's arm tightens around me. "I crawled under the blankets in my special place and hid. I was really, really scared."

"I bet." Jim's voice is so soft, I can barely hear him.

"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." My stomach lurches as I remember the exact words. "He was getting away from her and her bastard son."

Jim's head is buried in my hair and he's stroking my arm. It's comforting. I think he kissed me again, but I'm not sure.

"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."

I stop, a thought having just occurred to me. I was four when I started counting the times Naomi left me. I wonder if this was the genesis for that little habit?

"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."
I close my eyes for a minute, remembering. "And then it got very quiet."

I'm starting to shake again, but Jim is soothing me. He whispers in my ear and I can't make out the words but the tone and his touch calm me and I remember I am not alone.

"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."

I look up at Jim and there are tears in his eyes, tears on his face, but he hasn't moved, hasn't made a sound. He sits there silently and holds me, and weeps for me, and never makes a sound. I reach up to wipe his face, but he stops me. His hand holds mine and he shakes his head. "When did you leave?" he asks and his voice only breaks once.

And so, because I don't want this to hurt him anymore, I tell him. "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."

I frowned, remembering how tall those stairs had seemed and how tired I had been. And scared. I couldn't figure out why my legs wouldn't work.

"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."

I looked up to see if Jim was okay, but his face was frozen. He had his cop face on -- the one he used when he didn't want anyone to see how upset he was. I hated this. Why were we doing this again? Oh, yeah. Because Jim thought it would be good for me.

I sighed and rubbed my face. "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."

Jim pulled me closer.

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

I shift on the couch and suddenly focus on the spot on Jim's shirt where I have been laying. It's soaked. One great big wet spot. And that's when I realize I am crying now. I don't know when I started and I don't know if I'm ever going to stop, but Jim is whispering in my ear again and I am so tired. He's telling me it's all right, and I can go to sleep, and I'm not leaving and he's not leaving and this is my home and everything is going to be okay.

And because this is Jim, and Jim doesn't lie to me, I close my eyes and go to sleep. And I know that in the morning I'll be here, and he'll be here, and we will both be home.