The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn

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СКАЧАТЬ volunteered in the library at The Lemonade Stand, a unique women’s shelter in Santa Raquel. The place had become Elliott’s current daytime habitat.

      “Elliott?” She glanced into the bathroom to make sure her eight-year-old hadn’t sleepwalked to the toilet to relieve himself and stayed there.

      Suzie had met her on the landing as she’d walked up the second flight of the wide, winding, bannistered staircase that could have been in any number of old films. She’d said the boy hadn’t made a peep during the hour and a half Faye had been gone.

      “Elliott!” Not sure whether to be pissed at her son’s deliberate lack of response or worried about finding him before he hurt himself, she sped toward the living room and kitchen.

      Her son, thick sandy hair askew, looked up at her with eyes as blue as hers. His expression as dark as Frank Walker’s had been the last time he’d left bruises on her arm with his strong grasp...

      “Why didn’t you answer me?”

      Elliott spooned another mouthful of cereal between his lips, slurping. Dripping onto the small Formica table, too.

      She sat down next to him. He didn’t acknowledge her presence. Not all that unusual when he was in a mood, but there was always a tell. A flinch. A tightening around his mouth. He was only eight. Not yet capable of completely sealing himself off.

      Unless he was asleep. Like now. Hard to believe that a child could sit at the table with his eyes open, eating a bowl of cereal and be asleep—but such was her life.

      Looking out through the thin black bars on the large window overlooking the gorgeous, flowered backyard, Faye issued a silent thank-you.

      For them. The bars. They were the second reason she’d chosen this home. Suzie had told her the bars had been put on the upper windows by her great-grandmother, after a child had almost fallen out one hot summer day.

      The bars were tasteful. Decorative, expensive wrought iron that matched the fencing around the house and the rails on the front porch downstairs.

      They were what let her sleep at night. Elliott was locked in. There was an alarm system on the front door in case he did manage to find a key and get himself out of their door. And the bars kept him from throwing himself out as he’d tried to do the first night after they’d left his father.

      They’d been in a hotel. On the fourth floor. She’d awoken to the sound of the balcony door opening, and she’d had to rip him from a deathly clutch on the balcony rail. The next morning, he’d wondered how his forearms had gotten bruised. He’d remembered none of it.

      She’d checked both of them into a women’s shelter. She’d had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, no idea what to do. That had been in Mission Viejo, where she’d fled when she’d left Frank Walker.

      Almost two years had passed since then.

      Elliott was fine with the divorce. Never asked to see his father. Never spoke of him.

      But he was still sleepwalking.

      And he was still angry with her.

      Because she hadn’t stopped his father from hurting her, because she’d stayed.

      For starters.

      So here they were in Santa Raquel. Elliott had been referred to The Lemonade Stand as one of two choices for daily education with domestic violence counseling and emotional supervision. Technically he was homeschooled at the shelter.

      Reese Bristow had made the town the only choice. For her own healing.

      And perhaps for Elliott, as well.

      The boy finished his cereal. Carried the bowl with both hands to the sink, as she’d taught him when he was about two so he wouldn’t drop it and raise his father’s ire. Stopping by the table on his way past it, he wiped at the dribble of milk on its surface with his pajama sleeve. And then he was gone.

      Back to bed.

      She’d been told not to wake him during these episodes. She should watch out for his safety, but unless he was hurting himself, she should just let him be.

      He’d be up again in a couple of hours. Getting ready for her to take him to the Stand. Probably wanting breakfast. Not remembering a thing about his middle-of-the-night snack.

      Sitting at the table, thinking about the past few hours, about Elliott, about seeing Reese again for the first time in nine very, very long years, she considered getting some sleep, too.

      With tears dripping slowly down her face, she put herself to bed.

      On the couch in her son’s room.

      * * *

      “MOM, COME ON, we’re going to be late!” Was it just her imagination or was Elliott’s tone starting to sound like Frank’s?

      “I’ve got ten more minutes,” she told him, leaning over the sink to apply concealer under both eyes. She’d smoothed on extra foundation, too. And eyeliner. And lipstick.

      “Who ever heard of an EMT showing up at a crash in makeup gunk?” Shaking his head, the thick hair he preferred to wear down past his ears flopping, he turned and left her room.

      Frank had always insisted on a military cut. For himself. And for their son.

      Though Elliott had more stuff—furniture and toys—Faye had taken the larger of the two bedrooms when they’d moved in the week before. Mostly because she’d loved the claw-foot tub in the adjoining bath. Loved that the room had an adjoining bath.

      Almost as much as she’d been opposed to Elliott having one. At least if he had to cross the hall to go in the night, she’d have a better chance of hearing him.

      “Mom!” he called from the other end of the apartment, near the front door.

      Pulling on a clean set of the standard blue utility pants and shirt she’d been issued, Faye was nervous but excited. She slipped into the ugly black EMS boots she’d purchased as soon as she’d graduated from training four years before and reminded herself that she was not only worthy, she was capable.

      And had five minutes to spare.

      Surprisingly, Elliott was not standing impatiently by the front door. So far, he liked going to The Lemonade Stand. There were two other boys there his age. Both had mothers who were victims. He’d taken quite a liking to one of the older boys, as well.

      Maybe that older boy could be someone Elliott could look up to? Someone who’d be able to reach the little guy inside of Elliott—the little guy who’d spent years listening to the sounds of his mother’s sexual abuse without her knowing he could hear it?

      “Ell?” She turned the corner toward the kitchen. He’d already had breakfast. She’d fixed it—a lighter rendition than usual—and then run for the shower while he ate. The Lemonade Stand provided balanced and delicious meals, so he didn’t need to take a lunch.

      The boy turned around as she came into the room. She noticed his hesitant expression, like he wasn’t sure of his reception. And then she saw the paper plate he held in both hands. СКАЧАТЬ