Casting Shadows

When he finally ate, on day three, he was clenching my blankie in his lap and everyone at the table smiled consentingly as he dug into his food without letting go of it. I felt as though I had done a heroic deed. That I had cured him of the sadness, that I had taken away his pain, simply by giving him my precious blankie.

It was wishful thinking. We all did our best to make him comfortable but that didn't necessarily mean that it actually made him comfortable. My parents seemed to understand that it wasn't that easy, that it was a slow process that often felt like taking one step forward and three steps back. But it proved more difficult for me. Back then I felt pretty useless. Today I know that it did make a difference. Today I'm aware that he still carries a piece of that stupid blankie around with him, even though it had been reduced to the size of a dishtowel. It is always there, in his messenger bag, wherever he goes.

A week after his arrival, my family decided it was best to move. Gerard would stare out the kitchen window at the house he used to live in and my parents said it wasn't 'healthy'. When I asked them what that meant, they explained that his mom and dad had done bad things to him in that house and he shouldn't have to look at it and be reminded of them. I didn't ask any further questions but nodded when they asked if I understood why we had to leave. And it wasn't that hard, I wasn't particularly attached to our house. These days I don't even remember what it had looked like.

The new house was like a playground for us kids. I tried to bring Gerard out of his shell, tried to get him excited about discovering and exploring this unknown territory but apart from sitting in the tire swing for a minute or so, he seemed detached and distant. Did he miss his parents? His home? He once told me that he actually had missed them at first and that it had taken him until the age of 11 to develop feelings of hatred and disgust towards them. That until then, he had focused these feelings on himself, had considered himself to be responsible for everything that had happened. He's still not completely over it. I kind of get it. We hold our parents in such high regard that as children, we rather take the blame than admit that what they were doing was wrong. And that's how abuse works. They take advantage of a child's love and trust, they use it to control in the worst way possible. My heart breaks all over again as I become aware of how devastating it must be while at the same time I realize that I will never be able to fully comprehend it.

Gerard's physical wounds healed, thanks to my parents' aftercare. Every night after his shower, my mom rubbed bio oil into his skin to help the scars fade. She massaged his back, his arms and legs, she lovingly tended to the burn scars on his tummy that looked like someone had pressed the edge of a hot flat iron against him. Although her touch was tender and she tried to make it easier for him by telling him a funny story or humming a lighthearted tune, he froze as soon as her hands made contact with his skin. But at least he had stopped crying.

The bond between us wasn't there from the beginning. It took a considerable amount of time for him to actually talk, as in, have a conversation. But when it happened, it happened with me. I don't recall what it was about but Gerard insists it was about a bird that had crashed into our window and which we then decided to take care of. If that really happened, it is weirdly symbolic, right?

I do remember the first time he really let me in though. It was a month after he'd come to live with us and he'd refused to eat dinner. He did that every once in a while. He was sitting there, his arms crossed, his legs restless under the table and no amount of coaxing would make him eat. When my mother finally sighed in defeat and told him he could leave the table, he jumped up and ran upstairs. An hour later, she attempted to get him in the shower which resulted in screaming and wailing from Gerard. He didn't want to take off his clothes. Both my parents tried, with all sorts of methods but nothing worked. Until I stepped into the bathroom.

'Skeeter, now's not the time. Please go back to your room until I get you.' my mom said but I didn't leave.

'Maybe he wants to take a bubble bath? Gerard, do you want to take a bubble bath?' I asked and his crying stopped, a confused look on his face replacing the tears.

We normally only took baths on sundays; during the week it was just quicker and less stressful for my parents to have us take a shower. I knew that he liked bubble baths though. All kids do, right? So I pulled out the box with our bath toys and immediately he was next to me, digging out his favorites. My mother was perplexed but filled the tub with water, adding Mr Bubble. I undressed and so did Gerard and a minute later we were sitting in the bathtub together.

My mom had to step out of the room because she started crying.

*

After the move it became a little easier. There were times, even though they were scarce, when I forgot about my parents, even in the first few weeks. And of course that was more doable in a new environment. When I was distracted or let myself drift into one of the many worlds of make-believe that I had created in my mind. I wasn't dissociating; if anything, I had to really concentrate on my daydreams in order to get any happiness from them. Which is both a good and a bad thing, I guess. At times I wished I was able to really escape reality or myself but now that I know how dangerous it could be I'm glad I didn't. It made it more painful, though.

Mr and Mrs Sloan still hadn't punished me and I was beginning to hope that they'd forgotten about all my wrongdoings. They never even raised their voice to me. When I refused to eat or get in the shower, they remained calm. They never forced me to do anything. That, in my mind, was one of their tactics. Something they would do so they could use it against me later. Be nice so I'd feel even worse for disappointing them. Although I didn't understand any of their ways to emotionally manipulate me, I was convinced they were doing it and it was working. Isn't it crazy? That despite craving an adult's affection, motherly love, positive reinforcement, a loving and safe home - I couldn't enjoy and appreciate it? The only times I wasn't wary of my surroundings was when I was with the other kids. As soon as we were alone in the backyard or one of our rooms, I could relax a little bit. However, another problem would then surface.

I had no idea how to play, let alone play with other children. So for the first few weeks, I just observed as Skeeter, Seth and Lucy played together. Just like with the kids at school, I envied them for their carefreeness, their innocence, everything. Envy is such a complex feeling though and I couldn't identify it back then. All I knew was the insecurity it caused which made me feel so fucking lonely. The confusion, that made me feel as though I didn't belong. They made an effort to include me, all the time, yet I was too scared.

Skeeter was the first who I dared to open up to. It happened in baby steps. She would educe a word from me every so often, or even a diffident smile. She would manage to get me out of my room and join them outside; sometimes her presence at the table made it easier for me to eat. It was in no way a daily occurrence, but it felt as though cracks were beginning to show in the walls I had built up and that was thanks to her. I remember the night she came into the bathroom, I remember it so clearly, it almost feels like it was yesterday. My throat was hurting from all the screaming, my hysteric sobs had left me on the verge of hyperventilating. At first I didn't even realize she had entered the room, until she asked me if I wanted to take a bubble bath. Honestly, I don't recall if I really loved bubble baths so much that the idea of taking one would have been enough to make me snap out of my crying fit. It was more about feeling safe with Skeeter there, I wasn't as vulnerable. She gave me a sense of security that I never had with anyone else and that was crucial, especially considering the mistrust I had for the adults.

We sat in that bathtub for over an hour. Skeeter had this tea party set and I had a pirate ship. At first I kept crashing her tea party, splashing water aggressively. She didn't get angry with me, instead she invited my pirates over for tea and cupcakes and since my pirates happened to love tea and cupcakes, they accepted the invitation. We were so engaged in our little game that I hardly noticed when Mrs Sloan washed my hair and back. Even as we finally got out of the tub and she put that weird smelling lotion on my wrinkly skin, it didn't make me feel as edgy as usual.

After this, both my foster parents and myself looked to Skeeter for support when things got difficult. Not in a burdening manner or as an easy fix; it was simply the only way that worked. It was obvious that she enjoyed it, too. She told me, years later that the urge to make me feel better had surpassed everything else back then. I secretly believe that's still the case and sometimes I feel bad. For invading her life like that. For seizing all the attention. Her parents had always been fair, had always made sure that no one ever felt neglected but there was no denying the fact that for quite some time, their focus was on me.

'I wanted it to be like that.' she says. 'I knew that it was the only way.'

She never elaborates on what exactly she means.

Notes

Another update for you guys! Thank you so much to everyone who rated, subscribed and commented so far - please keep sharing your thoughts. This isn't an easy story to write and feedback really helps.

Hope y'all have a great weekend xo