Page 65 of Your Sharpest Edge
“No. I want to know if you’re still a whore. I want to know if you still cry when you take dick?—”
“Bye, Dimitri.” I hung up.
This conversation was clearly over, and if the lawyers wanted to yell at me, I’d tell them to review the tapes of the recording.
I sighed before glancing over my shoulder.
“Ready for camp, Damien?” I asked with a smile.
The last place I wanted to be was here, but this was my only option for summer camp, and thankfully, he’d turned five and was able to participate in the program this year.
With him at Kids Camp, I’d finally be able to switch over to day shift and hopefully feel like I was actually human again. I’d been working the night shift as a dispatcher for the last couple years, and then I’d come home and take care of Damien. I was utterly exhausted, trying to fit in my sleep when he was at his half-day preschool.
This freedom meant I wouldn’t have to rely on my roommate, Alina, to watch Damien for me while I worked the night shifts, but taking off an entire day to be here for family day and learn how to throw a ball around was grating on every nerve. To top it off, Damien was having a bad morning, not listening, which made us late, and I hated when all eyes were on me.
“How old is this little guy?” a Kids Camp worker in a white shirt asked me.
We were outside at the adjacent park, where everyone was being sorted into separate groups. Some hockey players were here and were supposed to come around to each group, which only amplified my desire to get out of here.
I had spent four years never listening to a hockey game like my life depended on it. I would walk away from any conversation where the sport was mentioned, and I would avoid bars and restaurants on game nights like the plague. Hockey was a painful reminder of my ex-husband, a man who nearly took my life away.
Hockey, for me, became synonymous with fear and pain. It wasn’t just a sport—it was a symbol of a past I desperatelywanted to forget. And yet, even as I stood in that park, the mere mention of hockey players being present made my skin crawl and my heart race.
On the contrary, it was also a reminder of the one man I pushed away when I was at my lowest low. The one person who offered me his hand every time, and I was too scared to take it.
He was everything my husband wasn’t—gentle, understanding, and patient. But the scars of my past ran too deep. It took me an entire year before I walked again. My mother was fortunately able to stay with me, but any money we’d won in court went to all my medical expenses. If he had stayed, I would have pulled him down deep into my hole, and I truly wasn’t ready for it.
I was trying to keep it together for Damien’s sake, yet the thought of seeing a hockey player up close was almost too much to bear. I dreaded hearing a name I recognized or seeing a familiar face, and it felt like no matter how far I ran, my past was always right behind me.
“He’s five,” I said softly to the counselor, who gestured for us to head over to the corner of the park, where another counselor was already handing out gloves and mitts.
“I don’t wanna do this. I wanna stay with Alina,” Damien huffed and shoved his hands across his chest.
“Mommy will be able to spend all the time in the world with you after camp. This is really good for us.”
Damien looked up at me, his curls high with the Midwest summer humidity, which reminded me of my disdain for this place. I had only come to the city with my mother when my doctor in California suggested we try the rehab facility out here to help with my injury since they were rated the best in the country. I was grateful when they did help and I was able to walk, but when my mom had to go back to Russia, I was stuck.
“Okay.” Damien finally gave in, and I held his hand while we walked over to the big group of people.
“Hey, little guy. My name is Peter,” the counselor said. “Do you want to learn to play baseball with your mom?”
Damien nodded, and I only smiled, grateful that I decided to wear bike shorts and an oversized T-shirt because I was so sweaty.
We grabbed a mitt and threw the ball like the counselor showed us, and while the birds chirped in the tree above us and the sirens sang beyond the park, it was a nice reprieve to be here and not have to listen to all the heartbreak within the city.
“What do you do for work, Mom?” Peter asked.
He was a kid, not older than eighteen, and this was his summer job, but he seemed genuinely happy to be here.
“I’m a dispatcher,” I said with a smile.
“Wow. You must hear some stories.”
“Stories” didn’t even begin to cover what I heard every day. It was more like pain, suffering, and anguish on a loop. But when I had been in my wheelchair, it was also the easiest test for me to study for, so I just kind of fell into it. I like to think I’m helping people on their worst days, just likehehelped me on mine.
“I do,” I said, tossing the ball to Damien, who giggled as he ran to catch it.
“I love your shirt little dude. Where did you get that?” the counselor asked Damien, whose green eyes lit up with pride.
