Page 4 of His Wild Storm
The healing started the moment Ed pulled up with the car he got for me with worry in his eyes and praise on his lips. He called me brave as he helped get Wilde strapped into his seat in the back. He told me how proud he was as he loaded the bags I had been packing and hiding for months. He told me about my strength as he helped me slide into the car.
Then he kissed my forehead, slipped more cash into my hand, and reminded me about the phone he got me and put on his own plan because he needed to make sure we could keep in contact.
I’m not sure I will ever be able to express my gratitude to Ed. Even while I moved across the country, I kept him in the loop while never telling him where I was exactly. There was no way Iwas going to give him information that he could be threatened over. Not when plausible deniability is a thing.
Wilde took to our road trip across the country like it was an adventure he was just waiting to go on. He looked out the window and saw more of the world every day than he had been given the opportunity to see, more than he probably even thought about seeing. We listened to music, some songs over and over again until we could sing them together. At the top of our lungs like we were on tour.
We laughed and stopped at the kinds of places which, all too often, get lost in the shuffle of life. There were caverns with stalactites and stalagmites. There was an art installation with vintage Cadillacs buried nose-first in the ground. There were the duck boats that go from street to river with a speed which had me holding onto my seat while Wilde screeched with a glee I didn’t think I’d ever see on my son’s face. There was a ball of twine which was oddly impressive. There was the quirky Roswell which was a UFO enthusiast and conspiracy theorist dream come true. Wilde has looked for aliens everywhere we’ve been since.
We saw so much.
Where we went wasn’t even the best part of the trip. Nor was the safety we clung to as we put more miles between us and Ryan. No, the best part was the little conversations we had about the future and what we want it to look like. Wilde’s little eyebrows would pull together, and he’d get so serious whenever we talked about what happens next.
“We’ll find a place to call home,” I promised him one evening as the sunset painted the sky in purples, pinks, and oranges.
“Mommy,” his voice was tiny, as if he was afraid to break the peace we had been building, “as long as you’re happy and no one can hurt you again, it’ll be enough.”
Tears filled my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. Not because I was afraid he would see them as weakness, but because he needed to see my strength. And I never wanted him to think that his words, his hope, hurt me.
Did they make me feel like I had failed him for the first three years of his life? Yes. But I also know the power of fear. Getting out sounds so simple. Until you’re there, exhausted and scared to breathe.
After landing in Seattle, I stumbled across some people who I never thought would end up being a lifeline. The last people I would have expected to be kind and helpful would be some badass bikers. But the men of the Devil’s Saints Motorcycle Club are big softies and not only with me. The way they treated Wilde made the long hours on the road and the fear I’m always pushing away worth it.
My son had huge, scared eyes when the bikes pulled up next to us at a gas station. Fear was written on his face, but there was still some excitement as he looked at the bikes. It’s not like I could blame him. What three-year-old isn’t excited to see motorcycles?
The moment they saw me and the way my shoulders were curled in on myself, they stilled and gave me plenty of room. My heart was pounding in my chest and everything in me wanted to make a run for it.
“Excuse me,” the whispered words coming from behind me had me jumping and barely swallowing down a scream.
When I whirled around, I found a beautiful curvy goddess with short blonde hair covered in a handkerchief like a starlet instead of a woman who just climbed off the back of a bike. She was looking at me with curiosity and something like pride. As she held her hands up in front of her, my eyes darted between her, Wilde, and the men who were clearly trying to give us space. To say I was unnerved is an understatement.
“I’m sorry,” the woman kept her voice soft and pliable as if it would be enough to get my breathing to slow down, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She swallowed hard and shuffled a few steps closer. “My name is Navy. I notice how you have some bruises which look like they’re almost healed.”
“So?” The croaked, single word question felt like sandpaper in my throat.
“I’m not judging you, honey,” she murmured. “I just thought you should know these men are not a threat to you. It’s clear you’ve been hurt. By the way your son is watching you and waiting for a cue about whether to be scared or interested in all the chrome, I can hazard a guess about your past. If you’re looking for a safe place, we can help you. My men,” my eyebrows pulled up in confusion, but she just smiled softly, “do a lot of work with women who are trafficked and because of that they are connected to resources who could help you.”
“Okay?” I shook my head in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand.”
A large man wearing leather and patches saying “President” and “Spark” stepped up behind Navy. “We’d like to extend the invitation to come to our clubhouse.” Panic started to fill me, and it must have shown on my face. “You and your son will be safe there. No one can come in if we don’t want them there. You’ll have a safe place to spend a few days, and we can talkabout options for your next steps. We know people who run domestic violence shelters and not just in Seattle. We can hook you up with people who can help not only you but your son moving forward happy and whole.”
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes and my knees threatened to give out. Even though fear wanted to take over, I recognized his words for what they were—an opportunity.
“I’m going to take your offer.”
Wilde let out a cheer, and I realized he could hear our entire conversation. His excitement had a small smile lifting the corner of my lips.
After spending a few days with the DSMC, we left Seattle. But I left with a plan and people at my back. It was a hell of a lot more than what we left Connecticut with. We drove down through California because I wanted Wilde to see the Pacific Ocean. Then we made our way to Nevada, and I’ve been in Seneca Falls ever since.
The women’s shelter here isn’t just about being in crisis. It’s about starting over and looking forward.
I’ve found a little sliver of peace here and Wilde no longer has shadows in his eyes built upon fear and forced quiet. He’s found his voice and isn’t afraid to use it. And he’s made friends.
I’m grateful as hell I found a soft place to land here. Even if it does feel temporary. The need to keep moving has been creeping in over the last few weeks and is getting harder to ignore.
“Good morning, Haven.”
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Eliza, one of the women who volunteers here. I’ve gotten to know her over the last few months and she’s good people. She’s quirky, artistic, thoughtful, and isthe kind of woman everyone deserves as a mom. I hope her kids, who are all grown with deep roots in Seneca Falls, appreciate her.
