My skin crawls and stomach churns with revulsion and the little smirk he gives me—just a hint of the curl of his lip—tells me he knows how it’s making me feel and is enjoying it. He tucks his tongue in his cheek before giving me a slight nod of the head and looking back toward his wife.
I watch them try to interact with Zander. They attempt to talk about things he has no interest in. Because he’s a thirteen-year-old boy now, not the seven-year-old they once might have known. SpongeBob isn’t cool and Xbox is no longer the coveted game system I want to scream at them. He loves soccer and building Halo Lego sets and reading Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.
You don’t know a thing about him! All you want is the money that comes with him.
I can see beneath their brushed hair and best clothes. I can see the wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’m certain they have no concern for Zander or his best interest. And it all becomes more than obvious the longer Zander remains silent and unresponsive, because the two of them shift their fidgeting and attention toward each other with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders, silently asking each other what to do now that he’s not answering them.
I glance over to the caseworker sitting on the other side of the yard with his legs crossed, ankle resting on opposite knee, and a clipboard balanced on his leg. And while he may have a pen in hand and paper he’s supposed to be taking notes on, his phone sits atop the paper. He’s so busy texting someone he hasn’t once looked up to watch the interaction—or rather lack thereof—nor notice the ever-disappearing presence of Zander losing himself to the safe world he created in his mind so very long ago. That same world I spent months pulling him out of, showing him not everyone is bad and evil—out to hurt those they love—and that it was safe to step outside.
My body vibrates with anger, my teeth bites into my tongue because all I want to do is go to him, pull him into my arms, and reiterate the promise I made him all those years ago: I’m never going to let anything bad happen to him ever again.
Lost in my observation, I forget Jax is there until he motions with his hands to silently get my attention. And when I look at him, his eyes express the same thing as Kellan’s, indicating he feels the same disbelief.
No way in hell are they taking Zander from us.
Now I just have to figure out how to prevent that.
“Zander?” I call as I enter his room. The shades are pulled closed and the light remains off, but through the light of the open doorway I can see him curled up on his side in his bed.
When he doesn’t respond, the sense of dread that has been tickling the back of my neck and making my stomach churn exacerbates. I glance over to Shane opposite me in the hallway and the concern in his eyes mirrors how I feel.
We move into the room together. Shane lived here long enough to know the drill, so he stands against the wall to observe while I step forward to engage Zander. And my immediate worry is that Zander has closed off even more. Jax and I spent five minutes with the caseworker, providing valid reasons why the uncle is not a good fit to foster Zander. I feel like our arguments fell on deaf ears. Now, looking at Zander rocking on his bed with his beloved stuffed dog held tight to his chest, I’m more worried than ever. I can’t remember the last time he climbed up to the top shelf of his closet and pulled the sacred dog from its box. The only tangible reminder of his old life.
I sit on the chair next to the bed and feel a whisper of hope when he scoots back as if to make room for me. “May I?” I ask, as I reach out to touch him, hating feeling like we are back to square one. When he nods his head, I breathe a little sigh of relief. He isn’t closing himself off from me completely. Silence weighs heavily around us. The smell of his fear almost palpable, and unfortunately one I know all too well when it comes to my boys.
God, how I’ve missed them.
I use my touch to soothe because I know words won’t do anything for him right now. And then the idea comes to me.
“I have an idea.” I scoot off the chair and very slowly lower to my knees. I rest my arms on the comforter with my chin atop my hands so we are face to face. I take in his downturned mouth and wait for him to look up to me so he can see I’m here and not going anywhere.
“I think we should play the ‘I’m’ game,” I say, hoping he goes along with it, as it would afford me a glimpse into how far he has relapsed.
His eyes flash up to meet mine, and I see something flicker in them but wait him out, knowing that patience is so very important right now. I reach out and put his hand in mine, needing to ease some of the loneliness I can feel emanating from him.
He opens his mouth and then closes it a few times before finally speaking, his voice a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Two words. I’m scared. They’re all it takes to make me close my eyes and take a deep breath, because in that moment, I’m reminded of Colton’s confessions a few nights ago. I realize that no matter how old they are, the fear will always be there. It will morph and change over time, but the invisible scars of their youth have left an indelible mark and will always have a profound effect on how they process emotion and deal with changes.
“I’m scared too,” I tell him, causing his eyes to widen and prompt me to explain further. “I’m scared you’re going to pull away and not realize how much I’ll fight to keep you safe and sound.”
“I’m worried that it won’t matter to them, because I’m just a number in a broken system and they’re going to want to tick me off as done,” he confesses, and it amazes me how very intuitive he is with regard to the systematic process we have worked so very hard to shield him from.