So, this is what being vulnerable means.
I exhale a light breath. “I went to my parents’ room one night, fully ready to tell them what I had done, what had been done to me, and how much I needed their help to deal with it all. But I never got the chance. Because as I stood there, as I listened to how my mother got pregnant only to secure her future and how I meant absolutely nothing to my father, it completely broke me. I was done fighting to be noticed, to be a part of their lives. So, I gave up and gave them what they wanted.”
I glance at Genny, the light from the fire reflecting in her unshed tears. Adam’s expression is much the same, and for a change, I feel the need to console him. I reach to the side and grip his hand, and in turn he squeezes my fingers softly, offering his encouragement and support.
I give him a wobbly smile in thanks, but the warmth of another finger touching the scar draws my attention away from Adam’s glistening eyes.
“They should have protected you, kept you safe.” Lukas’s baritone voice is soft, but clear. “I tried to protect someone once.”
He continues tracing up and down my scar, his eyes on my arm as they track the movement. “I was abandoned on the street, found on the brink of death, wrapped in a blanket beside a dumpster. I was a ‘miracle baby,’ or so they said. I’ve read the articles, trying to track down clues about my mother, but all I found was the fact that once the hype of my survival was gone, so was I. After my fifth foster home, I gave up trying to adapt. I stopped speaking completely. To foster parents, to state-provided therapists, to anyone really. Until her.”
Lukas’s eyes lift from my arm to meet mine, and the pain reflected in them shatters my heart. I feel so insignificant within the depths of his agony, but I can’t look away. My eyes remain locked with his, silently willing him to continue speaking. And seemingly lost in the moment, he does.
“It was in my last foster home. I was fifteen. Michelle was eight. She was such a tiny thing—she followed me everywhere. Never said a word, she just…followed. She would stop walking the minute I turned around, finding refuge behind any available corner, and I would wait for her curious eyes to eventually peek around the wall at me. We were cut from the same cloth. I could read her mind as though it was my own. She was scared, but for some reason, she trusted me. And I trusted her. I can’t really explain it.”
Lukas shakes his head, and I feel him pulling away, so I release my grip on Adam’s hand and turn in Lukas’s direction. Giving him my full attention, I reach forward, and brazenly take both of his hands into mine. Surprisingly, he laces our fingers together, his brows drawn tightly as he inspects our joined hands.
After some fidgeting, adjusting his grip, rethreading his fingers, he continues. “She was the first person I spoke to in years. It started slowly, a word here and there, then full sentences shared between us. Simple stuff really, but it was nice to have someone to talk to. It wasn’t long until I was reading her stories every single night. I stayed with her until dawn just to make sure I was the only person who tucked her in. I wanted to make sure she felt safe. I just…I had seen so much shit happen in other homes, I refused to let it come near her. I wanted to protect her.”
When Lukas looks up, a tear escapes and trails down his cheek. “But I couldn’t. After months, I was exhausted. One night was all it took. I fell asleep and left her alone. When I woke, I ran to her room, and…”
He shakes his head, chin trembling. “It’s burned into my memory. I see it every single night when I go to sleep. The hem of her nightgown around her neck, our disgusting foster parent hovering above her, hands where they shouldn’t be, violating her. And God, the fear in her eyes. I just…I just fucking lost it. I pulled him off her and beat him until he was unrecognizable. I would have killed him if the cops hadn’t showed. I intended to kill him.”
Lukas grips my hands tighter, too tight, but I take the pain willingly, for him. Because I understand the need to be heard. And this is his moment, every single agonizing recollection of it. “They hauled me away on assault charges. I spent eight months in juvie then was released to Sacred Heart until I age out and the state can safely wash their hands of me.”
Another tear falls. “I don’t think I’ll ever know what happened to Michelle. I tried to track her down, but there’s no record of her anywhere. All I know for sure is I failed her. I didn’t protect her.”
Lukas presses our palms together, his and mine. “You should have been protected, too.”
His face crumbles in defeat, and I do the only thing I can think to do. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and squeeze him so tightly even I have trouble breathing. I simply hold him as he cries, his tears dissolving into the fabric of his hoodie, and I hold him just as securely when the other Wildflowers join our embrace.
Together, as one, we absorb his pain.
Without question, as we’re knotted together in a sea of arms, we relinquish and redistribute every ounce of wrongdoing, every ounce of injustice, every ounce of pain equally among the four of us. We take everything he has so vulnerably offered as though it’s our own. It’s the only way to make the enormity of that much pain bearable. And as we hold on to each other, flashes of Lukas and his inherent need to protect the vulnerable flood me.
In fact, since he entered our lives, I can’t remember a time when he hasn’t protected each of us.
I finally see him, and now I understand exactly what he needs. What we were meant to provide him.
Not a group of people meant to guard and protect, but a family in which he finally belongs.
So, we give him us.
And as he clenches the fabric of his hoodie in his two trembling fists, I know he willingly accepts our gift.
SUMMER
11
The heat of summer is upon us, and we have a gazillion keep-the-kids-busy-and-out-of-trouble projects queued up. I’m currently working with Genny on the third item on Mrs. Rodriguez’s list: repainting the wooden fence lining Sacred Heart’s property. All two acres.
We’ve done exactly two planks in as many days.
It’s going to be a very long summer.
Adam has it much worse though: he’s sentenced to garden upheaval and lawn maintenance.
Poor guy.
Meanwhile, Lukas has been given the task of repairing the practically unsalvageable Chevy in order to squeeze out its last remaining miles, and we use every single one of them to our advantage. Because though we may be somewhat separated during the day, at night we come together, borrowing the Chevy to visit the wildflowers and swim in our pond.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with my bare arm, noting how free I feel, no longer bound by the need to wear my gloves. While I did wear them to finish out the school year, I don’t wear them anymore. Not here, anyway. I shed that necessity in the tears I shared with my Wildflowers that night and there is no way to adequately describe the peace I’ve felt since.
April and May flew by in the blink of an eye, and a few other changes should be noted.
Surprisingly, Leah Allen gave us a wide berth the remainder of the school year. While she still played ‘the bitch’ to perfection, I, thankfully, was no longer on the receiving end of her displaced anger. None of us were. She even called off Eric Warner and her other minions, declaring a ceasefire on the rightful possession of the Jesus Table during lunch.