Who is this beautiful woman sitting across from me? I know she's had a rough past, but she hides behind so much more beneath the surface. She doesn't know it, but sometimes I ask her questions just to listen to the sweet Southern lilt of her voice. When she's animatedly telling me a story, her accent becomes more pronounced and her true beauty shines through.
She's a humble person. She doesn't live a high-maintenance lifestyle, and when I suggest she book an appointment for a day at the spa, she gapes at me as if I've asked her to recite the Chinese alphabet.
"What?" I ask, confused by her reaction.
Her brow furrows in deep thought, and her eyes bounce around the room, taking in everything and seeing nothing at the same time before finally focusing back on me. "I ... I've never been to a spa," she states with an embarrassed shade of red coloring her pale cheeks.
"It's not like I suggested a Brazilian bikini wax." Her horrified expression causes me to laugh. My head thrown back and my hand clutching my stomach.
Her face twists in mock anger, and she begins letting loose on me. "That's not funny, you big brute. Not all us have lived privileged lives."
At her offended expression, I laugh even harder and tears run down my cheeks. I raise a finger and point at her, my words coming out between bouts of laughter. "You ... should ... see ... your ... face." I double over and try to collect myself, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand.
I rise back up, my laughter dying down, and situate myself in my chair before casting a glance at her. Sure enough, she's scowling, and it's so damn adorable. "I can't help it. You're easily riled, and I can't resist causing that adorable pout on your face." I grin mischievously.
She blushes to her roots and gives a shy smile, tucking her chin down and looking down at her lap. "I don't know why I let you get me all fired up." She looks up at me under her long blond lashes and flashes a timid smile.
I can't help the face-splitting grin that overcomes me. These past few days with her have been fun. I've woken up to find her cooking a different breakfast every day, and each dish is more delicious than the one before. I enjoy chatting with her about her life, my life with Sophia, and the future of the baby she now carries.
It's an unconventional friendship, but I believe it's a friendship nonetheless.
Oddly enough, I find a slight comfort in that thought instead of an overwhelming fear.
Kara
Sometimes, it would be better if he were an asshole. This charming Will Scott is completely unsettling to my nerves. I don't know how or when it happened, but one day he just started being nice to me and treating me like a friend instead of a human incubator for his spawn. It's a refreshing change of pace, and I, for one, am grateful for it.
Will doesn't know it, but I started taking cooking classes at the Women Helping Women shelter. We meet twice a week, and outside of cooking classes, it's therapeutic to talk with women who have been through similar hardships.
The shelter is a large brownstone house on the other side of the city, just outside the low-income housing projects. But it's nice, comforting, and I've connected with the women who live there. They've helped me in more ways than I could ever repay them for. From learning how to cook to computer skills classes, I'm learning as much as I can.
After I have the baby, I'd like to go back and finish my art degree so that I can teach art to underprivileged children. The kids without parents are the ones who I want to give an outlet to. I want to teach them they can create a world where there’s nothing but beauty. No hate. No lies. No darkness. Only light, beauty, and love.
Most have lost all semblance of innocence, so the least I can do is show them how to capture that which has been taken from them. Their hopes can live on a canvas until they become tangible enough to grab.
Just as music is known to do, art offers escape to those seeking a world outside their reality. A world where they can live out their fantasies with the stroke of a brush. I've never felt freer of the world around me than when I hold a brush in my hand and feel the stroke as it meets the canvas. That feeling ... that sensation ... is instantly satisfying on levels that nothing else compares to.
I've seen some of the kids at the WHW shelter but haven't had the opportunity to begin teaching them. I'll need to become more familiar with the women and the caseworkers before I take that next step. I don't even know if an art class would be something they'd entertain allowing me to teach. After all, art supplies aren't cheap.
"Where'd you go?" Will asks, leaning over and waving his hand in front of my face.
I shake my head and give a smile. "Sorry. I was thinking about something."
He quirks a brow. "Care to share?"
When I don't answer, he calmly says, "Listen, I don't ask where it is that you go during the days because it's none of my business. Do I worry ... yes. But I try not to let that filter over into your day. I respect the fact that you have things that you don't want to share with me." He reaches over and slides his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face up so I have to look him in the eye. "But I'd really appreciate it if you could learn to trust me in the same manner. You're free to come and go as you please."
"I know. It's just that ...”
"What? You're afraid I'll judge you?"
I nod, my eyes hidden behind my lashes as I look down at my lap and fidget with a string on my sleeve. He gently nudges my chin again for me to look back up at him. When my eyes lock onto his, I see no judgement lingering in their depths. Just honest curiosity and maybe a slight need to understand me. I know I confuse him with my half-truths and the secrets he's aware I'm hiding from him, but he never pushes me for answers. He never asks the questions that I dread having to form an answer for. He just accepts me.
"It's a battered women's shelter. I go there twice a week to speak with counselors and volunteer for whatever they need help with. I was thinking about asking them if they'd be interested in having me teach art to the kids. But art supplies aren't cheap, so it'll probably be outside their budgetary means.”
He rises from his chair and walks toward the mud room. My eyes narrow as I lean back in my chair, trying to see where he went. When he comes back into the room, he's carrying his phone and his wallet, keys dangling from his finger. "You ready?"
"W-w-w-what?" I stutter, completely taken aback by his gesture.
He points toward the door that leads to the garage. "Let's go. I'll take you wherever you need to go to purchase supplies. It's on me."
At my confused expression, he chuckles a little and then takes me by the arm and walks me to the steps. "Go on upstairs and change clothes. It's still a little chilly out, so dress warmly."
I nod, in somewhat of a stupor, as I walk up the stairs and to my room to throw on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose fitting jeans.
Will
I've been trying to find out what it is that she does while I'm at work during the week, but the woman is intensely private. When she finally confessed that she'd been spending her time at a battered women's group home, my chest physically ached that she needed such support. The thought of a man putting his hands on her in anger and inflicting bodily harm sends my blood surging through my veins. Anger, fear, and the fierce need to protect her wreaks havoc on my normally calm demeanor.
I know she's only going to live in my home for the next eight months, but where will she go after that? Will she go back to the man who caused her so much pain? I'd like to think not. I'm hoping she'll use the money she's earned from our arrangement to afford a better lifestyle. She deserves so much better than what life has dealt her. She deserves to be loved and cared for and to have a family of her own. Anything less just wouldn't be acceptable.
But what really bothers me is the fact she's still not comfortable enough to talk to me about her past relationship. She never mentions him by name or even makes reference to their relationship. She just tries to hide her pain from the world and me. But I can see through the veil she's cloaked herself in. I
can see the unbridled spirit in her begging to be set free. The woman who needs to be made love to long into the night. The heart that needs sweet words of love and longing whispered in her ear until she falls asleep in a lover’s embrace.
That's what I envision for her. I want happiness to take a leading role in her life. She's had enough pain and hardship. It's time she caught a break and enjoyed her life as much as those around her. She's too precious to view life from the outside in.
It takes us about twenty minutes to reach an art store. When Kara walks in, her eyes go round as saucers. It's not just an art store; it's also a gallery. Some of the local artists sell their paintings in here. Some well-known. Some not. But all them are spectacular in their own right.
"Wow!" she exclaims, turning in a small circle and taking in the paintings lining the walls.
I chuckle. "Haven't you ever been to a gallery?"
She shakes her head and walks over to a painting to look at it closely. Her slender finger reaches out and runs lightly along a thick paint stroke along the bottom. A smile stretches the entire width of her face as she stares in complete awe at the piece in front of her before moving on to the next one.
For an hour, I watch her taking in each piece of art. She doesn't skip any of them. And each one lights her up from the inside out. She looks at them as if they were telling her secrets that only she could understand. At one point, I think I hear her actually giggle, but she quickly masks it behind her hand and turns her back to me.
I walk over and take a seat on a bench by the front window. When she walks out of my line of sight, I pull my phone from my pocket and begin checking work emails. Even though I've been scheduling Fridays and weekends off, my emails still tend to flood in no matter what time of day or day of the week it is. People need answers, and they refuse to wait until the timing is convenient for me to respond.
I'm just finishing up when her shadow casts over me, and I rise from my seat to help her with her bags. "I went to pay for my items, but the clerk said you had already arranged payment." She gives me an accusatory look but quickly sheds it when a bright smile takes over her beautiful face.
I reach forward and take the bags from her hands and smile back. "No need to thank me. I told you it was on me. Did you find everything you needed?"
"That and then some." She laughs to herself as she rummages through one of the bags. She pulls out a rust red looking stone and hands it to me.
"What's this?" I ask, rolling the stone around in my palm.
She reaches over and runs her delicate fingers over its smooth surface. "It's a lepidolite stone." At my bewildered expression, she continues, her fingers stroking the stones surface while it sits in my palm. "It's used to relieve anxiety and lessen stress in the user’s life. It naturally contains lithium which ...”
"Is used in anti-depressant medications." I smirk. "I'm a doctor. Medicinals are kind of my thing."
She giggles, reluctantly withdrawing her hand.
My fingers close tightly around the cool stone. "Thank you." I slip it into my pocket and extend my hand to her. "Are you ready to leave now?"
She nods. "I can't wait to take this to the shelter. The kids are going to love it."
Her happiness at such a small gesture pleases me in ways I can't express.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kara
"Roll it around in the breadcrumbs."
I roll my meatballs around like Muriel suggests then wash my hands so I can tackle the next task.
"I like my onions sautéed. Come, stir them like this." She whisks her wooden spoon through the onions cooking in the pan. "We'll make a batch with the works in them, and a blander one for the kids." Her chocolate brown eyes tilt up at the corners when she smiles.
Muriel has been on the run from her ex-boyfriend for the past year. She picked up in the middle of night and ran away with their infant son. One of the services the shelter offers is a haven for those seeking refuge from their abusers. They also offer programs to help women get back on their feet and teach them how to manage their finances so they can support themselves.
Until I'm not able to get around, I want to make the most of my trips to the shelter. I enjoy receiving cooking lessons from Muriel, which I'm currently being schooled on Italian meatballs. I also enjoy talking with the women. I've formed some important friendships at this place. Friendships I intend to foster for a long time to come. These ladies have slowly but surely helped me find myself.
I may not be the most adventure-seeking or fun-loving soul, but I'm me. And right now, that's pretty damn impressive.
I'm learning things about myself that I had never touched upon before. Cooking, sewing, and crocheting. Ava, the dayshift counselor, is even showing me self-defense moves. We're careful I don’t overexert myself in my current condition, but she's adamant that I learn the basic maneuvers to free myself should someone attack me from behind or try to drag me away against my will.
I hope I never have to use that skill set even though I'm slightly relieved to have learned them.
Then there's Jill. She's just an all-around badass who doesn't take shit from anyone. She killed her husband, and it was ruled as self-defense. Apparently, he liked to tie her up and do disgusting things to her. He also kidnapped her and hid her away in a mountain cabin for six months before she was able to escape. Jill is unlike anyone I've ever met, and I deeply admire her strength.
"There. Now, let's set the timer and have a glass of wine while we wait for it to cook," Muriel suggests.
Muriel is a second-generation Italian immigrant. Her parents own a restaurant in New York, where she's from, but she moved here when her boyfriend took a job in the city and left her family behind.
While Muriel sips on her red wine, and me on my water, she tells me her story. Each of the women come from horrific pasts, much like mine, and we all tell our stories when we're comfortable enough to lay our bleeding hearts bare for the others to see. It's not an easy thing to do, and I've only told them bits and pieces of my own story. But I know that someday I'll tell them everything.
"They separate you from the ones that love you. The ones who could support you if you needed them to. My ex made me feel like I was completely worthless. Like I was less than human." She tips her wine glass back and swallows a mouthful. "I used to think the sun rose and set on him." She shakes her head in dismay, her eyes looking far off into the past. "I thought he loved me like no other. But that wasn't the case." She leans forward and sets her glass down on the coffee table and then settles back on the couch, curling her long legs up beneath her and turning to face me.
"They're all the same, you know. Cowards. Liars. Cheaters. You'd think they would all be so very different, but they're not. Abusers have a pattern. They're predictable. They never stop even though they tell you they will. And they never love anyone more than they love themselves."
I can relate to all that. Jay was a classic narcissist. He always placed his needs and desires above anyone else's. He felt like he was the center of attention no matter where he went. And he never failed to remind me that he had done me a favor by marrying me because no one else would have stepped up to the plate like he did. Yeah, right. He was so full of himself.
"My ex was in law enforcement. Our second year of marriage was when he started hitting me. It wasn't all that bad at first. A slap here." I shrug. "A slap there." I shake my head as the memories threaten to take over. "But it got worse. So much worse." I take a drink of my water and move to stand from the couch.
"Are you leaving?"
"Yeah, I think I’d better."
And just like that, she lets it slide. She doesn't pressure me for more because she knows I'll tell her when I'm ready. That's what I love about this place ... There's no judgment here, just support. Women supporting women.
If only the rest of the world could see what a beautiful thing to behold that is.
"I'm going to speak with the administrators tomorrow to see if they'll approve the art
classes I mentioned earlier for the kids."
She smiles and leans forward to give me a hug. "You have such a good heart. You take care of yourself, young lady."
I grin. "Yes, ma'am."
I say my goodbyes to the rest of the ladies and then make my way outside where a cab is waiting to take me home.
Will left me a set of keys to the BMW, but I'd rather have someone else drive me. The ride home is always a nice time of reflection for me. I enjoy being a passenger and watching the bright lights of the city dim as we make our way to the suburbs. It's moments like this that I'm able to take it all in without it seeming to overwhelm me.
Pieces.
That's how I try to live my life these days.
In pieces.
And one piece at a time, it's all starting to fit together.
The thought fills me with a hope I haven't dared to have before now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kara
It's the day of Will's Spartan Race.
I hitched a ride with Abbi since Will had to be there early for check-in, and I wanted to sleep in a little. Apparently, Will and Mark, Abbi's husband, are running partners. The two of them have ran marathons, triathlons, and Spartan races together since college.
"It's like a big jungle gym for adults to run around and play on. Only, much more intense and slightly dangerous," Abbi tells me as we situate our lounge chairs for the first leg of the race.
"They have to tackle different sections, but their overall time is what places them and crowns the winner." We both take our seats and begin munching on the popcorn and lemonade we purchased from the snack stand.
"Where are the girls?" I ask.
A Whisper Of Solace Page 9