Storms - 34. Daniel

I stumbled out of bed and ran for the bathroom, where I dropped to my knees before the toilet and vomited. My heart raced in my chest and tears were coming down my sweaty face. I spat, flushed, and sat back against the wall, trying to normalise my breathing.

Pepper padded into the bathroom and came over to sniff my face. She gave my cheek a lick, and I carded my fingers through her soft fur. ‘This is getting old, girl.’ My voice was hoarse and I sobbed. Pepper laid her chin on my shoulder and I hugged her, burying my face in her blue merle coat. It helped calm me down.

She’d been sleeping in my room for the past couple of nights. This was my third nighttime panic attack in a week.

‘Is it bad that this basically feels like routine now?’ I asked her, scratching behind her ear. She whined softly.

I heard footsteps on the landing and then the door creaked on its hinges and Stephen stepped inside. ‘Hey, pal.’ He came over and sat down on the floor on the other side of Pepper. He reached out and gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Did you have another one?’

I nodded. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ We sat in silence for a little while before he spoke again. ‘Can I get you anything?’

I sighed. ‘A new brain?’

Stephen laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stood and offered me his hand. ‘Come on, brush your teeth and we’ll get you back to bed.’

I let him pull me to my feet and then I hugged him. I’d felt awkward about initiating hugs at first, but it had quickly become such a normal part of our routine that now, having lived here for over two weeks, seeking that kind of comfort when I needed it was simply a matter of course.

After I had brushed my teeth, Stephen put me to bed. It should have felt awkward, being fourteen and being put to bed like a child, but it didn’t feel that way at all. My mum never tucked me in, not since I’d been old enough to do it myself, except for the odd good day. Now I let Stephen tuck me in and sit down on the edge of my bed. He smoothed back my hair with his hand. ‘Think you can sleep now?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I think so.’

‘You want me to stay?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I’ll be okay.’

‘Okay. Goodnight, Danny.’ As he stood, Pepper jumped up and lay down at the foot of my bed, a warm and reassuring presence.

Last week, I’d seen Camila twice. Once on Wednesday, and then again on Friday. This week would be the same, and I’d be seeing her tomorrow. Today? It was past midnight, it was already Wednesday. My anxiety was getting worse. Camila had told me that was normal, that when you’re digging into your trauma, talking about all the shit that’s led to anxiety in the first place, the anxiety will spike at first. She’d offered me anti-anxiety meds. I didn’t want them, but I was starting to reconsider.

Camila had pinned a preliminary diagnosis on me. Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sounded about right to me. Last Wednesday had been all about Loz, naturally enough. That had been surprisingly easy to talk about, all things considered. Maybe it was because it was still so fresh. Friday had been about my upbringing, mum’s exes. As it turned out, there were things I hadn’t even remembered. They’d started surfacing again, hence the heightened anxiety. I was missing school a lot. Stephen brought my homework home with him from school, and Lewis helped me with it. I felt a bit guilty for taking up so much of his time, but he assured me that he was happy to do it and that he was getting all his work done. That made me feel a bit better.

I stared up at the ceiling. I felt wide awake now, stress hormones and adrenaline flooding my body, probably. Camila was big on psychoeducation; telling me why my body and my brain responded the way they did when I was anxious, how it all worked and fit together. It made it easier for me. Made me understand rationally that I wasn’t to blame, that I wasn’t in control of how my mind and my body reacted to things.

‘Pepper?’ I whispered. There was movement at the foot of my bed. I scooted in towards the wall and patted the space next to me. She came up and lay down in it, and I draped my arm over her, once again burying my face in her coat. Fur therapy. After a little while, I fell asleep.

* * *

‘Last time we talked about Dylan and Ryan,’ said Camila. ‘Have you recalled anything more about them?’

I looked down at my hands. ‘I dunno. Had a nightmare last night . . . about Dylan being utterly wasted, kicking me. In the stomach, while I was . . . lying down.’ I took a deep breath. ‘He kept telling me how useless I was. Mum wasn’t there. He . . . he stomped on my hand. I think—’ I cleared my throat and raised my right hand in front of my face. I had never wondered why my pinky was a little crooked before. ‘I think that’s something that happened.’

Camila nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s not unusual for memories to resurface, even fragments, or for them to appear in dreams.’ She was silent for a while and I didn’t say anything either. ‘Shall we move on from them?’

I licked my bottom lip. Moving on from Dylan and Ryan would entail moving on to the next bastard. James. My stepfather. I closed my eyes for a moment and shuddered. Then I nodded. ‘Okay.’ I opened my eyes again. ‘Okay.’

‘What happened with James?’

I scoffed. ‘What didn’t happen with James?’ I sighed. ‘I was nine when they met. Mum was so happy. Ryan had buggered off a few months previously and she’d been really lonely. And James, he just seemed like a properly nice person. He was this clean-cut, proper gentleman, all friendly and sweet to her. He took her on dates, bought her nice things, made her feel like a princess. He was nice to me too. Until they got married. Cause then he had her, and he could start breaking her down. Started small, just bickering and stuff. Picked at her appearance, just . . . you know. Stuff like that. And then it got worse. They’d fight. He’d always win. And then he’d beat her.

‘He’d tell her it was her fault for driving him crazy. And she’d believe him, because the only one who’d ever told her she was worth anything at all was him, and if he took it back that meant she was worthless for real. She’d get depressed, and he’d pick on her for that, too. Berate her for not getting out of bed. And when she wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he . . . he took it.’ Images flooded my brain, of the two of them. ‘He . . . made me watch. And she . . . she’d cry and . . . and beg . . .’

The tears came out of nowhere. Or, probably not nowhere, but all of a sudden I was crying, sobbing. I hid my face in my hands, tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t told anyone that. Not Michael, when I’d told him about it all. Not Stephen and Lewis. Not the school or the social workers when I had told them about why I couldn’t go back to James. It was the first time I’d said that particular memory out loud.

Camila handed me a box of tissues. When I’d calmed down a bit, she asked, ‘Did this happen a lot? That he made you watch?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s . . . hard to be sure.’

‘You’ve said before that he never did that sort of thing to you.’

‘He didn’t.’ Of that I was certain. ‘He did a lot of other stuff to me. But not that.’

‘What other stuff?’

‘Beat me. Locked me in my room. He left me in there for over twenty-four hours once. Nothing to eat. Wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t even let me use the toilet. I . . .’ My face felt hot and I stared down at my hands again. They were shaking. ‘I wet myself. Couldn’t hold it anymore.’ I heaved a shuddering sigh, tried to control my heartbeat, which had sped up at the memory. ‘When I wasn’t hungry he made me eat anyway. If it was something I didn’t like, he made me eat more of it. I . . . I was sick a lot.’

‘So that’s been going on for some time, then. The vomiting.’

‘It was different, but yeah. And any time I did something he didn’t like, he punished me in some way. He’d use food as a punishment a lot, make me eat until I was sick. Or the opposite, deny me food until my blood sugar was so low I could barely stand. He’d beat me, or make me watch him beat her or . . . like I said . . . Guess it made him feel powerful or something. Any excuse to punish one or both of us.’

‘Was it like this all the time?’

I shook my head. ‘No. A lot of the time it was fine. Sometimes we’d even feel like a normal family. I was allowed to watch TV, play video games, hang out with my friends . . . not that I really had any, no real ones, anyway. But then one of us would do something to upset him, and he’d fly into a rage and it could last for days. I was . . . terrified. Cause I never knew when it might happen. I tip-toed around him, tried not to raise a fuss about anything, but then he’d take issue with something anyway, like the way I did the dishes, the marks I made in school, what I chose to wear.

‘And my mum, he’d accuse her of cheating, which was insane because she fucking adored him. She does adore him, she thinks he’s, like, God, basically. Or he’d tell her she was fat and needed to lose weight, even though she wasn’t at all. He’d take issue with the food she cooked, the way she kept his house, all sorts of stuff. She worked part-time, but she wasn’t allowed to have any friends. It was . . . It was worse for her than it was for me.’

Camila shook her head. ‘There’s no point in making comparisons like that, Daniel. You were a child. She’s an adult.’

‘I know.’ I met her gaze. ‘She could have left, right? She could have said, fuck this, taken me and left. But she didn’t. She had a choice, and I didn’t.’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘Not that simple, though, is it?’ I continued. ‘I mean, people stay in abusive relationships all the time. If it was as easy as just walking away, everyone would.’

Camila gave me a small smile. ‘You’re a remarkable young man, Daniel. You’re surprisingly reflective for a boy your age.’

I shrugged one shoulder. ‘I told Lewis I had to grow up fast. He and Stephen say they want me to just be a kid and not worry or think so much and all that. And they want me to express my emotions rather than keeping them in. But . . .’ I sniffed, felt another sob welling up in my throat. ‘But I have to. If I don’t . . . This is the only way I can, you know, control it.’

‘I know. You’re rationalising and dissociating. It’s a coping mechanism.’

‘That’s what I told Lewis. I feel like I’m disappointing them, though, by not being able to do what they want and, you know, just be a kid.’

‘They want that for your sake, Daniel, not for their own. Because they care about you. You’re not disappointing anyone.’

I was crying again. I wasn’t entirely certain when I’d started, and I wiped at my cheeks with my sleeve. ‘They’re so kind to me.’

‘Good,’ said Camila firmly. ‘You deserve some kindness.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. You do.’ And there was no arguing with her tone.

After managing to calm down again (and God, I was just so sick of crying all the time) I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about something.’

‘What have you been thinking about?’

‘I kind of want to see my mum. It’s been over two weeks and . . . Kind of feel like it’s time, you know? Do you think it’s a good idea?’

Camila seemed to consider. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ she asked. ‘Because that’s what matters.’

I licked my lips. ‘I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m angry. But I miss her, too. So I want to, I just . . .’

‘If you want to,’ said Camila, ‘then you have your answer. Remember, you don’t have to do it alone. You can have a social worker there with you, or your foster parents. You can probably bring Michael if you want. And if you don’t want to go to her flat,’ she didn’t say ‘home’ or anything like that, which I appreciated; it wasn’t my home, not anymore, ‘social services can set up somewhere else for you to meet.’

I nodded. ‘Okay. Then I probably will.’

* * *

In the end, I chose to bring Michael and Lewis. Stephen was great, but Lewis was calm and authoritative and just seemed to create a safe space wherever he was. Like he was always in charge somehow, but in a good way. Besides, it was coming up on Christmas, and Stephen had a lot of school stuff to deal with as well.

We went to the flat, though social services arranged the time. Probably a good idea not to just drop in unannounced, and I didn’t have the strength to contact her myself. Stephen or Lewis could probably have done it, but . . . better this way.

I felt nervous as I rang the doorbell. It took a while for her to come let us in, and we stood in nervous silence for nearly a minute before the door opened. She was fully dressed, at least. Impressive enough on its own.

‘Danny,’ she said softly. She stepped to the side and we all walked in. She didn’t try to hug me or anything. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed. We walked into the living room and sat down; Mum in a chair, the three of us on the sofa. I had Michael on my left and Lewis on my right. It felt safe.

‘Er . . . You remember Michael,’ I said. She nodded. ‘And this is Lewis, he’s my . . . my foster parent.’ I hadn’t been sure whether to say parent or dad, but for some reason, parent seemed safer. ‘He’s Stephen’s . . . er, Mr. Griffiths’s husband.’

‘Nice to meet you, Ms. Fowler,’ said Lewis.

Mum nodded. ‘Likewise.’ She didn’t look like she meant it.

There was an awkward pause. Then I said, ‘So, how are you?’

She sighed. ‘Same as always, really. It’s been . . . rough, without you here.’

I looked down at my hands, feeling guilty. I had sort of abandoned her, hadn’t I? She needed me and I had just . . . buggered off, left her on her own with her thoughts and her head. With no one to take care of her. ‘Are you eating?’ I asked softly.

‘I don’t really have much appetite, you know that.’

‘Yeah, but . . . are you at least eating something?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’m fine.’

I looked up at her, met her eye. ‘Are you angry with me?’ My voice was small, quiet. I felt small where I sat. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea after all. Michael seemed to instinctively sense what I was feeling, and he covered my hand with his. I laced our fingers together. I hadn’t told Mum I was gay, but she’d have to figure it out sooner or later.

She wasn’t looking at my hand, though. She was looking at my face, and she pursed her lips. ‘What have you been saying about your father?’

I frowned. ‘I don’t have a father.’

Mum ignored me. ‘You’ve been telling lies about him.’

‘I haven’t!’ My voice still felt small. Tiny. I couldn’t look at her, could only look at the coffee table where a nearly empty teacup stood. It must have been there for a while. Several green and white dots covered the surface of the milky tea.

‘You have. James is a good man!’ Her words, her lie, made me feel sick. I swallowed. I felt my heart rate increase, my breathing turn laboured. I wanted to speak, but my voice felt so tiny.

Then Michael spoke. ‘A good man? He’s an abusive prick!’ His voice was not small. It was big and warm.

‘Michael,’ said Lewis softly. His voice was big and warm, too. His presence next to me was big and warm and safe. They grounded me, both of them, just by being there. ‘Ms. Fowler,’ he said, turning to Mum. ‘If your ex-husband were such a good man, you would not have a son who gets near nightly panic attacks from his PTSD. Danny has a beautiful soul. He is kind and caring and loving, and I am sorry you cannot appreciate that.’

I hadn’t noticed the tears come, but I was crying silently, the tears dripping down into my lap. My gaze slid from the mouldy tea to Michael’s solid hand where it covered my own.

‘Daniel?’ Lewis’s deep voice was soft and kind. I looked up at him. ‘Would you like to go home?’

I swallowed, and then I nodded.

Mum didn’t move. She sat silent while the three of us stood to take our leave. She didn’t look at me, but now I looked at her. She looked so small where she sat, even smaller than I felt. She seemed cold and distant. Her eyes were glassy and she just looked so tired, and old, even though she was barely thirty.

‘Mum,’ I said. She looked up at me, though I wasn’t sure she really saw me. ‘I love you.’ She made no reply, and we left.

When we got outside, I broke. I doubled over, hyperventilating, and I would have dropped to my knees if Michael hadn’t been there to hold me. I drew a shaky breath and released a heavy sob followed by an anguished wail. Michael held me. Lewis stroked my back. When I finally felt like I could breathe again, I was struck by an overwhelming wave of love and affection for them both.

We drove home. Michael and I sat in the back so he could hold my hand. Nobody said anything, but the silence was somehow comfortable in spite of it all. When we got in, Stephen was there and gave me a tight hug. Then Michael and I went to my room and lay down on my bed, where he held me and kissed me and was big and warm and solid and home.