Page 7 of His Wild Storm
But Ryan didn’t appear.
“Don’t tell me you forgot what today is,” he accuses. I don’t have to look at his face to know how serious the look he’s giving me is.
I blow a raspberry on his belly which was exposed during the tickle extravaganza. His laughter ramps up and sounds like pure joy to me. If contentment were a sound, it would be my son’s laughter.
His freedom.
When I pull back, his smile is all sunshine and his eyes sparkle with happiness. There’s a lightness about him I never saw until we escaped.
“Today?” I tease him by tapping my chin and twisting my lips to the side like I can’t remember what he’s talking about. As if I would really forget. “Is there something special about today?”
“Mom,” he whines, his little eyebrows pull together, and annoyance is written all over his face. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Today is the first day of art class.”
“Art class?” I hum. “That sounds interesting. I’m not a good artist, so I don’t think art class will be for me.”
Even though I pout slightly, Wilde’s scowl deepens. “It’smyart class,” he practically growls.
“Ohh,” I hold the word out and nod slowly like I’m just starting to get it, “it’s not for me?”
“No, Mom,” he sighs like I’m a simpleton. His little face scrunches up as he puts his hand on my arm like he’s placating me. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re not very good at art.”
How I stop myself from barking out a laugh, I’ll never know. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that he feels sorry for me and my lack of art skills. He’s not exactly wrong, but I’m not going to say it anytime soon.
Wilde on the other hand is an artist through and through. It started because it kept him quiet. But it also kept him small in real life while he could be big on paper. I have no idea how he realized such a truth, but he did, and it’s obvious in his drawings.
He has a talent he shouldn’t have at four years old, not really. But, then again, maybe I’m just biased. It’s possible. Hell, it’s probable.
Throughout the last year, every shelter we’ve been in has provided therapy and I’ve made sure Wilde has gotten help.Whenever a therapist used art to help talk through the trauma forced upon my son, it’s helped the most.
Here at Safe Home, they were talking about bringing in someone to teach an art class because of how it could help the kids express themselves. Sure, they’ve used art therapy, but the therapy aspect adds pressure and purpose to the art kids create. This class isn’t about that.
I just hope whoever is teaching the class will speak to Wilde like a budding artist instead of a stupid kid. It’s what he needs instead of being placated. I’ve never seen a kid take art as seriously as he does. He’s also way past stick figures and two-dimensional houses.
“That’s rude,” I grumble.
He plants a kiss on my cheek, his lips smacking against my skin and leaving more saliva than needed behind. “It’s okay,” he tries to soothe me, “you’re really good at numbers, but I don’t like those at all.”
“But you know how important numbers are,” I remind him gently.
Thankfully, Safe Home has a homeschooling program. Registering the kids who come through the shelter in traditional school isn’t always safe. Having a homeschooling option is amazing. The care they’ve put into making it exciting and educational for every child staying at Safe Home, regardless of their grade level, is awe inspiring.
Even though Wilde is in Pre-K, he’s working with a kid in kindergarten because of the similarity in learning. I only hope he’s not bored next year.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to send him to school.
He deserves a little normal in his life. I deserve it too. I hope it can happen, but I’m not holding my breath.
Today, while Wilde has his art class, I’m finally meeting with the lawyer who has been working for free with the shelter for a little while. Knowing some of the problems some of the other women here at Safe Home are dealing with, including trying to get divorces, I was more than willing to wait.
While it made me feel unwanted and unloved, I guess I should be thankful Ryan and I didn’t get married. Talk about complicating matters. I have enough to worry about when it comes to custody. I’m sure we’ll have a plan on how to deal with it all by the end of the meeting.
“When will I ever use numbers?” His question is so innocent and filled with knowing, like numbers are just ridiculous, that I’m incapable of stopping myself from laughing.
He huffs out a breath like I’m insufferable as he jumps out of my bed and plants his hands on his hips. “You’ll use numbers,” I promise, but from the look on his face he is not at all convinced. That’s when I notice he’s not in his pajamas anymore and I can’t help but ask, “You’re excited about art class, huh?”
“Yes,” he hisses as if I’m the one being ridiculous.
“I like your outfit,” I start, “but it looks like your shirt might be on backwards. Can I check?”
