Page 6 of Beneath the Surface

But at least we have each other.

A pang hits the center of my chest as I look down at his smiling face, blooming with the innocence that only exists when experience hasn’t railroaded its way into your life, and smacked you upside the head. I bask in his naivete, gripping on tightly and praying he never lets go, because once it’s gone, there’s no getting it back.

I lost mine far too early. And so did my brother.

Shaking off the thought, I grip Chase’s fingers tighter as we cross the street.

“Mommy, who was dat man?” he asks.

My stomach flips. I should have known he would ask. For a three-year-old, he’s very aware of his surroundings. Inquisitive. Not afraid to walk up to someone and ask them a million questions before they can even get a word out. I don’t have enough experience with kids to know whether that’s a normal toddler thing, or if it’s something that was passed down from me.

Growing up, I always had a problem with being too nice to strangers. It’s terrifying having him so easily trusting people the way I did. My chest pulls tight as I think about the example I set today. Having someone walk up on the playground, and me, engaging in conversation like it was no big deal.

It’s always a big deal.

“That was Mommy’s friend,” I rush out quickly. “Someone I know from work.”

“Oh.” He nods his head. “He didn’t wanna say hi?”

I glance down at him. “To you?”

He nods again.

“Well…” I pause, trying to think of something to say. “He didn’t want to scare you. Some people are afraid of him because of his size and the drawings on his skin.”

Chase’s chest puffs out as we stop at the crosswalk. “Not me.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. His skin looks like yours. And he looked nice. I can tell.”

“Oh?” I grin, my chest warming as I glance at the tattoos scattering my forearms. I’m not covered like Alex, but I have enough to hide what I don’t want to show. “Well, you’re pretty brave.”

He’s right. Alex does seem nice. Almost too nice. But any man will act friendly to get what they want.

Glancing at the clock when we get back to our apartment, I put on a cartoon and go to make an afternoon snack. We don’t have too much, just some apple slices and peanut butter, but it’s enough to get Chase through until I make his lunch.

I never knew that having a kid meant they ate you through house and home. My stomach squeezes as I think back to my earliest memories. The ones that are foggy and scattered because of how young I was, not because of the drugs I used to shade them.

There were so many nights my brother gave me the only thing we had in the cupboards and went hungry himself, just so I could eat. Countless times, he would hold me in his arms—while our mom was in the living room with a man, or with a needle stuck up her arm—and promise that everything would be okay.

“It’s us against the world, Lil. Forever.”

My throat swells, and I push the thought away, but it doesn’t go far. It never does. Chase is always there in the back of my mind, drowning in the well of guilt that I also keep hidden in the shadows.

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve seen him. Spoken to him. Ran away from him and the life that we always promised each other.

But I was young, and stupid, and desperate to forget. Blinded by the demons that crawled into my throat and blackened my lungs, swirling poison through my veins. Even the thought of it now makes my stomach cramp, an uncomfortable itch skittering along my skin, my chest tightening as my body tries to trick my mind, whispering to just give in to the craving.

I don’t think there will ever be a day I don’t have a physical reaction to the thought of drugs. But all it takes is one look at my baby boy, and the feeling is capsized and washed away by my love for him. I would doanythingto give him the life he deserves. The life I never had.

He’s why I got clean in the first place.

And he’s why I can never go back home.

A few hours later, I’m fresh out of the shower and about to wake Chase up from his nap. I need to get him ready to go next door to Susan’s, so I can head to work for the night shift. My stomach tugs, wishing like hell that I could call off and curl up on the couch with him instead. Watch silly movies and roll around in his giggles, let them serenade me into being happy with my life.

I grab the Play-Doh off his toy shelf, glancing down at the lid, popping the top and reaching in until I’m squeezing it through my fingers. Over and over again, I mold the dough, allowing the feel of it pushing between my palms to calm me.

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