“He has a point, I suppose. I’m done for the day, so I can help.”
Dax came back in just as we were deciding on the flooring. We wanted it to be different for the nesting suite since it would be the most unique part of the house, but it also had to complement the rest.
“If we decide on hardwood, we need to buy some rugs. Make it cozy. Hell, I don’t want to get up in the middle of winter and put my bare feet on a cold floor, and I’m not an omega.”
“We need to make a list of things for the nest. Blankets. Pillows. Lights. Rugs. She can pick her own things once she’s here but it should be ready.”
Good thing Dax had enough hope for all of us. I struggled to keep mine intact and Archer, well, he had even less than me.
But we couldn’t give up. Our omega was out there somewhere.
Chapter Three
Sylvia
I’d been staying with my brother for six months, or something close to that. The days and nights passed in a blur where I felt less-than part of his pack but also like a disturbing influence. Most of them were kind to me, in a distracted sort of way, but I couldn’t blame them. Who wants to talk to someone who can’t talk back?
Made for some awkward conversations for sure. I did have some signs, and my family was learning as well.
My brother and sister-in-law tried not to push me, but I could see the concern on their faces when they thought I was not looking. Caught snatches of conversation when they thought I couldn’t hear. But they were so kind, nothing they said was mean or judgmental. They just wanted me to be happy and to try to make up for the past that haunted me.
Without the tools to get a job, and urged to take my time and recover, I did just that. Which turned out to be very boring. It seemed that every time I picked up a dish to carry it to the sink, someone was there to whisk it out of my hand and encourage me to relax. Laundry? Forget about it. Not even my own. And without the ability to insist that I was not an invalid, they treated me as one.
After a while, trying to sneak around and dust or weed the garden grew tiring. Even trauma didn’t hold off boredom. Not entirely. And one day, while sitting and doing nothing, I noticed that for the first time in a while, no one but me occupied the premises. And after a busy morning, the place was a bit messy. I picked up a discarded sweater and a coffee cup, washed the few breakfast dishes, and before I knew it, had wiped the counters and swept the kitchen floor and moved on into the living room.
Dusting my way around, I straightened up this and that and finally reached the desk where pack papers and such were haphazardly piled. Would it be prying to neaten it up? Not if I didn’t read anything, right? Andit would make it so much easier for my brother to keep track of things if he could find them.
The drawers were as bad as the top, but I made headway, and was down to the last drawer, which stuck. It wasn’t locked, since there was no keyhole, but I was not going to let a bunch of glued-together wood stop me from finally accomplishing a task I set for myself. Gripping the handle, I braced my sneakered feet and counted down in my head.Three. Two. One.I gave a violent tug and tumbled back, bringing the drawer and its contents with me.
Every other one had held papers and folders, the center one filled with pens, pencils, and paperclips. Also gum. I’d never seen anyone chewing gum here. But as I sat up and released the handle, I was surrounded by art supplies. Various paints, crayons, colored pencils, and pastels, along with a sketch pad and stack of rubber-banded unlined index cards.
It was by far the most interesting thing I’d come across while cleaning up. Art had been a great love of mine when I was a very little one, but life and everything else had made all that go away.
Gathering up the scattered contents, I carried them over to the table and sat down. I could see that these things had been used and loved, perhaps by children, but all I could think of was the beautiful gardens outside and trees and the landscapes around us.
The sketch pad provided a start, and I settled in to draw some of the images in my head. The summer sunflowers turning their faces toward the sun, lilacs from the late spring, the round, pumpkins, and leaves of fall. The peace I’d found in this place trying to find expression through my hands and the pencil just wasn’t cutting it. I added color. But the crayons and pencils still weren’t enough, and without planning, I reached for the paints and began testing the colors on one of the index cards. The color soaked into the card stock, just slightly, giving a muted effect that pleased me.
Strokes of primary colors blended into one another creating an array of hues beyond what the available paints offered me. I grabbed another card and painted a sunflower surrounded by other, hazy versions of the same flower. The pumpkin followed, a bright-blue autumn sky setting off its golden-orange color.
No one knew I was under a spell that kept me from speaking, and because it was my mom who put it on me, I didn’t want to share anything about it. A curious loyalty or desire for privacy locked me even deeper inside my head.
But painting? It helped me feel less trapped. I hurried and tucked my art away in my turret room before everyone came home, but after a few days, Lily knocked on my door and came in. “Sylvia, we’re just going to go out for a run and…oh my gosh. What is all this?”
I had cards spread out all over every surface drying, and the only wonder was that it had taken her this long to come in and ask what was going on. Of course, I couldn’t answer her, but it never slowed her down. She was the one person who could somehow make it seem normal to have one-sided conversations with me and never create awkward pauses.
“You’ve done all these? They’re beautiful. Why did you wait so long to show me?”
Technically, I still hadn’t shown her, but it—like everything else—was not something I could talk about.After six months of living here, I knew that, but so did she.
“You have to sell these.” She walked around the room, picking them up one by one and crooning over them. “All the seasons. I bet people would love to buy them as any-occasion postcards. How clever you are!”
Lily could always make me feel better, and this was no exception. She complimented my work in such an honest and kind fashion, and I finally decided to sell them at the local farmers market when the family went to sell their farm products.
They would probably not sell, but how could I object?
Chapter Four
Archer
