Denial - Stephanie Wilson (bts book recommendations TXT) 📗

He came to our house that night, not so long ago, with a smile of crooked teeth and a dimple on either side and handed me mistrust. He came with the smell of rain and night clinging over his skin and taught me the art of deception.

                He came with his dead eyes that sparkled with indecent pleasure and taught me what it was to know of horror.

Chapter 1

10 months and four days.

My introduction to my thirty first home had been a sign in bright pastel blue letters saying ‘Welcome to Sunny Haven’. As I watched the sign disappear in the passenger side mirror, I couldn’t help but think that a town that claimed to be both ‘Sunny’ and a ‘Haven’ was trying far too hard to sell their merchandise.

Returning my gaze to the road, my eyes blurred over a series of similar looking houses, with similar white picket fences and similar looking four wheeled drives. I suppose that this is what suburban life looked like.

A man on a ride-on lawn mower (excessive, considering the small patch of grass he was mowing) tilted his head to follow us as we drove past. The way his gaze followed the car as it went past gave the feeling that beneath those sunglasses was a distinct look of disapproval. For the first time I became consciously aware of the numerous scratches and dents in Henderson’s tiny old Ford.

Glancing quickly at Henderson from the corner of my eye, a feeling of unease began to settle in the pit of my stomach. There were many things I liked about Henderson; like the way he squinted through his thick glasses at each road sign he passed, despite having been to a place several times before. Or the way he always turned the radio on to blanket the heavy silence in old jazz. I even liked how his car was always consistently messy and smelled faintly of dogs. True, all of these things were present now, but there were some subtle differences too - and it was these differences that had me on edge.

There was the distinct smell of cigarettes – though I had never seen him so much as spark a lighter before. His tie was put on crookedly too, and his usually immaculate trousers had dog hair scattered on it and were creased in odd place. Then (and perhaps the most alarming of all the differences) there were those dark circles under his rather absent eyes.  

I’ve been told that to be a social worker is a hard job, with a high burn out rate. One of my old social workers (maybe number four), a middle aged harassed looking woman, had said ‘no matter how hard you try, you can never truly feel that you are doing this job well’. Too heavy caseloads, not enough funding, not enough homes. Maybe the job was catching up on consistent and reliable Henderson. but I didn’t ask if that was case. That was not how this dynamic worked.

“You said that they were religious?” the question (for that was what it was ultimately) came out begrudgingly. Our relationship had always been one where he initiated conversations, and I gave the bare minimum in response. There was a moment of silence in which I felt him shift slightly in his seat; an almost uncomfortable gesture. This told me everything I really needed to know about what the answer was going to be.

“I did.”

Tension and worry oozed thickly through his voice, but somehow I felt that wasn’t so much directed to me. I turned to look at him. His eyes remained glued to the road, but I saw that tell-tale muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Are they old testament religious, or new-age fog machine religious?”

Twitch. That muscle had been twitching a lot on this trip.

To be fair, I was coming into this with a sense of dread which was largely based on past experience. In my lifetime I have been placed in twenty-two different homes. I had seen all the different types of homes, motives and styles. The large majority had been...disappointing.

There are many, of course, who genuinely want to do the best they can for you and I have had a few of these, but they had all been relatively short lived because they were either temporary placements until a more permanent one could be arranged, or my behaviour had forced them to reconsider having me in their home. When I first entered the system I wasn’t exactly the MVP of foster children. I suppose that once you get the reputation of being difficult, people are less inclined to agree to have you in their home on a permanent basis. Peoples circumstance change - they can no longer put in the time or energy for a kid in the system with the amount of troubles that no doubt my file claims me to have.

But that was then and this was now. 

Henderson suddenly turned the car off the main road and I had to quickly grab on to the violin case protectively before it slipped off my knees. I guess he found the street he was looking for, though it looked remarkably similar to all of the other houses I had seen on my drive in, with their immaculate gardens and perfectly mowed lawns.

Dread and anxiety began to snake its way in alarmingly quickly up from my stomach and into my chest. I closed my eyes against it and took a deep breath. Concentrating on the flickering pinks and blue that creped its way under my eyelids as I ran my fingers over the soft material of the violin case. Slowly but surely the raging dread retreated back down.

You would think that I would get use to the apprehension and nerves that are involved in coming into a new home. Of course when I say ‘home’, what I really mean is simply the “roof over my head and the place in which I eat – if you’re lucky”. To me the word home implies comfort, and reliability and a sense of belonging somewhere. It has been a long time since I felt that.

I felt the vehicle begin to slow, and I opened my eyes and inhaled deeply. As Henderson pulled the car into a driveway, I couldn’t help but note a few distinct facts. Like that there are no oil stains present on the driveway, or how the lawn was edged so perfectly that not a single blade of grass seemed to cross over onto the pristine white concrete of the driveway.

Looking closer, I saw that there was one not-so-subtle difference to this house compared to the others I had glimpsed on the way in – and that was the roses. Though I know nothing of gardens and what makes one better than the other, the vibrant, reds, yellows, whites and pink stood out and seemed to shine in the sunlight. There didn’t seem to be a single rose whose petals were wilting.

Henderson turned the key in the ignition and the rackety engine died, enfolding us in a tense silence. For a long time neither of us made a move to get out of the car. It felt like once I moved, this twilight period where things are still unknown about this new family would be broken. Once I got out of this car I would have to face the awkward transition into this household. There’s an easy bliss in remaining ignorant and I was more than happy to extend that period for as long as I could manage.

This idea was taken from me when the front door opened and a middle aged woman came out to greet us.  

This woman was wearing an apron which looked well used. Though whatever it was she cooked whilst wearing it, it sure didn’t look as though she ate a lot of it herself. It was hard to tell under the heavy looking clothing whether she was the healthy or the unhealthy kind of thin. Though there are certainly dark bags under her eyes and her face had an odd pinched quality to it…but perhaps that’s just how your face looks when you have your hair pulled back into such a tight bun.

When she gave us a smile, wiping her hands on her apron, it seemed like it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

A man followed her out, and it was he that my attention was directed to immediately. There are people in life that demand your attention when they enter your room, some unnameable quality about them makes them stand out more than others. This was something that Mr Abbott possessed. It wasn’t charisma…but there was definitely something. He was older, probably mid to late fifties, and his hair had turned predominantly grey with only a few strands of black remaining. It was immaculately cut and parted perfectly straight though and seemed to be slicked back with some kind of oil.  His eyes were small for his face, or perhaps they just appear that way because of his huge caterpillar eyebrows which had retained most of its original dark colour compared to the hair on his head. He was a far cry from the Amish type appearance I had imagined.

Mr Abbott did not offer a smile, not even a half-baked one like his wife’s.

I looked at Henderson and he gave a weary smile.

“Shall we get this over with then?” he said as he opened his door.

I paused for a just a second, rubbing my thumb along the violin case one more time for luck. Smooth and cool. With a growing amount of tension, I placed a smile on my face and climbed out of the car.

The twilight period had broken.

“Hello.” Mrs Abbott said quietly. She held out her hand for me to shake, I intentionally focused my eyes on the roses so as not see the scar running along my palm as I reached out to shake it. Her grip was frail and her hand felt like twigs. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“Can I take that for you?” she reached out to take the violin case but I snatched it back before I could consider what I was doing.

“No!”

It came out sharper then I had intended, and I felt my face flush in embarrassment.

“I mean, no thank you,” I said, backtracking quickly, “I’ve got it...thank you.”

If she was taken aback by my less then hospitable reaction, her face did not portray it. That forced smile of here didn’t even quiver.

“Please,” Mr Abbott said in a deep, almost gravel like tone, “come inside. My wife has made scones for lunch.”

With that he turned and went back inside the house. Mrs Abbott mutely followed him inside.

I heard the car boot shut and Henderson appeared from around the back of the car with my two backpacks which contained all of my measly possessions.

I waited for him to lead the way before entering the house.

The first thing that I saw upon entering the house was a framed cross stitch pattern with a bible quote in calligraphy writing sitting directly opposite to the front door so that it would be impossible not to read it.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John, 3:16”

I suppressed a sigh and then looked at the rest of what I realized was the living room. I knew they were religious, and I had expected some religious artifacts, but I was surprised by the sheer amount of it. Above the couch was a huge cross was a Jesus hanging off looking mournful with his crown of thorns. There was a framed picture of what I assumed was Jesus, with his halo and light appearing from behind him. There were other