Page 11

Two weeks later

I’m not sure this is a good idea, but Ian insists it’s something he needs to do. That it’s a key part of the closure he needs regarding the trauma of his early childhood. But I’m not convinced he’s going to get any closure from looking at photos of his early life. If anything, I’m afraid this might set him back. These photos are physical reminders of what he endured before the state of Illinois terminated Rhonda Mitchell’s parental rights—and rightly so. She may be in a much better place now—sober and drug-free, with a stable job and an apartment—but back then, she was wholly unsuitable to be a parent.

And Ian suffered as a result.

Just thinking about what he went through makes my gut clench painfully.

I hear footsteps behind me.

“I’m ready.”

I turn from the front parlor window to face Ian, who’s standing in the doorway holding that damn photo album clutched to his chest. I know for a fact he hasn’t even cracked the cover yet. He’s too afraid.

The babies have just had their evening bottle and baths, and they’re down for the night. At least that’s the plan. We’ve learned the hard way that babies don’t always stick to the plan. If we’re lucky, they’ll sleep through the night again. They’re almost three months old now, and they’re sleeping longer and longer at night, which means we’re finally starting to get more sleep.

Ian’s eyes are wide with apprehension.

I honestly don’t know if seeing these photos will help him or hurt him. “Babe—”

He heads for the bar, where I have two shots of whiskey already poured for us. “No, really, I think I’m ready.” He picks up one of the glasses and knocks back the liquor. He coughs and winces as he sets his empty glass back on the bar.

Yeah, sure, this is a good idea. It’s already driving him to drink.

“Tyler, please,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “I want to do this.”

I attempt to relax my posture because apparently I’m telegraphing my unease. “Okay, fine.”

After I knock back my shot of whiskey, I pluck the album from his grasp, take his hand, and lead him across the hall to the living room. I motion for him to sit, and he does. “Okay, we’ll try this. But if you—”

“Give it,” he says, reaching up and taking the album from me. He pats the sofa cushion next to him, and I sit.

We’re sitting close enough that our shoulders brush, our thighs touch. We couldn’t get physically closer if we tried. Not unless he sat on my lap.

“You can change your mind anytime,” I remind him as I lay my arm along the back of the couch. I brush the back of his neck with my fingertips, and he shivers. “Just close the book and walk away.”

“I can’t keep running, Tyler. I need to face this. Maybe my memories are worse than the reality, you know? Maybe they’re overexaggerated. It’s possible.”

I scoff. “I doubt that, babe.” I’ve seen the photos. I’ve studied them with a detective’s eye until they’ve become seared into my brain. There are signs of clear neglect. Ian didn’t overexaggerate anything.

Ian stares down at the photo album lying on his lap. “Still, I need to know.”

And then he cracks the front cover. It’s one of those old-style photo albums, the kind with sticky pages covered with clear plastic sheets. There are multiple color photos stuck on each page, mostly faded Polaroids.

The layout is neat and chronological, starting from Ian’s birth. The first few pages are what you’d expect. He’s a newborn, and there are a lot of shots of him wearing sleepers and onesies, or wrapped up tight in receiving blankets. Pictures of him in one of those little baby bathtubs.

There are several photos of Rhonda holding her new baby, beaming like a proud mom. I wonder who took those pictures. A friend, maybe? A relative? I realize I know nothing about the rest of Ian’s biological family, if there is anyone else. When the state took Ian from Rhonda, weren’t there any other family members who could have taken him in? I’m guessing there must not have been anyone since he ended up in the foster care system.

There’s a photo taken a few months later of Rhonda giving Ian a bottle. She looks tired, her long hair limp and dirty. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes.

The next few pages are also unremarkable—Ian sitting on a blanket on the floor playing with blocks, Ian playing with a stuffed animal. From what little we can see of the apartment, it looks pretty bare bones, furnished with old, mismatched and threadbare pieces of furniture that look like they’ve seen better days.

It’s not until a few pages later, when Ian has reached an approximate age of three, that there are more noticeable red flags. Ian looks pale, gaunt. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes. The child is skin and bones. Clearly, he’s not thriving. I refrain from stating the obvious, but based on the tightness in Ian’s expression as he stares at the photos—his pinched lips, his white-knuckled grip on the album—he sees it, too. A shudder ripples through him.

I slowly sweep my thumb back and forth against the back of his neck. I’m here, babe. I’m right here. “You don’t have to do this, Ian.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice shakes. And then he turns the page to see a photo of little Ian sitting on his bed, clutching a Batman doll in his thin little arms, staring at the camera with haunted eyes. Ian gasps. “I wasn’t sure if he was real or not,” he says in a hushed voice. “I thought maybe I dreamed him up.”

He means Batman, of course.

Shortly after Ian and I first got together, he told me that, when he was young, he used to fantasize that someone would come rescue him—Superman or Batman or a cop. Those childhood fantasies took on a whole new meaning for him when we met. Suddenly, he had his very own cop— me— his own superhero. A real-life protector.

Ian tears up as he stares at that photo. He traces his finger over the faded image. “I always wondered what happened to him.”

“What, to Batman? It didn’t go with you when you left Rhonda?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I never saw it again. I would have remembered if I’d had it at the Alexanders’ house.” He chuckles tearfully. “If I had, I’m sure I’d still have it today.”

The rest of the photos are pretty much the same—that of a small, malnourished, sad little boy with dark circles under his green eyes. There are no more pictures of Rhonda in the album. Just Ian. It’s a photographic record of a neglected child. Abruptly, we come to the final page of photos. The album is maybe a quarter full. There are maybe two dozen photos in all. That’s the only record he has of his life before the Alexanders took him in.

In contrast, the Alexanders have an entire bookcase filled with photo albums featuring their two adopted children. I know, because Ruth made me look through them all.

Ian slams the photo album shut. “How could any parent do this to a child?”

I take the album from him and draw him into my arms. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to banish those painful memories.

Just as I feared, seeing these photos has opened up a floodgate in Ian. The words tumble out of him.

“She’d lock me in my room upstairs, for hours and hours, all night long. In the dark. The windows were boarded up, so I couldn’t see outside. There were no lights in my room. It was just dark . I’d cower in the closet with my toys, hungry and thirsty and cold, listening to the awful sounds coming from downstairs. Sounds I didn’t understand. Sometimes I’d hear her screaming. Sometimes she’d be crying. Some of the men would yell.”

When Ian looks at me, the pain in his eyes takes my breath away. “Sometimes I’d hear the doorknob to my room rattling, as if someone was trying to come in. I always thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me, but now I’m not so sure.”

I stand and pull him to his feet. “Come with me.”

He follows obediently as I lead him up two flights of stairs to the spacious rooftop greenhouse—to his happy place. His safe place. While I turn on the baby monitor, he stands gazing up at the night sky, at the stars above, and at the lights coming from the high-rises that make up the city skyline.

I cross over to him and turn his to face me, firmly gripping his jaw. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” It’s a promise, an oath, that I’ve made many times before. And I’ll keep making it as often as he needs to hear it.

Ian swallows hard as he nods. “I know.”

“Because you’re mine, and I protect what’s mine.”

Tears spring into his eyes. “I love you. You accept me for who I am, and you’ve never once tried to change me.”

My eyes narrow. “Change you? Why in the world would I want to change you?”

“Because I’m a hot mess,” he says with a shaky laugh. “I’m emotionally high maintenance. You know I am.”

I cup his face in my hands. “

No, you’re perfect.”