Disclaimer: These characters still belong to CSI, CBS, etc etc . . . well, except for the ones I made up, those belong to me.
A/N: Chapter 3 – I wrote this while lounging on the deck of the cabin by the lake over the Labour Day weekend. I love long weekends.
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance, for a break that would make it ok, there's always one reason to feel not good enough. Sarah McLachlan, "Angel"
Chapter 3 - The Porch Swing
The only light in the room came from the moon as it reflected off the water and streamed through the bedroom window. She was tired but her mind refused to shut down and let her sleep. She lay there staring at the bedroom ceiling, watching the shadows dance across the walls, willing her body to relax and drift into slumber, but it was no use. Was it only a few hours since she had pulled into the drive and stumbled up the familiar steps? It felt like days since she had left Las Vegas.
Sara pulled on her cream-colored silk robe over her matching pink camisole and pajama pants set and quietly moved down the upstairs hallway. She crept down the stairs, carefully missing the step that creaked no matter how lighting or meticulously she stepped on it, and went out to the front porch. She sat down on the swing and began to sway back and forth. The light breeze off the water blew a piece of hair across her face, but she didn't bother to move it back behind her ear. She breathed in. Shallow at first, as if the fresh sea air would hurt her lungs, then deeper and deeper until she became accustomed once again to the salty taste in her mouth. Then she let it out ever so slowly. Like holding onto that deep breath would finally let her find the calm and peace she was looking for, that she had been fighting for ever since she got the letter.
She remembered the first time she sat on this swing. At that time her little legs were too short to touch the ground. She smiled at the thought of her legs being too short for anything. The older boy who had been hiding in the flowerbeds near the front of the house must have seen the frustration on her face, or maybe it was the fear in her eyes, and he came over and sat next to her. The swing moved back and forth, comforting her.
Sara remembered hearing the lady who had brought her here talking to the man and woman who had opened the door. The lady had a pretty smile and warm brown eyes. She talked softly, but quickly, as if she was trying to take away her pain with just words. Her hands were silky and smooth, as if she had just used lotion. Sara had held on tight from the moment she had been picked up at school, until the lady with the pretty smile had let go when she placed Sara on the swing.
The man who had opened the door was tall, with broad shoulders and long arms. His eyes were green and they twinkled. His voice was deep. The woman who was with him had hands made soft through years of baking and gardening. She was tiny, at least in stature and size, but her smile was huge. Her voice was sweet and high like bells on a sleigh.
She may have been only six, but Sara had a pretty good idea of what the three adults were discussing in those hushed tones. When she had started school last month her teacher had noticed that she could read, write, and count better than most of her classmates. The teacher had also seen the bruises on her arms. Once Mommy had picked her up from school wearing sunglasses to hide a black eye. Sara didn't understand the look of sadness in her teacher's eyes. Daddy was the best storyteller; he would act out all the voices and make her laugh. He also made the best tasting blueberry muffins. He only hurt Mommy when he was really angry, and he usually never touched Sara. The bruises had come from the time he had picked her up by her arms while she was playing in the hallway of their apartment and he had continued to carry her by the arms until he had thrown her on her bed and slammed the door behind him before he left for a job interview. Most of the time Daddy was too bust watching TV, drinking, or sleeping to be angry. Most of the time Mommy was too busy working or cleaning the house to be getting in his way.
The boy on the swing squeezed her hand, letting her know that everything would be ok, and it was, for a while at least. The man with the green eyes that twinkled was Sean and he taught Sara how to swim. The woman with the soft hands was Hailey, and Sara helped her make chocolate chip cookies. The boy on the swing was their son, Ben. She started to laugh at Ben's jokes and he helped her build the biggest and most elaborate sand castles. She can remember everything about when Ben took her out sailing for the first time, but she can't quite remember when she started calling Sean "Dad", and Hailey "Mom". It wasn't that first time she visited, because Sara was back with her mother and father before Christmas. She had asked Santa for a bike. Even at six she knew that being returned to the care of Laura and Mike meant that she wouldn't be getting that bike. Maybe she started calling Laura her mother, and Hailey her mom after Mike had thrown Laura down the stairs and Sara had ended up back at the Jordan's B&B while Laura was in the hospital and Mike went to rehab.
Five times since that cool October afternoon, the social worker picked up Sara from school or the house and drove to Tamales Bay. Five times she also came back and drove Sara back to the little run down house in Modesto where The Sidles had moved in the hopes that Mike could find another job. Seven years of fighting and yelling until Sara was picked up from Modesto for the sixth time when she was almost thirteen. The sixth time that Sara ended up in foster care, it was a different woman who held her hand, she didn't have a pretty smile, and her hands were rough. The sixth time Sara was to stay in Tamales Bay for good (which really ended up being until she left for Harvard, but it seemed like forever). The sixth time her father wasn't in rehab, he was dead. The sixth time her mother wasn't in the hospital (except for the short stint in the psychiatric ward for observation), she was in jail. Sara sighed. For the past twenty-nine years, since that very first time she had swung on the porch swing, it was only here, swaying back and forth that she felt safe. This was home.