Fawn

My popsicle had dripped down my fingers. 

That was the one thing I remembered feeling, because everything else felt numb when I'd been told I was leaving the mission, only three days ago.

The sky was bright and cheery, but I was not. As I sat shotgun in the car, my face pressed to the coldness of the glass, I felt anything but  cheery.

"It'll be alright," my driver, Mrs. Trumble, said soothingly. "I know. . . everything will be hard at first, but this family is kind."

I nodded against the glass, anxiously fisting the hem of my shirt.

"Not every family is like them, you know," she murmured.

I felt my skin prickle. I ignored her.

"Fawn?"

"Yeah. I know." I swallowed and rubbed my eye. In truth, I did know—but I couldn't quite seem to comprehend it. Every family—every person—had a façade, and when the doors were closed, when you were the most vulnerable, is when the masks came off.

She sighed but didn't say anything. Instead, she leaned forward and bumped up the volume on the radio, filling my ears with the deep, southern drawl of some country artist.

I felt as if I was crumbling.

The more I focused on the pain—the fear—the more the tears started to appear. I knew I couldn't cry, or my eyes would be red and blotchy when I met my new family, and then they'd know I was vulnerable.

—They couldn't know that.

I pressed my face further into the glass and wished for the cold to take away the warmth behind my lids. I blinked slowly, then closed my eyes.

The car stopped. My eyes opened.

I turned to look out the windshield and saw a white, two-story house, with a perfectly-manicured lawn and flower boxes under the window sills, every box dressed in perfect blue and yellow blooms. Would they even want someone as imperfect as me?

Decorative vines grew up the corner of one of the walls, but it was trimmed to where it looked fancy, not wild.

Mrs. Trumble cut the engine off, taking her country music with it and leaving my ears full of deafening silence.

"You're a good girl. They'll love you—you'll see." She reached for the handle, most likely not expecting me to answer, but I did.

"If I'm so good, why don't you adopt me?" I asked, my tone wrapped in bitterness.

She moved away from the handle and faced me. "Fawn, you know that's not possible." Her dark eyes were full of sympathy.

I nodded and swallowed back the sudden thickness in my throat before turning and grabbing the door handle.

A cool breeze met my face as I opened the door and slid out of the car. I walked around and grabbed the cold metal handle of my suitcase in the back seat. It was large and heavy, and I struggled to pull it out.

"Here, let me help you," said a man's voice from behind me.

His sudden voice freaked me out. I jumped to move away from him, since he was already reaching in to grab my suitcase. I moved far, far away and stood by Mrs. Trumble's side. 

She glanced at me again and pursed her lips sadly. "Not all men are the same," she whispered quietly. "Give him a chance. Give this family a chance."

I closed my eyes and tried to slow my hammering heart. "I don't want to stay here," I finally told her. My voice cracked. "Please—take me to a single, really old lady or something." 

"Fawn, you know I can't do that. You need a real family—someone who can help you grow and learn—someone who will love and protect you." 

"But what if this family doesn't do that?" I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper.

"They will," she promised.

I tried to push the thought away.

There was no use in letting myself fall apart now—I'd come too far. I nodded and turned to follow after the man who'd taken my suitcase inside.

As I reached the first stair out of three, I suddenly turned back and sprinted to Mrs. Trumble before wrapping my arms around her and crying.

"Please—please don't leave me," I sobbed into her shoulder. "Please—I can stay at the mission longer, can't I? You said you loved me!"

She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. "Oh Fawn, I do love you—I do! And if they allowed me to take in every child from the mission, I would adopt you—but I have six of my own to care for. You can understand that, can't you?"

Once the tears started flowing, I couldn't stop them. They just seemed to keep coming and keep coming and keep coming, each warm and hot down my cheeks. Embarrassment flooded me. I told myself not to cry, and yet here I was. Crying.

When the tears started to ebb, I hugged her tightly one last time and let go. I wiped my face on my sleeve. I can't do this, Mrs. Trumble. I can't. Take me away. Please take me away.

She cleared her throat, and it was then that I noticed the tears in her own eyes. That's what I'd always loved about Mrs. Trumble. She didn't fake her emotions—her tears were real, and she was sad because of me. That was better to know than all of the forced 'I'm Sorries' in the world. I had been raised in a cold environment. I hadn't seen emotion from another person like that before—until I came to the mission, that was.

"Adios, Mrs. Trumble," I rasped, trying my best to recover from my crying incident.

"Goodbye, Fawn."

I imagined running away and waiting for them to try and find me, then darting for her car and hiding in the trunk until she finally decided to leave, taking me with her.

I shook away the fantasy and walked inside, my hands jammed in my pockets.

Three stairs led to a white, wooden porch, where a rocking chair hung and a white, wooden screen that framed a black door. The door opened and I saw a woman with blonde, frizzy hair hold it for me.

She had deep laugh lines in her cheeks, even though she didn't look that old—maybe mid-thirties—and warm, brown eyes, shadowed with eye-makeup.

"Hi, Fawn!" she greeted, opening the door a little wider. She waved goodbye to Mrs. Trumble and I heard her car start up. Then I heard gravel popping beneath her tires and suddenly, she was gone.

I peered a little unsurely into the room behind her and slowly stepped inside.

The room smelled softly of orange blossoms, a scent I'd always loved. One of my captors, before the mission saved me, always wore sickeningly-sweet perfumes, so the house I lived in smelled strong and harsh. I liked the subtle softness of orange blossoms.

The main scheme was white, but touches of blue and grey were scattered throughout the room, like the blue vase near the grey brick fireplace

I stared on with a certain wistfulness as I absently traced the plush, greyish-blue sofas and studied a painting of blue-bonnets and white daisies. Quiet instrumental music came from a speaker near a powered-off tv at the end of the room, near a decorative candle that I assumed was the source of the soft orange-blossom scent. The music seemed to swirl and dance in the air, pulling me further in with invisible fingers.

I had to firmly remind myself that I wasn't staying here permanently. I was only a foster child.

Unbidden, a sigh spilled from my lips.

"Do you like it?" asked the woman from behind me.

I tensed and then forced myself to relax. She looked nice. . .

Yes, but looks can be deceiving, can't they?

 I nodded at her, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

"I'm Maggie," she said with a smile, holding her hand out to me.

I stared at it. Then slowly—ever so slowly, I took it and shook her hand.

"And that's Rustle." She gestured towards a flight of spiraling, black, barred stairs in the corner, where the man that took my luggage for me was just stepping off.

I nodded at him when he offered a little wave.

"We have a little daughter, but she's staying at a friend's house right now. We wanted to get to know you privately, first," Rustle explained.

The air seemed a little thicker in here suddenly, the scent of orange blossoms intensified by panic. The previously tranquil music now sounded grating.

I was now alone. All alone. At their mercy. Nowhere to run.

I tried to do some of the breathing exercises I'd been taught at the mission, but they didn't help. This situation was too familiar. After living at the mission with other people for four years, the lack in numbers was too similar to the first twelve years of my life I'd spent back there—I refused to call that place home.

"Russ, why don't you go get the mail?" Maggie asked suddenly, possibly sensing my rising panic. "There was a pair of shoes I ordered for her that should be arriving today."

"Oh! Uh—Yeah! Good, erm"—He cleared his throat—"Good idea." He turned and left, leaving us alone.

His absence helped, but I still had to fight the urge to run out the front door and never look back.

"So. . . Fawn, hm?" she began awkwardly, and then sighed. "I'm sorry, I've never done this before. I, uh, don't know exactly what to say."

A small bit of something wormed its way into my heart then. I wouldn't call it trust, and I wouldn't call it love, but it was something, and I clung to the near-foreign sensation like a lifeline. Maybe it was the beginning of admiration?

"I don't either," I admitted. "I'm not like a people person or anything."

She nodded, and her smile seemed to grow. I realized then that those were my first words.

The silence that settled between us was like a winter blanket—thick and heavy. I fidgeted with my shirt's hem.

"I made key lime pie. Would you like some?"

I nodded and followed her into a kitchen with white wood floors, black, leafy scrollwork painted along the sides of a pale grey island, and a kitchen table in the corner of the room, where a pie sat, topped with whipped cream.

***

I'd heard that the first day of school would be hard. And it was.

The halls were filled with boys and girls rushing to squeeze a few extra words in with their friends before the next class started.

There were so many people. Each person was a new face, and each face, a possible danger.

***

"I can't," I finally confessed that night at supper. "I can't do school. I can't go back. There's too many people—people that don't know what happened to me and. . ." I stopped and gasped silently for air. I tried to hold back my tears.

Maggie's eyes watered and she blinked before reaching over and hesitantly grabbing my hand. "It's hard, but. . . School will be good for you. You can make friends, learn. . ."

I let her hold my hand, my eyes locked them. "I know, but. . . I can't handle all of the people watching me—the guys—I can't. It feels like the walls are closing in around me and I—"

"Maybe you don't have to go back," Rustle, who was usually quiet, suddenly spoke up, scraping the last of his spaghetti off of his plate.

"Russ! What do you mean?"

"I mean. . . we could homeschool you, Fawn, if that's what you feel would be best. We don't want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable."

"Russ, we can't—"

"Maggie, I was homeschooled and I turned out alright, yes?"

"Well, yes, but we—"

"Great!" he smiled and faced me. "I'll look into curriculum tomorrow."

***

Years passed, and I was happy there. My life was a quiet one, but I didn't mind it—not after all I'd been through. 

I was now twenty-four, and was graduating law school.

In school, before I came to live with Maggie and Rustle, I did well in my grades. I wasn't locked away in a dungeon, I was kept out in the open. I went to school, my captors kept me in horseback riding lessons, I did ballet. . .

From the outside, my life had been normal. People ignored the bruises. People ignored my words.

People ignored.

—And that's what kept me there for twelve years, trapped in a world of pain and hopeless sorrow.

I stood in front of the crowd of people and smiled at my now-adopted family. Maggie grinned back, while Rustle only smiled, but I knew he was just as happy as she was. He just had a tougher time showing it.

I was a miracle. Most girls who escaped trafficking lived homeless, usually as addicts, and much more. My story was rare.

There are countless victims out there like me whose voice has been silenced—victims bought by other people with money, like doctors and lawyers and politicians. Listen for them. Speak for them.

Maybe eventually we won't have to ask where all the children are, because we'll know.

—They're at school. They're with their friends. They're safe at home.

They're free.