A Place to Call Home

Perhaps it was a little selfish of her to feel so happy on such an occasion. After all, she had taken care of Adam for a little over a year now at the church orphanage, but seeing Adam, a boy who was so independent yet so bright, before a couple who were to be his foster parents—yes, there was no doubt that Sister Anne would miss Adam, but even this was superseded by the joy she felt for Adam right now.

“Adam, I know this may be a little hard to take in, but the Brunsons have graciously decided to take you in!” exclaimed Sister Anne.

The two prospected parents beamed magnanimously at Adam. Adam was not looking back.

“Adam, we’re so happy to meet you in person again. We visited a couple months before. Do you remember us?” asked Mr. Brunson with his usual warm smile and an outstretched hand. He was a big man with a wide, almost stocky frame that spoke assurance rather than bulkiness, the type of guy you’d give a hug at first sight. But today, his hand was ignored. Adam’s steely gaze had been fastened on the rough grain of the wooden table before him from the start of their meeting, and even now, it didn’t waver.

“Quite the cool and independent type, eh?” chuckled Mr. Brunson as he hesitantly brought his hand back down to the table. 

“Oh, he’s really a nice boy, he’s just been through a quite a bit in the past couple years,” explained Sister Anne, almost too desperately. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Adam to some loving strangers only to find that they’d never understand him. “His father passed due to a drug overdose about a year and a half ago. And his mother, well, the grief must’ve been a little too much to bear. To think of the emotions Adam must’ve been through… Oh, Mrs. Brunson, I’m so sorry…”

Mrs. Brunson eyes had welled with tears. This would be her third foster child; she was no stranger to tragedy, to the burden entailed in bringing one in as her own. But no matter the emotional weight, her heart never developed the callous that most would grow in her position, giving her to ability to genuinely care for people on an individual level at the expense of fresh emotional hurt. She smiled slightly to lessen the mood’s severity a little, but when her beautiful doe eyes filled with tears like they did now, there was nothing she could do but melt the hearts of all who met her gaze.

Except Adam never looked up. Again, his eyes were strapped to the table, only now, his jaw was visibly clenched. A vein throbbed in his left temple. There was no need to look at Mrs. Brunson; he knew that she was crying.

The room was blanketed in an oppressive silence. Siter Anne’s eyes desperately roamed the faces of her three guests, as if the key to some diversion was written on their foreheads, but there was nothing. The creaking of Mr. Brunson’s chair suddenly became audible, as did the sound of Mrs. Brunson’s tears softly tapping the wooden table. 

Tap, tap.

They were impossible to ignore, and for Adam, whose eyes were completely occupied with the grain of the table before him, the sound was utterly sharp, almost like knives biting into his head. He bared his teeth.

Tap, tap.

That chair has got to be oiled. There’s no way it should be that loud. No, no, you don’t oil wooden chairs. It’ll have to be replaced…

Tap, tap. 

Adam balled his fist. No, he mustn’t lose control, not before Sister Anne and the adults. After all, he was a man. But the sound, the knives…

Tap, tap. 

“I’m really sorry,” Adam muttered through his clenched teeth. He shoved himself off the table into a standing position, leaving an astounded couple and a concerned Sister Anne. Then, he threw out his chair and ran.

Weak! Weak! All of them! Weak! Adam threw open the visitor’s room door and hurled himself into the wheat field outside the church orphanage building. 

“Adam! You get back here! Oh, not again…”

The Sister’s words were received by hollow silence. Adam had almost crossed the field and was beelining toward the woods.

Brambles and bushes tore at Adam’s bare skin and clothes. A particularly sharp branch ripped half his shirt clean off his back, but the useless rag flapped forgotten on the limb’s fingertips, unable to impede Adam’s feverish progress one bit. 

Weak, weak! It was the Mrs. Brunson’s tears that had done it for him. That pitying look, those wide, beautiful eyes marred by springs of liquid sorrow—he had seen that lie before on his mother’s face. A couple days before she hanged herself. Those tears disgusted him, repelled him. No, no, he was strong. He needed no one, wanted no one, and to strengthen his resolve, he needed to reach his quiet place. 

By the time Adam reached the boulder barring his final passage to the place, his shins and arms were a childish mess of scratches caked with mud, sweat, and blood. Grimacing, he scrambled over the boulder, slipped, and planted his face firmly on what was luckily a fairly soft patch of grass. He had finally arrived. Banged up, yes, but where he needed to be to feel strong again.

Adam pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned his tired body against the coolness of the mossy boulder he had just scaled. Before him stretched a lake so vast that the naked eye could not perceive its limits, so perfectly still and reflective that the sky never ended. All, save Adams own ragged but slowing breathing, was silent.

And now, the ritual. Adam sucked in his belly, puffed out his chest, and flexed his arms so hard his veins began to pop out. Then, he tiptoed rigidly to the lake’s edge and scowled at the surface. More, more, push away the weakness, be a man! He frowned harder, experimented with furrowing his brow, and even tried screaming at the water, but no matter what he did, that same scrawny boy glared back at him. Harder, harder! A drop of sweat distorted the face. More followed, and drops of tears soon made it impossible to see anything. Adam pounded his fist against the ground, splitting his knuckle. He beat his chest. But even he knew that this was no act of manly rage. This was just pouting. 

Meanwhile, the Brunsons and Sister Anne had finally reached the boulder. Sister Anne had secretly tailed the boy several times before out of concern, but even so, the journey wasn’t forgiving. The three were covered with cuts and bruises. Past the boulder, they laid their eyes on the form of a young boy crumpled on the ground, pouting resigned to silence, bawling long given way to teary resignation. The couple approached Adam. Sister Anne, remained by the boulder; this was their moment. 

Mrs. Brunson draped the remaining half of Adam’s shirt over his shoulder and laid a hand on the nape of his neck. The father brushed away some dirt from his wounds, then firmly grasped Adam’s bleeding hand, which was still clenched. Nobody looked at each other. All eyes were on the lake, whose waters had once again returned to their calm equilibrium after Adam’s pouting.

“Adam, don’t do that again. We would never run from you, so why would you run from us?”

Adam’s hand loosened a little, just enough for Mr. Brunson to worm a thumb into its palm. He lowered his gaze toward his nervously twiddling toes, cheeks flushed. Running, running, that’s what he had always been doing, just like his own parents. Maybe it was time to take a break.

“Son, let’s go home.”

Home. That was the word he needed to hear. Today, he would return to a place he had never been before. He would call a group of strangers his closest family. This was his home. But they wouldn’t be returning just yet. Right now, the entire family’s eyes were fixed on the invisible horizon of this smooth, never-ending lake. This was all Adam needed right now.