Chapter 8: Temporary Walls
The key turned in the deadbolt of Apartment 4B with a dry, metallic click that echoed down the quiet, carpeted hallway. I pushed the door open, the afternoon sunlight slicing through vertical plastic blinds to illuminate a small living room smelling faintly of fresh paint and neutral carpet cleaner. Two cardboard boxes sat by the entryway, flanked by the battered duffel bag I’d packed in a hurry three nights ago.
"Is this our new house, Mommy?"
Chloe stood in the threshold, her small hand clutching the strap of her backpack. She wore her light purple cardigan, though the sleeves were beginning to pill at the cuffs, and she looked small against the blank beige walls.
"It's a temporary place, sweetheart," I said, forcing a steady smile as I set my canvas tote bag on the floor. "Just until we get everything sorted out. Come on, let's go see your room."
The apartment was modest—a cramped kitchen opening into a narrow living space, a small bathroom, and two bedrooms. The furnishings came with the lease: a brown tweed sofa with sagging cushions, a round laminate kitchen table with two mismatched chairs, and twin beds in the bedrooms dressed in stiff, motel-grade white sheets. It wasn’t the suburban house with its manicured lawn and wooden cabinets, but the locks worked, and there was no cold pair of eyes watching from the hallway.
Chloe wandered into the smaller bedroom, her sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum-look vinyl flooring. She stood in the center of the room, looking at the bare walls and the single narrow window that faced a gravel parking lot and a row of dumpster bins.
"My books are still in the big boxes at Grandma's house," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet monotone. She didn't cry, but her shoulders pulled inward, the familiar defensive posture she’d learned whenever the atmosphere at the house grew sharp.
"I know, honey," I said, kneeling beside her and taking her small, cold hands in mine. "We're going to go get more books tomorrow. And your favorite blankets. But for tonight, we have each other, and we have this safe place."
"I miss my room," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. "And I miss the backyard."
"I miss it too, in some ways," I admitted honestly, because lying to her about how easy this was going to be only made the fear worse. "But do you remember how hard it was to breathe in that kitchen the other day? Do you remember how scared we both were?"
She nodded slowly, her blonde hair falling forward to shadow her face.
"We aren't going back to that, Chloe. Not like that. This place is ours, even if it's small."
We spent the next hour unpacking the essentials. We set up the two toothbrushes in the cramped bathroom, lined up her stuffed rabbit on the narrow twin bed, and placed the rescue inhaler squarely on the nightstand within arm's reach. I made sure she could see it from the pillow. No cupboards, no locked drawers, no one else deciding when she was allowed to breathe.
As dusk settled outside, turning the vertical blinds into gray stripes against the window, we sat at the laminate table and ate takeout soup from paper cups. The spoon clinked against the cardboard, the only sound in the apartment aside from the low hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
"Mom?" Chloe asked, stirring her broth with the tip of her spoon. "Is the police officer going to protect us here?"
"The police officer and the lawyer both know where we are," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her fingers. "And Grandma doesn't know this address. She can't just walk in here."
She digested this information, her small brow furrowing as she weighed the safety of the locked door against the unfamiliarity of the rooms. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
Later, as I tucked her into the unfamiliar bed and pulled the stiff blanket up to her chin, she caught the hem of my tan jacket.
"You're staying right here, right?"
May you like
"Right here," I promised, smoothing the hair back from her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
I sat in the dark on the edge of the mattress until her breathing evened out into the soft, rhythmic cadence of sleep. Outside, a car engine revved in the parking lot, and somewhere down the hall a television murmur filtered through the drywall. It wasn't home yet, but as I looked at the inhaler resting on the nightstand, I knew it was the first real sanctuary we had owned in years.
