Chapter 4 - The Safe House
I was discharged two days later. I didn't go back to the two-story colonial house with the manicured lawn.
Elena, the CPS worker, drove me to a quiet suburban neighborhood on the other side of town. We pulled up to a modest, warm-looking house with a wraparound porch and potted geraniums.
"This is Martha's house," Elena explained as she helped me out of the car with my crutches. "She's one of our most experienced emergency foster parents. She's a retired trauma nurse."
Martha opened the door before we even reached the steps. She was a sturdy woman in her sixties with silver hair and kind, crinkling eyes. She didn't look at my cast or my bruises with pity. She just looked at me like a human being.
"Come on in, Clara. The kettle is just boiling," Martha said, opening the door wide.
Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. I was shown to a small but impeccably clean bedroom. The bed had a thick, handmade quilt. There was a desk by the window.
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"There's no lock on the outside of this door," Martha told me gently, sensing my anxiety. "Only on the inside. You are safe here. Nobody is going to yell. Nobody is going to touch you. If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."
That night, for the first time in my entire life, I slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, listening for footsteps outside my bedroom door.
