Campbell
The stress of Carly’s divorce, the band preparing for tour, Jen’s wedding, and my feelings for Lakin, have all been wearing on me. I’ve been in need of a distraction from everything, so when Vivian asked if I wanted to help out in the afternoons at the foundation, I jumped at the chance. It would be a great way to momentarily escape my current reality. Spending time with the kids at the foundation, some of whom are living in a situation that I’m all too familiar with, is cathartic.
It also puts things into focus for me. The last thing I should be doing is bitching about my life, when these teenagers are fighting just to stay afloat of their sometimes out of control lives. Right now, it’s exactly what I need.
“Hey, Viv,” I say as I walk through her colorful office, which is filled with family pictures and drawings from her kids. Vivian is such a warm person; love and charisma ooze from her pores and draws people to her. She is a magnetic force, a gravity unto herself that surrounds you and forces a smile to your face. She is the sister, mother, friend everyone wishes they could have. She is our little circle’s glue that holds us together, although she would never claim that. She takes care of us all in the same way a mother would, and we are all better women because of her.
Joslyn is wiggling in her bouncy seat, so I reach down and scoop her out. She immediately goes for my hair and begins pulling it. I should know better by now to have it put up when I’m around her; she is in her glasses and hair phase, in which both are too tempting not to pull or destroy. I lightly peel my strands from her tiny fingers and twist my hair out of her reach.
“Sorry,” Vivian offers as she hands me a ponytail holder from her desk. “I keep plenty of these around for that exact reason. I don’t know why I even bother curling my hair in the morning. It’s up before noon anyways with that hair wrangler around.”
She takes Joslyn out of my arms and rests her securely on her hip while I throw my hair into a messy bun. “So what’s the plan for today?” I ask, tucking the loose strands into the fold of the bun. “Do we have a lot of kids signed in?”
Joslyn wiggles and kicks her chubby little legs, and Vivian switches her to the opposite hip. She tickles her thighs and then blows a raspberry into her neck causing her to giggle and squeal. Vivian wrestles to keep her in her arms and I laugh at the playfulness of the situation.
For an instant, I imagine my own mother would have done something similar when I was a child. I don’t know much about her, nor do I have many memories of her, but it seems like a common thing mothers do.
Me, I have never pictured myself as a mom. It’s not that I don’t think I could love a child, or even do a decent job; it’s the overwhelming responsibility of it that has me skittish. I can’t grasp the idea of losing a child the way I lost my parents. I know I shouldn’t think of those worst-case scenarios¸ the icky dark things that no one wants to think or speak about, but I can’t help but let those thoughts settle in the back of my mind. The thought of experiencing loss and the fear I have that your love for something which consumes you so entirely could be ripped away, scares the absolute shit out of me. I would rather have nothing than lose everything.
“There are some kids in the main hall playing games and my little ones are doing crafts,” Vivian says, twisting Joslyn around to face me. She steps into the hallway toward the main areas of the foundation, away from the offices. I throw my backpack on my shoulder and follow behind them. “Some of the older kids are in group counseling sessions,” she adds, pointing to rooms as we pass by.
I can’t help but momentarily peek in, but I don’t dare stop to listen or infringe on those safe spaces. I know the importance of sharing their stories, their highs and lows, and knowing that someone not only is willing to listen but cares. When I come here, I know it will be a struggle. It’s a reminder of a past I have no intention of reliving. That life has been buried. However, that reminder keeps pushing me forward.
We make our way to the main room and the noise of laughter immediately confronts me. Ping-pong balls clicking across tables, board games, kids on couches reading or doing homework together; it’s a portrait of organized chaos that would bring a smile to your face if you were unaware of what lay beyond the doors for these kids. There are a wide range of backgrounds represented here: Some are in the system, some are homeless or at-risk teens, and some of these kids are just making it day to day and should be pulled into the system’s web.
This place gives them all somewhere to go. A support system and structure to help them face a world that drags them along or possibly even leaves them behind.
My eyes gaze across the room, as I try to assess what group of kids I should join, or if any need help with their homework.
A loud juicy noise from Joslyn’s diaper interrupts my perusal and I can’t help but scrunch my nose at the attack on my senses. “Oh my, that sounded and smells ripe,” I tell Vivian.
She flips her over and smells the child’s pants. “Yup, she’s definitely a muddy little thing. I’m going to go change her and put her down for a nap.” She notices my slight apprehension and rests her hand on my shoulder. “Just mosey around, join a game. Just being here helps, Cam; don’t feel like you have to do anything specific,” she explains before leaving me alone in the middle of the commotion.
I nod and take a deep breath before beginning my float around the room. I’ve been here a few times, but it still doesn’t get easier. Just because I need this interaction, doesn’t mean it’s easy. I wave to the few kids who I recognize from my previous visits, some even invite me to join in with whatever they are working on or playing. I smile but decline, telling them I’ll be back around. I want to first check to see if anyone needs any help with homework.
Snaking my way through the masses of young teens, I find myself in the area of cozy couches and bean bag chairs. Vivian has decorated the area with fresh, energetic colors, soft fabrics, and comfortable furniture; it is alluring. It is the kind of zone that demands a good book and maybe a snuggly blanket. A person could spend hours here, relaxing with a friend or a story, and many do.
There is only one person in the area today, but I’m drawn to the area despite the numbers. She has long blonde hair, which is piled high on her head; it’s the usual hairstyle in the Colorado heat. While her jean shorts and tank top appear clean, they don’t exactly fit well. Her book of poetry is turned over on the arm of the couch she’s lounging on, and she is mindlessly doodling on the inside of her arm.
I watch as she allows the ink to swirl around the blue veins in her arms, connecting freckles as she moves the pen. Her head is down, intently focusing on her artistic pattern when suddenly the pen halts and she looks up at me without moving her head.
“Am I in trouble or something?” she asks. “No one was over here, so I thought it would be okay to read.”
I walk around the couch and her eyes slowly follow my movement. She’s sizing me up…friend or foe. I don’t want to put her on edge, but I obviously have. I remember the feeling. No one could be trusted until they proved otherwise, and even then, it was difficult.
I stay standing in front of her, careful not to encroach on her personal space. “No, you’re fine here. I’m just walking around checking on everyone. I noticed your book of poetry, so I thought I would stop. I guess you could say I’m a fan.”
She narrows her crystal blue eyes at me. “Really? Who’s your favorite?”
Another test.
She’s expecting me to say something obvious like Robert Frost or Henry David Thoreau because, those are easy answers, and who hasn’t heard of them. No, my favorite will more than likely surprise her and may even strike a chord.