He was there, curled into a ball, hands shielding his head as he screamed something she knew were words but were so scrambled by fear and remembered pain that they were really just sounds.
Fury burned through her at what had brought her precious boy to this state, the memories of cruelties that plagued his sleep. She knew she couldn’t touch him though as that could make his terror worse until he’d woken up sufficiently to realise where he was. There was only one thing that seemed to help him when he was like this—sing.
The psychologist said it was amazing how she could keep her voice so steady and pure as she sang the songs that helped reach Carter when he was like this, but it wasn’t amazing at all. Before her mum died, when they were touring with Diarmuid, he’d often pull her up on stage with him and they’d do a song together. The crowd screaming and cheering had always made her feel so energised, like she was floating up, up, up to the sky and would never come down and yet everything was enhanced with piercing clarity that she only got when her adrenaline ran high and it was a clarity that meant she never lost her way in the song, never got nervous, never ever forgot a single moment of those times with her papa.
That ability to use her adrenaline and gain clarity from it had come in handy for her work as a doctor in some of the worst places in the world. It also served her well now.
She tuned out the terrified, pained animal noises Carter was making, lay down on the floor, staring at his hands splayed protectively over his head, and started to sing.
Disney songs. They were the ones that calmed him best. Especially those from The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. They’d been two of the first movies she’d watched with him, so maybe that was why they worked, but it didn’t matter why, all that mattered was that they did, so she sang them. During the first song, his hands shifted a little, still wrapped around his head, but not quite so tense. By the end of the second song, his body shifted, uncurling a little more, his hands moving down to cover his face. Reaching out towards him, still not touching him, she placed her hand where he could grab onto it when he was ready and then moved onto the next song. His breathing settled and his hands slipped away from his face and by the time she started ‘Beauty and the Beast’, he reached out and clasped her hand. But he was still not looking at her, so she moved onto some songs he loved from the live action version. He lifted his head, eyes still closed, breathing settled and she started another song.
By the time she finished, his eyes were open, gaze fixed on her, lips moving, mouthing the words. When she finished, his lips quirked up into an almost smile and then he said, ‘More.’
‘What would you like to hear?’ she asked softly.
‘‘Under the Sea’. With the accent.’
‘Sure.’ As she sang, he began to crawl towards her and by the end, he was out from under the bed, her hand gripped tight in his, his little body pressed to hers, head against her shoulder, his other hand reaching up to lie over the base of her throat, feeling the vibrations as she sang.
When she finished, he looked up at her, eyes bright, the shadow of his nightmares still there, but pushed back enough for now. ‘I love you, Mum.’
Carefully—oh so carefully—she brushed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, cupped his face and kissed his brow. ‘I love you too, my beautiful boy.’ When she leaned back, he was smiling, a smile that reached down and pulled at her heart in a way that was both painful and sweet. How could anyone have ever hurt this child? How could anyone ever hurt any child? She wanted to hold him to her, the fierceness of her love and protectiveness making her not want to let go. Ever. Although, she knew she couldn’t do it—she knew the misery of being held down, of being held back, of being kept ‘safe for your own good’. But she would protect him in every other way. Forcing herself not to hug him too tightly, she smiled and asked, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
His eyes clouded, his little body stiffening as if he would pull away. It hurt that he still didn’t trust her enough to tell her what plagued his sleep, but the psychologist said he might never tell any of them exactly what had happened to him beyond the little bits and pieces that he came out with every now and then, like earlier tonight—although she could make a good guess from the state he’d been in when he’d been found and the X-rays that showed the clear evidence of past abuse.
She pushed that knowledge to the side now though—the fury that evidence of violence created didn’t belong here, now. ‘That’s okay,’ she said, voice soft, gentle. He snuggled in closer to her, as if that could make it all better. ‘Do you want another song?’ She’d sing all night if he wished.
‘Yes, please.’
‘What would you like to hear?’
‘Those ones Grumpy used to sing to you?’
‘Sure.’ So she sang the one her papa had written for her, ‘Blazing Star’ and then moved onto another couple he only ever sang for her and her mother—not his songs, but favourites all the same— ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ and ‘Starry Starry Night’. By the time she’d finished, Carter’s head was heavy on her shoulder, his little body lax against hers, his chest rising and falling in the softness of sleep. She held him against her for a moment longer, then picked him up and rather than putting him back in his
