More Grey Matters: Episode 42—The Masks We Wear

Near the end of this chapter, there’s a little bit of history although it’s also mixed in with some fun stuff. Just a heads up for those who may want to skip the history portion.

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DISCLAIMER: Let me add at this juncture that while I’ve had experience with bungling, narrow-minded, and prejudiced police officers, I have absolutely NO experience with the FBI. Though I did research for other reasons, I did very little research on how they handle kidnapping cases. You’ll see why later on. Other movies and stories have done storylines that haven’t painted the FBI (or specific agents) in a good light. I just don’t want anybody coming at me telling me that their “brother is in the FBI and this ain’t how it works.”

Americans, it’s that time again. There’s a whole lot happening where many of you want to have your voices heard. While this is NOT—I repeat, NOT a political forum, I will ask that you do not post political views in the comments as I promote this as a safe space and political views are too volatile. However, I urge you all to make sure that you vote by mail or in person, early or on November 8, no matter what your views. 

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you’re sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I’m only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…

Episode 42—The Masks We Wear

CHRISTIAN

Last night’s trip to Turkey was quite interesting, but I’m very ready for some real, live entertainment and fun with our visiting guests. It has been a rather hellish six weeks and time appears to be dragging by at a fucking crawl!

Although I sent Jason and some of the staff to gather their things from the Four Seasons after dinner last evening, we all head out this morning to check the room and make sure nothing was left behind and to get them officially checked out of the hotel. I cover their fee for breaking their reservation even though Jaxon insists that I don’t have to.

It’s Halloween and we’re taking the children to the annual “Hilloween” festival on Capitol Hill. We get an early start so that we can take in the full day’s activities and participate in the festival’s trick or treating at sundown since I have to be back on lockdown before 8pm. We offered to let Laura and Jaxon explore the city today and meet back up with them later, but they were having none of it.

It turns out to be a family affair anyway. The four of us along with our twins, Chuck and Keri, and all of the Taylors go to the festival. The three children are all dressed in costumes while the adults are in street clothes. We’ve strayed away from the typical Mickey and Minnie Mouse motif that we normally use with the children, not to mention that we didn’t really buy costumes and had to do a bit of DIY with the help of Gail and Ms. Solomon.

Minnie is adorable as Little Red Riding Hood in a red dress with lots of tulle underneath. Mommy put her in a pair of warm boots and put a warm sweatshirt under her dress, then covered the ensemble with a gorgeous cape that Ms. Solomon made. They’ve added a small wicker basket and she’s all set to trick or treat.

Mikey’s Robin Hood costume is outstanding! Completely DIY but correct down to every detail including a toy bow and a cloth quiver filled with suction arrows. Instead of tights, he’s wearing green camouflage pants. We couldn’t go all the way with Robin Hood—not feeling my son wearing tights unless he’s dancing. I’m not that evolved yet.

Butterfly and Sophie have a silent conversation once we arrive at the festival. The last time we were in a festival setting in Seattle, Sophie was almost kidnapped. This time, she’s looking a lot older than she did only six months ago. I can only describe her costume as a designer vampire. She’s wearing a short black dress—not too short, but short—black tights and calf-high black combat boots. Her costume is covered with a full-length black hooded Victorian-style cloak that buttons down the front to her waist. Her hair is darker and styled back off her face in a chignon. She has completed her costume with gothic jewelry, striking yet understated vamp makeup, and fire-engine red contacts! She’s short—just under Butterfly’s height with no heels—but she’s stunning.

She justifiably looks a little nervous but assures my wife that she’ll be fine.

“Dad got me some police pepper spray and a taser,” she says. She produces the taser dangling from her wrist and hiding under her cloak.

“It looks like a flashlight,” Butterfly says.

“Exactly,” Jason chimes in. “Something to keep my baby from getting lost at night… or taken. This one’s close range and will give you a pretty good stun. She’s got a distance taser for whenever she’s by herself. That one will immobilize an attacker, but the stun from this one is strong enough to make you back the fuck off…”

“Jason!” Butterfly scolds.

“I’m sorry, Ana,” he says with mirth, “but they’re going to hear more than that out here today.” She rolls her eyes at him.

“Between what you’ve been showing me in our classes and my new self-defense weapons, anybody who tries is going to be writhing and twitching on the ground,” Sophie assures her and Butterfly smiles.

“Not to mention that there’s a whole lot more people with her this time,” Chuck chimes in. “They may be unconscious before she can even get them to the writhing and twitching part.”

Laura and Jaxon are a bit confused, so Jason shares Sophie’s near-abduction experience at the Mexican taco festival at her birthday in May. Laura is horrified and asks Sophie how she’s doing now. Sophie thanks her sweetly for her concern and then calmly says, “I’ve been through worse.”

For the next few minutes, Jason allows Sophie to share as much or as little as she wants of her short but somewhat traumatic life. Laura is speechless for a little while.

“Humans are monsters,” Jaxon says. “You’ve turned out to be quite the young lady in spite of it though.

“Nearly sold for a hit,” Laura says under her breath. “I really thought that kind of thing only happened in movies. She would’ve felt like pure shit when she sobered up and realized what she did with her kid.”

“No, she wouldn’t’ve,” Sophie says firmly. “She still won’t even admit that it happened.” Laura just shakes her head.

“I’m all out of gasps,” she says, and I know what she means. The entire story is so horrible that you’d be in a perpetual state of what the fuck as the nickels continue to drop.

Nonetheless, we turn our attention away from the traumas of the past year and to the Hilloween festival. There are people in costume on the streets and live bands playing on the sidewalk—marching band sound but playing upbeat music you could dance to… and there’s definitely a lot of dancing! People in wild costumes shaking tail feathers all over the place.

Some of the festivities are being held inside as it’s raining outside. This is the fourth year that Hilloween has been held here and it almost always rains on Halloween. It’s only misting a bit when the parade of costumes begins around 2pm. So, we join right in with Red, Robin, and our little Volturi. After we march down Broadway to the beat of a band called Chaotic Noise, the afternoon rain chases us back indoors where the carnival is set up.

When we get inside, I realize that time could pass by pretty quickly in here. There are games, face-painting, and photo opportunities everywhere—backdrops and animals, inflatable and real, not to mention an array of costumes that range from cute to absolutely macabre. I see the adults are getting in on the fun, too. I didn’t even consider dressing up in costume as this is my first year having children at the age where they can enjoy Halloween.

I don’t remember dressing up for Halloween as a child. My earliest years were tainted with the memories of the crack whore and her pimp… Myrick. I can say his name now. I called him “the crack whore’s pimp” for so long that I didn’t even bother with a name. Calling him “the crack whore’s pimp” made him a bit of a specter… the phantom that haunted my nightmares for more than two decades. Saying his name made him real—very real. So real, in fact, that he sent his son to terrorize me and my family, and then his ass turned around and kidnapped my son. The bastard is dead. I can say his name now without fear.

Myrick.
Anton Myrick.
Anton fucking Myrick.

Even if I must do some time, I’ll still feel like it was worth… more for what he did to my son than for what he did to me.

My later childhood years are a bit of a blur. They were full of nightmares of the man with the boots…

Having food stashed in drawers and shoe boxes and hidden corners of my room and closet so that I would never be hungry…

Remembering that with a pillow and her blankets, Baby Mia fit perfectly in that classic rusty old Radio Flyer wagon with the squeaky wheels, so that we could escape if Boots came back to get me…

I might’ve dressed up for Halloween sometime during those years. In fact, Mom being the mom that she is, I’m sure I did, but I don’t remember.

Early teenage years were filled with fighting and drinking, so I know I didn’t dress up then. I never told my father that he was the reason I started drinking. I never told anyone—not even Flynn or Dr. Baker or the myriad of useless shrinks I had seen over the decades… not even my Mistress—and I never will. He didn’t hand me a drink or anything. I just saw how alcohol relaxed him when he decided to take a drink, especially after a long day at work, and I just wanted that feeling. It did exactly what I thought it would and more…

Until her…
The Pedophile.

Needless to say, there were definitely no Halloween costumes after that.

I bring myself back to the here and now before anyone notices that I’m slipping a bit down the rabbit hole. I probably would’ve like to dress up for Halloween if I had given it some thought, especially since this could be the last one that I see as a free man… for a while anyway, but I get the feeling that I would’ve been way out of my league. I wouldn’t have been able to compete with these people. Some of these costumes are way out there. I just passed a guy—at least I think it was a guy—dressed as Cousin It with a little Wednesday Addams following him around.

I’d have to say that the most fun—and simplest—costume that I saw was a jellyfish. It was an umbrella with sparkle lights attached to it and the jellyfish tails. It was brilliant in its simplicity. I would’ve done something like that.

As we’re walking around the building, playing the games and seeing the sites, I see the lady with the large yellow Burmese python and I’m definitely interested. The mini crocodile catches my attention, too, although Butterfly wants to head in the other direction.

“Not around my children,” she declares.

“Look, there are other children over there… touching it!” I protest.

“If their parents want to risk letting them be a reptile snack, fine, but not mine!” She turns military style and walks in the other direction—with her children. I chuckle at her back.

“I don’t think she’s ever forgiven you for the reptile experience at that zoo in Adelaide,” Jason says.

“I think you’re right,” I say with mirth. “Okay, baby, what about the turtle? They’re harmless.” She looks over her shoulder at me, a child’s hand in each of hers.

“How close is it to the other reptiles and is it a snapping turtle,” she asks, and it sounds more like a statement than a question.

“Not that close and we won’t know until we get over there,” I reply. She narrows her eyes.

“Christian Grey, if one of my children loses a finger, you’re going to lose one of yours,” she threatens, and I believe her.

“Our children, and they won’t lose a finger. Now, come on.” I can tell that she still doesn’t trust the situation, but she follows me to the large turtle with our children in tow.

“He’s bigger than I thought,” she says when we get over there. He’s bigger than I thought, but I won’t admit that.

“And that little girl in there petting him is about the same age as our children, so stop worrying,” I scold gently.

Mikey is fascinated by the turtle and Minnie is completely enamored. She cries a bit when it’s time to leave and give the other children a chance to play with them, and Butterfly throws me a bit of a death glare.

“Don’t look at me!” I defend. “I didn’t tell her to fall in love with a turtle!”

This brings some laughter from various onlookers, one of which calls out to me.

“Hey, Christian!”

I turn around to see Zac and Marcia walking towards me dressed like Morticia Addams and Lurch. They’re costumes are phenomenal and I’m starting to regret not dressing up.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here,” Butterfly greets Marcia with a hug while Zac and I shake hands. “Great costume. You pull that look off very well.”

“Thank you,” Marcia replies. “I couldn’t do the whole tree-trunk leg thing. I need to be able to walk.”

We introduce Laura and Jax to Marcia and Zac as we make our way through the vendors trying to decide what to eat. We’re outdoors again now, laughing and chatting when we come upon Marlow and some girl. He’s dressed in full Venetian garb and I can’t help but laugh about how much Italy must’ve affected us all. His date is a petite, curvy little number in a red and black catsuit dressed like the jester version of Harley Quinn, complete with full white-face make-up and the jester hat. She’s not obscene in her costume, but she’s definitely flaunting a very fit, petite, and shapely form. Their costumes don’t match at all.

“What’s your costume?” I ask Marlow.

“I’m Casanova,” he says.

I hear a quiet scoff behind me and a nearly silent, “Figures,” that no one else heard. If anybody else heard it, they pretended not to. I can’t quite place it, but I think it came from Sophie. I can’t be sure, and I’m not even sure that it was directed at Marlow. With no further commentary, I drop it and focus on Marlow and his date. I think that Marlow maybe should’ve chosen another Heath Ledger character to imitate so that he could be more in sync with his date… namely, the Joker.

“And… who’s your date?” I ask, somewhat cautiously. Marlow frowns.

“Christian… that’s Maggie,” he says pointing his thumb at Harley Quinn.

What??

My eyes widen. I do an immediate double-take, then turn incredulous and questioning eyes to Zac. I know my look has nine different questions in it…

When did this happen?
You guys let her leave the house like this?
Where’s your shotgun?
What are you feeding this girl?

… Just to name a few. Zac answers all of my unasked questions with a shrug. It’s like I said, she’s not obscenely dressed or anything, but… she’s 14! With the right ID right now, she could get into a bar!

She smiles widely and waves at me. I can only wave back.

“Wow, great costume!” Sophie says to Maggie. “I didn’t even recognize you.” They begin to chat amongst themselves, and Zac walks over to me.

“I know,” he says. “They grow fast. I blinked, and she had hips. I’m going to have to keep a baseball bat at the front door.”

“I was thinking shotgun,” I admit shamelessly.

No sooner I finish the thought that I hear a catcall come from behind us.

“Hey, sexy!”

It’s general, so half the crowd turns around to see who this guy is talking to. He’s some punk kid—easily 18, but still a punk kid to me. His gaze is zeroed in on Maggie and Sophie as he and his friends close in on them. Sophie’s fire-engine gaze looks as if it could burn a hole in his soul. The slight movement under her cape alerts me that she’s gripping her taser.

“I lost my number,” he says to Maggie once he’s closer. “Can I have yours?”

“Oh, dear God,” Butterfly laments under her breath. Yes, dear, I have to agree… that’s number two under cheesy pick-up lines, second only to “What’s your name, what’s your sign.”

“Back off, man,” Marlow warns calmly, and the guy looks him up and down.

“That your girl?” punk kid asks. “She can speak for herself.”

“No, that’s my sister,” Marlow says.

“Then stop cock-blocking, man,” punk kid shoots. Woo… wrong answer.

“Man, save yo’self the trouble and step back,” Marlow warns again. “What are you, 18? Nineteen? She ain’t even legal.”

“Mmm, arrest me,” punk kid says, ogling Maggie… and my skin just crawls. Zac is ready to pounce and this stupid, scatterbrained, being-led-by-his-dick kid has no idea how close he is to meeting his maker.

“Man, get the fuck on!” Marlow hisses, now drawing attention to himself. Punk kid just laughs.

“Settle down, Twinkle-toes,” the kid taunts.

“I’ll show yo’ ass Twinkle-toes,” Marlow says, stepping closer to the guy. Maggie quickly puts her arm in front of him.

“Marlow, don’t,” she says. “What kind of guy goes trolling for 14-year-old girls? It’s not worth it.”

Marlow is still glaring at the kid and hasn’t noticed that Jason, Chuck, Zac, and Keri have all moved behind him. The kid looks at all his opponents, then at Sophie, then back at Maggie and scoffs.

“Her costume is better anyway,” he says, gesturing to Sophie, who glares at him with fiery eyes before he and his little entourage move on to ruin someone else’s good time. Marlow watches them walk away before turning his attention to his little sister, who has now dropped her head.

“You okay?” he asks her. She nods and of course, none of us believe her.

“Mags, don’t pay him any attention,” Sophie says walking back over to her friend. “He’s a jerk.” Maggie tries to pretend that she’s not hurt.

“He’s right,” Maggie says with a shrug. “You’re costume’s way better.” Sophie smiles.

“No, it’s not,” Sophie replies. “It’s just different. He’s just mad because you didn’t give him no play. You look great. That’s why he tried to hit on you in the first place. Seriously, don’t let that sucker ruin our fun. C’mon, let’s go get some pizza. Keri, you wanna come with?”

“Sure,” Keri says without hesitation. We watch as the girls all walk over to a food truck. Butterfly, Marcia, and Laura immediately begin whispering about something, and Zac gravitates towards me while still looking at the girls.

“He better be glad Low got to him before I did,” Zac says.

Low? Oh, Marlow. I’ve never heard anybody call him that, not even his mom or his sister. It speaks to the nature of his relationship with Zac.

“It’s good that Marlow took care of it,” I say. “They may have gotten into a tussle, but you would’ve killed the kid.”

“Damn straight,” he says before remembering where he is. He rolls his eyes and scratches his head.

“I don’t know what it is, man,” he says. “Marcia and I fell in love, and she introduced me to her kids… I’m not trying to replace their father, but he’s a shit father! How could you look at them and not want to move heaven and earth for them?”

It’s very easy to want to protect this family. I remember Butterfly telling me how she immediately gravitated to Marlow when he was nothing more than a teenager angry at the world because of his circumstances. Hearing what happened to Marcia and the things that Maggie had to witness throughout her lifetime with her father, you can’t help but feel protective.

“I’d seriously kill a rock over all of them,” Zac says, “but Maggie… she hasn’t even gotten a chance yet. I know that she’s coming into womanhood and guys are going to look at her, but don’t be rude to her. I wanted to break that kid’s fucking neck!”

Ok, settle down. She’s fine now.

He looks over at her, Sophie, and Keri as if to reassure himself of what I just thought.

“I don’t have any children,” he says, and I already knew that. He told me on the boat. “This is most likely the closest I’ll ever get. They feel like they’re mine—not my stepkids… my kids. They feel like they’re mine. Even though Johnson sucks as a father, I’m not trying to take another man’s kids because I wouldn’t want anybody to do that to me… but they feel like they’re mine. Does that make me a bad guy?”

“No.”

A hand appears on Zac’s shoulders and we both turn around to see Marlow standing there.

“That makes you a good man, a real stand-up guy,” Marlow says. “A lot of men don’t even want to deal with a woman with baggage, much less the baggage that this family has, but you? You’re really good to my mom, and if you did that much, you would’ve been fine by me, but you treat me and Mags like your own and we know that.

“You came in to be a dad and you really didn’t have to. We’ve already got a dad—a sucky dad, but we’ve got one. We’re lucky enough to have another one where the first one dropped the ball. A lot of kids don’t get that. They get whatever boyfriend Mom brings home and if he don’t like the kids, he just don’t like the kids.

“You’re a good man, Zac,” Marlow adds. “We appreciate you for that. Just don’t kill any of Maggie’s boyfriends… we want to keep you around.” Zac scoffs a laugh.

“Then they better behave themselves,” he says, trying to hide the obvious emotion that Marlow’s words have brought to him. Marlow squeezes his shoulder.

“You not gone cry are you, you big wuss?” Marlow asks, jabbing at Zac a bit. Zac clears his throat.

“Naw, naw, I’m good,” he replies, squaring his shoulders. He looks Marlow in the eyes for a few moments.

“Thanks, man,” Zac says. Marlow nods nonchalantly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. He heads off to check on his sister and I go over to check on my wife and kids.

“That was interesting,” she says. She’s holding Minnie on her hip while Mikey is admiring the sights under Gail’s watchful eye.

“I know,” I say. “Did you know that was Maggie?” She shrugs.

“Not at first,” she admits, “but when Marlow started talking, I took a closer look and realized it was her. She looks fantastic.”

“She’s growing too fast,” I point out. Butterfly chuckles.

“What are you going to do when Minnie is that age?” she asks. I raise my brow at her.

“Can we get her out of Pull-ups first?” I scold my wife.

“What’s going on with that?” Laura asks my wife, gesturing over to Maggie and company. She and Maggie have stepped out ahead of Marlow, and Chuck has come to retrieve his wife. I’m not sure what she’s talking about.

“There’s a bit of tension between Sophie and Marlow,” Butterfly says.

“A bit?” Laura emphasizes. I didn’t think it was that serious or that obvious, but Laura must’ve seen something I didn’t. I watch Maggie and Sophie chew the fat… and pizza, while Marlow falls behind looking at his phone. Nothing seems amiss to me, but Butterfly gives Laura the short version of their ongoing sibling rivalry. Laura looks a little incredulous—not necessarily disbelieving, but skeptical. They seem to be fine eating their pizza and chatting, although Marlow is just watching over his sister and not necessarily partaking in the conversation. I don’t give it a second thought.

As afternoon turns to evening, the children are allowed to trick-or-treat at approved houses on the Hilloween route. These houses are decked out in their Halloween finest, with flying ghosts, front lawn graveyards, and jack-o-lanterns as far as the eye can see. Red and Robin have the time of their lives filling their little sack and basket with Halloween goodies. Butterfly came prepared. She empties the children’s sack and basket into a larger bag in their double stroller repeatedly and allows them to continue trick or treating, refilling their loot as many times as they are able.

As night falls during the course of our trick or treating, apparently every year they have a flash mob of costumed dancers, and this year, I almost got caught in it. It’s cool to watch, but I have no time to dance, folks. It’s been a full day for me, and I’ve got about an hour and some change to beat curfew.

“We’re not keeping all that candy, are we?” I ask once we’ve called it a day and we’re walking down Broadway with two tuckered-out twins asleep in their stroller. It’s truly a huge haul and definitely too much candy for a couple of kids not quite two years old yet.

“No,” Butterfly says. “We’ll sort it, check it, keep some for the twins, keep some for ourselves, and take the rest to Helping Hands.” I raise my brow.

“Keep some for ourselves?” I say, excitedly. “Are there any Twix in there?” Butterfly laughs.

“I’m sure there are,” she replies.

---

ANASTASIA

We had a fantastic time at Capitol Hill yesterday. Jax and Laura stay out a little longer to enjoy the evening after Christian and I had to get back to the Crossing to put the twins down since it was past their bedtime and for him to recharge his monitor and make it back to the perimeter before curfew. It was quite the workout and I was only too happy to get into a hot bath when I got back home. Although Christian and I make a small discovery.

We have to adjust our position during sex to maneuver around that tether. If that thing rubs against my leg, pokes me in my thigh, or scratches my skin, it breaks the mood and I have to get it back. And trust me, my husband knows the moment that happens. I’ve been very good at ignoring it and not letting it bother me, but lately, that thing drives me batshit! I think that’s very selfish of me since I’m not the one who has to wear it and even though it affects me, I only have to deal indirectly with what it implies, but I can tell that it really bothers my husband when I lose that loving feeling… even if it’s only for a moment, because we always get it back.

We also must be very quiet since the twins are sleeping in our room. That’s kind of weird and also kind of fun. It’s like two teenagers trying to get one off before the parental units catch them.

Sunday morning, we’re preparing to hit the town again when I’m compelled to ask my friend a question. As I recall the topic of conversation from last night, I remember that when we were going through Hobart and the guide was droning on about some ridiculous and irrelevant factoids that seriously set her off. That’s when Laura first told me that she was largely Native American. I remember her telling me what specific people she hails from, but I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember what they were.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say to her just after breakfast.

“Sure,” she says.

“Do you attribute your ability to read spirits to your indigenous heritage?” She nods.

“Absolutely,” she says. “Our entire religion—for lack of a better word—is based on spirits and the ancestors, and more deities than you can imagine, deities that can and do change from people to people. I have absolutely no doubt that the ancestors and the spirits facilitate my ability to read even though I wasn’t brought up in the way and I’m nothing near a real medicine woman.”

“How is that possible?” I ask. “I’ve learned so much from you and you said yourself that it stems from your heritage.”

“I’m actually a seeker, not a teacher,” she clarifies. “I wasn’t raised in the way of my people. I learned it later, even though my grandparents and great-grandparents are and were wells of knowledge as I grew up. I connect greatly with my heritage and my tribe, but I don’t know it all and I probably never will.

“We are an extremely religious people, and for good reason. We lost everything. A lot of times when people have nothing else to hold on to, they turn to their religious beliefs because faith is the only thing that keeps them from sinking into oblivion. There’s a whole lot that I could teach you about the spirit world and spirit guides and such, but you’d end up going down a rabbit hole because it would be more information than your doctoral studies, and I still don’t know it all.”

“Well, you pretty much answered my question,” I say. “I get it. Now, I understand why you believe everything and nothing. With what you know and what you do, I think that’s probably the only thing you could do is all and nothing. It’s just too much information, like you said. But you answered my question with the spiritual belief and what I know is a connection to the Earth and many deities. So, thank you for that.” She smiles.

“We don’t let outsiders in so easily,” she says. “When we did that, our heritage was all but wiped out. So, count yourself lucky, Grey.” She winks at me.

Yesterday’s trip to Hilloween was the first of hopefully many opportunities to fulfill a promise that Christian and I made when we were in Italy. We’re becoming tourists in our own city. We’re aware of the fact that we’re easily noticeable and we’ve opted to fall away and allow Laura and Jax to enjoy their vacation in the Emerald City if that becomes a problem, but we’re going to take in as much fun as we can before it does.

Heading out to enjoy the sights and sounds of Seattle, I can’t help but miss the simpler times in my life once again—the times spent communing with the water and fish at the aquarium before David ruined that for me and the long afternoons relaxing in the park on a blanket with a good book and not having to worry about becoming fodder on someone’s Twitter page for not saying, “Hi.” Of course, one of the biggest things that I miss are my regular visits to Pike Place.

You can’t possibly visit Seattle without a trip to Pike Place. Besides the entertaining display given by the fish mongers yelling signals as one another while they send whole ass large fresh fish flying—and I do mean flying—across the market, there is amazing food and shopping at Pike Place. It’s almost like being at a carnival here—well, it is a carnival if you consider the ferris wheel—and just like you do at the carnival, I prepare myself to eat a lot today.

Strolling around the market, I feel a bit sad that my beloved blue rhodies are no longer in bloom this year. I missed their peak season while we were in Italy. I do find solace, however, in a sprig of beautiful blue lilac called—of all things—Butterfly Bush.

How do I keep finding these things?

My favorite fish is a Butterfly fish which I determined that I liked before I even knew its name. Now, I’ve stumbled on a new flower to ease the pain of missing my season of rhodies that bloom right here in the state and I never even knew that they were here even though I lived here my whole life… well, most of my life anyway.

The soft blue of the Butterfly Bush can be easily mistaken for the lavender color of lilac, especially with its eyes that range from a soft pink to a darker shade of magenta—but they are, in fact, blue. I also stumble on another version of the flower that has yellow blooms with orange eyes and are a more spherical like hydrangeas. They’re vibrant and beautiful and even though blue is my color, I like these, too.

Once again, I find myself missing my simple life. While I have become very fond of the trappings of wealth and the many comforts that it affords me, I long for the days that Anastasia Steele could visit Pike Place, filling my wicker basket with rhodies and various other flora to make centerpieces and flood my condo with the numerous fragrances of summer.

Consignment shops and finding the ideal vintage wrap are things of the past since I now have a personal shopper and stylist to scour the city and locate those things for me.

A simple stroll down Broadway or lunch downtown somewhere on 4^th street without an entourage or security detail is completely out of the question.

Ana Steele wouldn’t have these problems… nor would she find herself facing off with vindictive bitches or maniacal men for the safe return of her kidnapped son.

Am I being ungrateful?

We stop for lunch at a small place called Beecher’s Cheese for what is touted to be the best grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup in the world. It’s no contest for Ms. Solomon’s ham and pineapple delights, but it’s still very tasty. The sandwich is made of toasted sourdough bread along with Beecher’s own flagship cheese combined with Just Jack cheese and melted to perfection. The tomato soup is a simple concoction of fresh tomatoes, seasonings, and Beecher’s flagship cheese. It’s quite delicious, although I am having flashbacks of the simple grilled cheese and tomato soup Christian made for me not so long ago. It was nothing fancy, but it was seasoned with love, and that made it quite delightful.

Shopping with Laura is quite the adventure. She’s not a cheapskate by any means, but she looks for the value in what she’s about to purchase. She refuses to spend money just for the sake of spending money.

“I wasn’t brought up that way and I’m not going to start now,” she says. “Money isn’t an endless commodity. One day, those numbers are going to dwindle down to nothing. I’m not going to spend it like it grows on trees.”

She’s like me in that way that even though I know that money is no object, I’ll still question, “Why are we spending all this money on this particular purchase” if we don’t need to. Jax is apparently a little freer with his spending, but not like Christian. My husband makes six figures an hour, so money flows from his hands like water. Even his storm cellar fund or whatever he calls it is more than what most people would make in a lifetime.

Nonetheless, Laura walks into one of the local shops and immediately voices her displeasure with the candles.

“This is ridiculous,” she says to me quietly. “First of all, who would pay this type of money for one candle? Let’s start there. Second, even if you’re not like me—using a candle to set a mood or meditate or assist in opening a chakra—you’re still going to want a scent that’s pleasing. If it’s floral, generally it’s going to bring calm, a pleasant scent. If you have something fruity or something from a food group, of course it’s going to invoke the flavor of the food. The sense of taste is accented by the sense of smell. Now, look at this.”

She walks over to a candle that’s priced at $45.

“Smell that,” she says. I sniff.

“It’s nice,” I say. “I like it. I would buy it.”

“An 8-oz candle for $45, you would buy it?” I nod. “Tell me why.”

“Well, based on the scent, I would buy it,” I say. “I’m getting a heavy scent of jasmine. That’s one of my favorites. Once the jasmine lightens, I’m catching strong hints of sandalwood which I absolutely adore. And then I’m catching final hints of a musky mossy scent. I doubt that I would be able to find that combination anywhere else, so just for the originality of the mixture, I would buy it.”

I look down at the candle’s label and see that I’m right on the money with my scents, but I missed orchid, violet, and ozone.

“I know that you’re going to pay more money for artisanal products, so I would expect a higher price tag if that’s what I was in the market for. Soy wax, cotton and paper wicks, hand-poured… it’s a quality candle.” She twists her lips.

“It’s so hard making a point to you intellectuals, especially rich ones,” she says, retrieving another candle and handing it to me. “How about this one? Don’t look at the label.”

I remove the top and smell the candle… then gag. My eyes start to water and I get horrible scratchiness in the back of my throat.

“See?” she says as if she has proven her point. I still don’t know what her point is.

“That’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but someone wanted it. What the hell is that?” I ask, trying to be inconspicuous in my choking.

“What did it invoke?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Citrus maybe… menthol…” She turns the label around to me.

Grapefruit and mint.

“Oh, that’s just awful,” I say.

“Yet, someone will come in here and buy it because it’s handmade in a designer artisan shop. They can’t quite place the fragrance, but when they take it home and light it, they’re going to have the same reaction you just did. Once they’ve caught their breath and blown the damn thing out, it’s going to sit on the shelf in the dining room or on a curio stand or in a China cabinet or what have you because they paid $45 for it in the Emerald City and it was handmade and they don’t want to pitch it even though it smells like crap. This is the definition of spending money just to be spending it.

“That candle that you love so much… 8 ounces, 80 hours burn time. I could go to Yankee Candle—which is also a designer store, by the way—get a 16-oz jasmine candle, take it home and add a few drops of the essential oils in the other scents that you noticed. That candle would probably cost me $30 and I’m not putting $15 worth of essential oil in the candle.

“Now let’s say that I bought both of these candles—one that I love, one that I hate. I’ve now spent $90 for two candles. Whereas at Yankee, I would get two candles that I wanted and since Yankee almost always has a BOGO like Bath and Body Works, I’d get two more for free. And if I’m so stuck on having something ‘hand-made…’” she does the finger quotes, “let’s not even discuss how much cheaper it would be and how easy it is to buy the soy wax chips and make it myself.” I raise a brow and gaze at her.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” I say, finally.

“I’ve put a lot of thought into situations like this,” she says. “Yes, I may be a little more passionate about it than I should be, but we’re spending money on things that we really don’t have to. Yes, get the stuff that you want, but don’t just throw money out there because you have it.” I purse my lips and nod.

“Point taken,” I say, replacing the grapefruit candle, “but I’m going to buy this candle.” I wink at her while waving the jasmine sandalwood. When she raises a brow at me, I retrieve a second jasmine candle and stick my tongue out at her.

She can do nothing but laugh.

*-*

After a short stroll to show our guests that the Gum Wall was really real—and really disgusting—we kick about down at the Olympic Sculpture Park near the waterfront for a bit. Christian and Jax lounge on the benches of the Love and Loss sculpture, talking and sharing information on their phones while Laura and I admire the other magnificent sculptures outside of the Seattle Art Museum. I’m quite taken with the statue of Echo, just a head four or five stories tall representing the mythological Greek mountain nymph cursed to only repeat the last few words of someone else. She looks peaceful and beautiful with her eyes closed as she faces Puget Sound.

While Laura is taking pictures of The Eagle sculpture, I wander over to the Father and Son fountain. It’s composed of two separate fountains, one containing a pedestal holding a statue of the father with arms outstretched reaching out to the son while the other holds that of the son—the very small son—in the same pose.

You get only the slightest moment where the water is at a level where you can see both the father and the son at the same time. Most of the time, the water alternates rising over the head of the father and then the son. They’re eternally reaching for each other but never able to get beyond the philosophical barrier that separates them… so close and yet so far away, and neither can do anything about it. It’s poignant and thought-provoking… and sad.

Of course, I see my baby boy… my Mikey, in a strange place and emotionally alone reaching for his father and expecting Christian to save and comfort him like he always does… only Christian can’t reach him because the barriers of one sick bastard and his fucked-up female sidekick aided and abetted by the FBI are preventing him from reaching his son.

“It’s quite profound,” Laura says, her voice breaking through my thoughts, but failing to draw my gaze away from the tragedy playing out in this simple fountain.

“They’re trying to charge him with murder, Laura,” I say, never taking my eyes off the fountain. “They’re angry and vengeful because we got our son back and they lost their man. So, they’re trying to charge my husband with murder.” She’s silent for a moment.

“I don’t understand it,” she says. “Are they saying that you should’ve just sat there and waited for something horrible to happen to Mikey? Is that really what they’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what they’re saying,” I choke, finally breaking my gaze from the statue and looking at my horrified friend. Why can’t this situation be as obvious to everyone else as it is to her? Why can’t the rest of the world or the court system see the simplistic horror in the fact that the FBI was willing to sacrifice our son to get this bastard back and we weren’t?

Nobody would’ve paid if Mikey had died, but they want blood because Myrick isn’t here anymore. Their precious case is destroyed but nobody misses Myrick. An entire village of people would’ve mourned the loss of my son!

I’m doing my best not to lose it. I’m in public. I could explain away the emotions provoked by such a remarkable and symbolic piece of art, but not the cursing fit that I want to unleash on the world right now. I cover my mouth and quickly escape between the larger-than-life-sized metal pieces a few yards away that compose another sculpture. They’re tall, heavy, curved pieces of steel that remind you of the imposing hull of a ship… maybe the Titanic with the way that I’m feeling right now.

I lean against one of the sculptures, forcefully covering my mouth as I weep, unable to properly release the anguish that I feel. Luckily, the Bitch is having one of the most violent and animated temper tantrums that I’ve ever seen in my life.

“I wish we weren’t here!” Laura says conspiratorially as she comes around the sculpture to join me. She puts her hands protectively on my shoulders and begins looking around like she’s trying to find an escape route. I put my hand on her forearm, garnering her attention and shaking my head.

“It’s no use,” I hiss tearfully. “There’s no escape… nowhere that we can go.”

I know what she’s trying to say. She wishes that we were anywhere but here, in this public place, at this moment, but it doesn’t matter. No matter where we’re able to escape even if it’s the safety of the walls of the crossing, the moment we raise our heads again, this situation is back. There is no escape.

“They did expect us to sit there and wait to learn that Mikey was killed,” I say. “That’s exactly what they expected us to do. They knew who they were dealing with. They knew that man was a monster and what he was capable of. That’s why they wouldn’t let us speak to him. He had a whole ass family and only he and his son—the two criminals—were brought into protective custody. They knew exactly what they were doing.

“So what if the family lost their son, their toddler son? That doesn’t mean a thing. Apparently the greater good would have been served if my son had been murdered and he had brought that monster back alive. Mikey didn’t stand a chance. The world is a better place because that monster is gone, but apparently, we’re worse off because the baby lived! What kind of insanity is that?”

I weep more simply because my soul is completely exhausted. That statue means that there’s more of this kind of hopelessness and madness in the world. I wasn’t so foolish as to believe that I was the only one that felt this kind of hopelessness, but the fact that it’s relevant enough for somebody to make a public statue out of that kind of suffering? That’s just morose, morbid, and heart breaking.

“There’s nothing in the world like wondering if your child is dead or alive,” I say. “That is some of the worse pain I bet anyone can possibly feel in their life second only to losing their child completely.”

I do remember that Laura lost her son in an accident and I don’t discount what she felt. I can’t say that the feeling would have been any better or worse had I known Mikey was dead as opposed to thinking that he was dead because I’ve never been in that position and I don’t know, but thinking my son was dead not knowing if he was dead or alive, knowing that these assholes were not in the business of bringing him back safely and it was most likely that he would die, that’s excruciating pain that I can’t describe.

“Seconds felt like days, hours, years as I waited to find out what was going on with my baby,” I say, “hearing them say Mikey wasn’t the prevalent situation, that the prevalent situation was to get their guy back and Mikey was secondary… I knew Mikey wasn’t going to come home alive. And all I could do was sit here and wait for them to tell me that my son was gone. All I could do was sit there and wait for them to bring me my child, hoping for alive but expecting dead. That is the worst, and I mean the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life! The hopelessness, the dread, the complete and total inability to do anything because our hands were tied by the people in power.”

I’m still weeping as I explain the level of anguish that I suffered when Mikey was gone, and now, the anger and helplessness attached to the fact that my husband may do some serious time for bringing him back alive.

“The monster is gone,” I weep. “The boogeyman that I always feared has been completely annihilated, and I can’t take any type of comfort in that because my husband is on the line for destroying him, for bringing my son back in one piece. Make it make sense!” I sob now shaking my clenched fists.

“Nothing I’ve suffered in my whole life is more agonizing and soul-killing and gut-wrenching than this!” I declare. “I’ve been raped, beaten, branded, and left for dead; had my baby ripped out of me! My mother hated me for most of my teenage years! A narcissist tormented me for several more years! I was kidnapped, chained to a bed for four days, and beaten beyond recognition again!

“I watched as my then fiancé was held at gunpoint and nearly killed by a psychopathic blonde bitch with my gun! I was nearly killed by someone who deliberately ran into me with their car—left in a coma and temporarily lost my memory, and two separate trials painted the picture that I deserved the inhumane things that happened to me!

“Every tragedy in my entire life is played out live and in living color for the whole world to see and I’ve been called everything in the press from the Holy Virgin to the goddamn Antichrist! And you know what? I would still take repeated versions of any of those things compared to what I went through with my son and what’s happening with my husband right now because of it!

“This is excruciating! I wouldn’t wish this pain on anybody! Anybody! Not my worst enemy! I wouldn’t wish this pain on Whitshit, David, Harris, Ebony, Myrick, or even on that blonde pedophile bitch rotting in jail right now! Nobody, I say! Nobody!”

It’s only now that I realize that I’m screaming and my voice is echoing off of these large steel sculptures when Christian comes scrambling around the steel wall to get to me, nearly shoving poor Laura out of the way.

“Butterfly!” he declares, shocked and somewhat angry, grabbing my shoulders and shaking a bit. “What the hell?”

I can’t speak. I just launch myself into his arms, gripping him hard around his waist as I sob. I never want to let him go. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if he leaves me, if he has to go to jail and leave his family. At this moment, this thing is destroying me from the inside out and I’m powerless to stop it.

“What happened?” I hear him say, his voice rudderless. “What happened?”

No one answers and I imagine that Laura’s at a loss for words, too. I just hold him tight and take comfort in his strong, immovable chest… and cry.

I think he tries to ascertain a couple more times what happened and what’s wrong with me, but I can’t hear anything anymore but my sobbing and his heartbeat. I want to stop crying, but I can’t. The dam has burst and this water isn’t going to stop until this bitch is empty and it doesn’t mean a damn thing that we’re in public right now. There could be news helicopters flying over my head shooting a live feed of Anastasia Grey’s nervous breakdown in the Olympic Sculpture Park and I wouldn’t give a fuck. I’d still be crying. I’ve said all I can say right now and while my emotional well is overflowing, my verbal well is completely dry.

---

CHRISTIAN

“It had to happen,” I say. “You’ve been a pillar for the last six weeks, holding everybody together—the family, Helping Hands, even GEH to some degree. You’ve dealt with that woman committing suicide in your office, that fucking lawsuit, we’re waiting for Kulp’s verdict, not to mention the obvious. You’re only one person. The bottom had to fall out sooner or later.”

Six weeks… it feels like a year!

I set a cup of chamomile tea on the end table next to her as we sit in the family room dissecting Butterfly’s breakdown. With the four of us enjoying the day together, security was covert, but it was a monster trying to get out of there once Butterfly went publicly thermonuclear. I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised to see a picture or three online somewhere of our great escape. She doesn’t comment on her outburst. She just retrieves her tea and takes a welcome sip. She’s not going to stop if I don’t stop her and right now, her head is going to explode at any minute.

“That’s it,” I say. “I’m putting the kybosh on the media blitz. You’ve got enough to deal with…”

“You can’t,” she interrupts. “All we have is the public sympathy, to get as much publicity onto this matter as possible so that if it does go to trial, at the very least, we’ll have an outcry on our side. I haven’t done any public appearances or news shows since Amber Waves…” except this afternoon, “but you can’t shut me up. If you do, you might as well take a plea and turn yourself in.” I run my hands through my hair and sigh.

“This is ultimately up to the court to press charges,” I say, “and then a jury to convict me. While having strong public support is admirable, I don’t see how it serves to sway the case in any way.”

“In situations like this, if you don’t think that a trial can be influenced by public opinion, you’re wrong,” she retorts. “No matter how they spout that they can or should be, there’s not a person alive that is totally capable of being completely impartial. Oh, they can be very convincing, but when it comes down to it, it’s impossible. They can be fair, but they can’t be impartial.

“It’s like you said in the beginning,” she says. “‘Find me 12 people crazy enough to say that I should be convicted of murder for rescuing my son and I’ll do the time.’ Well, I’m not willing to take that chance. Let me do this. I’ve gotten it out now. It’s time to move forward. Let the canary sing!”

She stands and leaves the family room without another word. I’m tempted to follow her but Laura stops me, shaking her head until Butterfly is around the corner and out of earshot.

“It was the fountain,” she says. My brow furrows.

“What about the fountain?” I say. I saw the fountain, but I didn’t pay much attention to it except that it was water.

“It was called Father and Son,” Laura says. “That’s what she was looking at right before she broke down…”

Laura explains the concept of the fountain and I immediately see the symbolism of the sculpture and how it affected Butterfly. It was Port Arthur all over again, except on a much more personal scale… and the ghosts are symbolic this time.

“My little empath is going to have a stroke one day,” I lament.

“No, she’s not,” Laura says. “She’ll be just fine as long as she’s able to release her emotions. She’s a ball of power and fury, and just like any energy source, she needs to release it or she’s going to have an overload.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I lament. “She’s been talking to her therapist again, she meditates all the time, we fuck like rabbits, and she can and does beat the stuffing out of a heavy bag. I had to have one installed at GEH just for her.”

“Her therapist is one hour a week when she sees him,” Laura says. “Who else does she talk to about this in any great detail, and don’t tell me that it’s you because you’ve got enough of a burden on your shoulders. So, I already know that she doesn’t. I know this because we’re kindred in a lot of ways and if this was happening to Jaxon, I wouldn’t be talking to him about it. So, do you know who she speaks to about this besides her therapist? Because she’s not talking to me.”

I purse my lips. I have no idea if she speaking to anybody else about this. Laura’s right—ideally, I want to be there for my wife, but I have so much weighing on me with my own concerns that I haven’t been able to pay attention to her and all of her mental and emotional needs.

“I don’t know,” I say defeated, “I don’t know.” There’s a long period of silence.

“Get her back down here, because I know she went upstairs,” Laura says standing. “Tell her to meet me on the back lawn and not to ask questions. Remind her that it’s rude to leave your guests outside at night waiting—and no matter how long we’re out there, don’t send anybody out there unless I call for help.” She turns to Jaxon. “I have my phone.” He nods and his wife disappears around the corner to the grand entry, probably to retrieve her coat. I look at Jaxon.

“You might want to tell your security not to disturb them either,” he says. “They’re going to be tempted… and so are you.”

“Oh, hell,” I lament. The fact that he apparently has some idea what’s about to happen gives me some small amount of comfort. However, the fact that he’s telling me not to let my security go out there is wiping all that comfort away.

“Activate two-way communications…”

---

A/N: Click this link to see pictures of Hilloween.

Click this link to see pictures of the Seattle Art Museum and Sculpture Park.

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at More Grey Matters (Season Six).

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