Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 16
Settling In

The week after Declan's party was quiet. Shannon didn't mention the outburst again, though Ash caught her and Patrick having low conversations that stopped when he entered the room. No more family visits were scheduled. No more public outings.

Just routine. The grinding, inescapable routine.

Wake up wet. Change. Breakfast. Play. Snack. Lunch. Nap. Play. Dinner. Bath. Bed.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

On Thursday morning, Patrick came home early from work with boxes in the car.

"We got you some new things!" Shannon announced cheerfully as Patrick carried the first box inside. "Want to see?"

Ash looked up from the blocks he'd been mindlessly stacking. "What things?"

"You'll see. Come help Daddy unpack."

Patrick set the first box down in the living room and opened it. Inside was a small plastic table, bright primary colors, with two matching chairs. Toddler-sized.

"Your very own table!" Shannon said. "For coloring and snacks and activities. Isn't that exciting?"

Ash stared at it. A toddler table. Like the ones in preschool classrooms.

"We thought it would be nice for you to have your own space," Patrick explained, already assembling the pieces. The table snapped together easily—designed for quick adult assembly. "The coffee table is too tall, and the dining table doesn't work well for crafts. This is just your size."

Just his size. Because he was small now. Because everything had to be adapted to his new proportions.

Patrick set up the table near the window in the living room, arranging the two chairs on either side. Then he pulled out another item from the box—a plastic storage caddy with compartments.

"For your crayons and coloring books," Shannon said, already filling it with supplies. "See? Everything organized and easy to reach."

She guided Ash to sit in one of the chairs. It fit perfectly—his feet touched the ground, the table at the right height for his arms. Adult Ash would have had to hunch uncomfortably to use it.

Toddler Ash fit like it was made for him.

Because it was.

"Let's try it out!" Shannon set a coloring book and crayons in front of him. "Color something for me while Daddy brings in the other box."

Ash picked up a crayon automatically. Stared at the coloring book page—a smiling cartoon dog. The kind of simple image designed for toddlers learning to color inside the lines.

He started coloring. What else was there to do?

Patrick returned with another box, larger this time. "This one goes outside. Want to see?"

They went to the backyard. Patrick opened the box to reveal a plastic play structure—a small slide, a climbing wall with molded handholds, a little platform at the top. Bright red and yellow and blue.

"Your own playground!" Shannon said. "You can climb and slide whenever you want."

Ash watched Patrick begin assembly. The structure was small—maybe four feet tall at the highest point. Nothing like a real playground. But for a toddler, it would be adventure-sized.

For Ash, it was just another reminder.

"Why don't you help Daddy?" Shannon suggested. "You can hand him the pieces."

Ash sat on the grass and handed Patrick parts as requested. Washers. Bolts. Plastic panels. His small hands could manage the pieces easily enough.

The structure took shape. Slide attached. Climbing wall secured. Safety rails installed.

"All done!" Patrick stood back, surveying his work. "Want to try it?"

"No."

"Come on, just once. Make sure everything's sturdy."

Ash looked at the slide. At the molded plastic steps. At the whole ridiculous structure that was supposed to make him happy.

"Fine."

He climbed the steps—easy with his toddler body, the proportions perfect for his size. Reached the platform. Looked down at the slide.

It was maybe three feet long. A gentle slope. Completely unthreatening.

He sat. Pushed off.

Slid down.

Landed on the grass at the bottom.

"Yay!" Shannon clapped. "That was great! Want to go again?"

"No."

"Okay, that's fine. It's here whenever you want it." Shannon squeezed his shoulder. "Let's go have some lunch."

After lunch, Shannon brought out something else—a growth chart. One of those fabric ones that hung on the wall, marked with inches and cheerful animal illustrations.

"We're going to track how you grow," she explained, hanging it in the hallway outside the nursery. "Stand here, baby."

Ash stood against the wall. Shannon placed a book on top of his head, level with the chart, and marked it with a pen.

"Twenty-eight inches," she read. "We'll check again in a few months and see how much you've grown!"

Grown. Like he was actually growing up instead of being trapped at two years old for the foreseeable future.

Shannon wrote the date next to the mark: November 2024. Three weeks post-regression.

Ash stared at the mark. That line represented where he was now. Eventually there would be more lines, tracking his physical growth through the years.

Two to three to four to five.

All the way to eighteen again.

When he'd be forty.

"All done!" Shannon took his hand. "Time for afternoon play. Want to use your new table?"

The table became part of the routine. After lunch, Shannon would set him up with coloring books or simple puzzles or Play-Doh. His own little workspace. His own toddler furniture.

Ash sat there and colored. Made shapes with Play-Doh. Completed puzzles designed for preschoolers.

His hands learned the motions. The right pressure for crayons. The way to roll Play-Doh into snakes or balls. How to rotate puzzle pieces to find the fit.

Sometimes Shannon would join him, sitting in the other chair, doing her own coloring or just keeping him company. She'd praise his work, point out colors, ask simple questions.

"What color is the dog?"

"Brown."

"Good! And what color is the sky?"

"Blue."

"Very good!"

The conversations were mind-numbing. But Ash answered. Cooperated. Performed.

Because fighting it earned spankings. Because resistance was exhausting. Because strategic compliance was the only survival strategy he had left.

On Saturday, Shannon brought out a blanket and snacks and they had "outdoor time." Ash was given the choice—slide or sandbox or just playing on the grass with toys.

He chose the grass. Sat there with a ball and some plastic animals, arranging them in patterns while Shannon read a book nearby.

The slide loomed in his peripheral vision. Cheerful and accessible. Ready whenever he wanted to use it.

He didn't want to use it.

Didn't want to admit that part of him—the traitorous toddler-body part—had found the sliding motion pleasant. Had felt that brief moment of wheee before his adult consciousness crushed it.

Sunday brought another measurement. Shannon had him stand against the growth chart again.

"Still twenty-eight inches," she noted. "That's okay. You'll have a growth spurt soon."

Growth spurt. Like it was something to look forward to. Like getting bigger in this body was progress instead of just... more of the same, stretched over more time.

That night, lying in the crib, Ash thought about the table. The slide. The measurement on the wall.

His parents were settling in. Making this permanent. Creating infrastructure for the long haul.

A place to color. A place to play. A record of growth.

They were building a childhood for him. A complete childhood, from two to eighteen.

And they were doing it thoughtfully. Carefully. With consideration for what a growing child would need.

The table was actually nice—better than hunching over the coffee table. The slide was well-made and sturdy. The growth chart was one of the good ones, fabric instead of paper, meant to last for years.

They were good parents, he realized with a sick feeling. They were doing this right.

That was almost worse than if they were doing it wrong.

If they were neglectful or cruel, he could hate them purely. Could resist without guilt.

But they were attentive and patient and genuinely trying to give him what they thought he needed. They were investing time and money and effort into raising him properly this time.

Into fixing what they saw as their failures the first time around.

Shannon had researched the best toddler furniture. Patrick had assembled everything carefully, double-checking safety. They'd installed the growth chart in the perfect spot where it would be visible but not ostentatious.

They cared.

And that made it so much harder.

Monday morning, Shannon set him up at his new table with a coloring book after breakfast. "Mommy needs to do some work, but you can color right here where I can see you."

Ash colored. A cat this time. He stayed inside the lines—his fine motor control was actually getting better.

Shannon worked at her laptop at the kitchen table, glancing over periodically. "You're doing such a nice job! I love that purple you chose."

Snack time came. Shannon brought animal crackers and juice to his little table. Set them down on the plastic surface that was easy to wipe clean.

"There you go, sweetie. Eat up."

Ash ate at his table. His designated space. His toddler furniture.

After snack, Shannon suggested going outside. "Want to try the slide again?"

"No."

"That's okay. How about the sandbox?"

"Okay."

They went outside. Ash dug in the sand while Shannon worked in the garden nearby. The slide stood unused, its cheerful colors bright in the November sun.

Tuesday brought rain. Indoor day. Shannon set up Play-Doh at the table while she did laundry. Ash made shapes—circles, snakes, a lumpy approximation of a person.

"That's wonderful!" Shannon praised when she came back. "Is that a person?"

"Yeah."

"Who is it?"

Ash looked at the misshapen Play-Doh figure. It didn't look like anyone. It was just shapes pressed together by toddler hands that were getting too comfortable with this kind of creation.

"Nobody," he said.

"Well, I think it's great. Let's put it on the shelf to dry."

Wednesday, another height check. Still twenty-eight inches. Shannon assured him that was normal. That growth came in spurts. That he'd probably shoot up soon.

Ash stood against the wall and let her measure and mark and record. What else could he do?

That night, he lay in the crib and stared at his hands. Small hands. Pudgy fingers. The hands that had colored and shaped Play-Doh and climbed plastic steps.

Hands that were learning to be toddler hands.

"My name is Ash," he whispered. "I'm twenty-four years old."

But he'd sat at the toddler table all week. Had eaten snacks from plastic plates at the perfect height. Had used toys designed for his size.

Had fit.

"I'm an artist," he continued. "I made real art."

But he'd colored inside the lines of cartoon animals. Had shaped Play-Doh into simple forms. Had created things appropriate for his developmental level.

"I was trying to stay clean."

That one still felt true. He'd been trying. He had been.

And now he was clean. Sober. Safe.

At the cost of everything else.

The table was nice. The slide was well-made. The growth chart would track his progress accurately.

His parents were doing this right.

And Ash was adapting.

Learning to fit into the space they'd created.

Using the furniture. Accepting the measurements. Existing in this new childhood they'd built for him.

Five thousand seven hundred and ninety-six days to go.

And somewhere between the coloring and the sliding and the measuring, Ash was starting to realize something terrifying:

He could survive this.

His body would grow. The years would pass. He would color and play and be measured and eventually reach eighteen again.

He could survive it.

But would he still be Ash when it was over?

Or would sixteen years of toddler tables and growth charts and carefully constructed childhood reshape him into someone else entirely?

He didn't know.

And that scared him more than anything.