by Mae Nunn
“Buddy, the deadline to put your name on the ballot is three weeks away,” Randy had reminded Ben. “You will never get an opportunity like this again. With Matthews stepping down at the end of his term, it’s a perfect segue for the party from one strong conservative to another. Not to mention, having your last name on the ticket will guarantee a record voter turnout.”
The Lamar family had been active in Texas politics since Mirabeau Lamar served as President of the Republic in 1838. With Ben retired from football, his uncles were adamant—carrying on the tradition wasn’t just an option, it was a calling. While family money and support was a given, over the years Ben had forged his own personal relationships that he’d learned could be counted on through good times and bad.
Randy Mason topped the list as more than a best friend who shared Ben’s values. Randy was willing to put his successful law practice on hold to coordinate the campaign ahead.
They’d been planning this move and testing the political waters for months, but Ben had blown it.
“Man, you know we’d already be drafting phone bank volunteers if I hadn’t messed things up with Ethan by sending him to that camp. Still, I’m optimistic.”
“How so?” Randy asked.
“He just started working with a new therapist and I think they’re getting somewhere. We might have him outside the house again soon.” Ben wanted to believe his statement was positive thinking and not an outright fabrication.
“Look, Ben, you know I love your kid. But the truth is Ethan’s in his own world these days. Forgive my bluntness, but as long as his physical needs are met and he’s free to study his rocks, he doesn’t really care whether you’re on the campaign trail or downstairs in your office. You haven’t had much of a life since Theresa died and it’s time you thought of yourself.”
Hearing his friend say the words Ben hadn’t dared to speak out loud was an emotional body check. To Randy’s point, strangers would surely appreciate their efforts more than his son appeared to most of the time.
Well, what about me, Father? Do my dreams count for anything, especially when I want to be of service to others?
“You still there? I hope you’re not being quiet because you’re mad at me for speaking my mind.”
Ben had to chuckle. “No, my friend, I’m not mad. I was just enjoying a moment of agreement and then doing a little silent whining to God.”
“Whining? Ben Lamar, whining?” Randy snorted laughter. “I’ve known you a lotta years and I’ve never heard you to so much as grumble under your breath, not even after the late hit that broke your collarbone in the ’93 Super Bowl.”
“Don’t remind me.” Ben pressed his palm to the old injury. “That busted bone can predict a thunderstorm more accurately than The Weather Channel.”
“Don’t miss my point.” Randy wouldn’t give up. “You’ve never been one to complain, so if you feel the need to let loose, just go ahead. You’ve earned it.”
“I’ll remind you of this conversation when we get to Washington and I have a complaint du jour.”
“Does that mean you’ll commit?” The hope in Randy’s voice made Ben regret the quip.
“That means I’m still praying for a positive sign that Ethan can handle change. Let’s give this new doctor some time and then I’ll feel better about making decisions for our future.”
“Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on the—”
“Calendar.” Ben finished Randy’s sentence. “Yes, I’m well aware the game clock is running.”
A loud whump resounded overhead. Ben abandoned his rehash of yesterday’s conversation and jumped to both feet. By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, frantic barking echoed from the rooms above. He dashed upward while a dozen scenarios flooded his mind, all of them disturbing.
“Give up!” Ethan shouted.
“No! You give up!” Doctor Stone demanded over the ruckus of her blasted dog.
Nothing Ben imagined even came close to the sight that assaulted him as he stood in the doorway. Ethan’s bed had been stripped of the covers. The mattress was bare, the blankets were heaped in a pile and the pillows had been flung across the room. He lay facedown on the floor clutching one corner of the sheet, holding on with all his might.
The opposite corner was in the unyielding grip of Doctor Stone, aka the Rock. Her worn, leather boots were planted wide, both heels dug into the carpet. Her cheeks were flushed from physical exertion. Strands of red-orange hair the color of a Texas wildfire had wrestled free of her braid and sprung like confused lightning bolts about her enchanting face.
“I’m not letting go,” Ethan insisted.
“Fine with me, hot shot. But while you’ve been sprawled on your bed all day I’ve been lifting weights, so I’m pretty sure I can keep this up longer than you.”
“What in blue blazes is going on in here?” Ben demanded loud enough to be heard over the dog’s carrying on. His son’s lazy body hitting the floor accounted for the loud noise, but the full explanation would be interesting. Actually, other than the manic hound, the scene was quite funny and the closest thing to roughhousing that he’d seen Ethan experience in years. Ben squashed down a grin and kept his distance from the action.
Ali gave a mighty yank, sufficient to pull Ethan a foot closer to the goal line she’d drawn on the rug with the toe of her favorite old ropers. The boy’s long arms and legs were stretched end to end, looking like he was making a dive for the end zone. He’d aggravated her since she’d arrived, so this turnabout was not only fair play, it was fun.
Simba danced around his body, barking her pleasure.
“That’s enough, girl,” Ali quieted her beloved pet, then turned attention to the new arrival. “Sorry if we bothered you, Congressman. But I needed to score a point on this stubborn son of yours.”
She tightened her grip and sucked in a breath. “Ethan seems to think nobody’s the boss of him. Now, as his dad it’s your call how to handle business between the two of you. But as his therapist, I’m the one callin’ all the shots, no ifs, ands or buts.”
“Real mature way to handle a kid, Ali.” Trapped facedown during the struggle, Ethan’s voice was muffled by the thick pile.
“That’s Doctor Stone, to you.” His father corrected.
“It’s okay. We’re on a first-name basis, aren’t we, kiddo?” Ali gave another sharp tug and the boy’s hands crossed the goal into her territory. “Sir, will you please verify the outcome of our tug-of-war?”
“Happy to accommodate.” Long strides carried the former athlete across the floor, where he made note of Ethan’s position compared to the faint line and nodded agreement. “By my calculations you are the winner.”
One final yank for good measure and she flung her corner of the sheet over Ethan’s head, hiding him from her view. She was fed up with the kid.
He flailed beneath the cover for a moment, then climbed to his feet, leaving the king-size square of fabric on the floor. He tossed his head like the ornery mule that he was and then stomped into his dressing room.
“Well, he got off the bed so I suppose today wasn’t a total waste of time.” She stooped to gather the sheet, then dropped it into the laundry hamper in the corner.
“So, what was that all about, Doctor Stone?”
“As I said, we’re on a first-name basis and I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Ali.”
“Then please, call me Ben.”
“But you’d prefer Congressman Lamar, correct?”
Mixed emotions crossed his face, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. Or maybe he was deciding which of his responses a potential voter would rather hear.
“As appealing as it sounds to me, I don’t know if that title will ever be mine.” He ducked his head, suddenly shy.
The guy was a natural for politics. As handsome as West Texas is hot and with a humble act that would charm Attila the Hun. But Ali’s strong suit was finding the kernel of truth among the lies her patients told, even to themselves, in order
to cover their pain. Only Ali and God knew how many years she’d personally spent in denial, blocking out the horror of her childhood, choosing memories of abandonment over nightmares of abuse.
“Well, if you don’t mind I’ll use the powder room in the hall to freshen up and then meet you downstairs to explain the progress you just observed.”
With the door closed behind her, Ali did a double take before the bathroom mirror.
“Good gravy, I look like I’ve just run a half-marathon.”
She unthreaded the braid that had come loose in the struggle with Ethan, groped in her purse for a brush and made quick work of restoring her hair. A splash of water on hot cheeks and a good hand soaping completed her effort to regain some dignity but did little to improve her mood.
This ridiculous effort to get Ethan to groom himself had gone on for three days! The hours consumed by rituals, arguments and rationalizing on both sides were probably no sweat for a therapist who willingly lived on Planet Asperger. But Ali had made a private commitment to limit her counseling skills to abuse victims where she had a ton of personal knowledge.
But here she was anyway, dealing with this bizarre disorder again. It was giving her anxiety the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since her earliest days in foster care. Ali’s candle was melted at both ends from searching for wisdom. Between office sessions with her patients she pored over old research materials hoping for a long-forgotten clue. Then late into the night she surfed psychotherapy sites, reading updated studies on Asperger’s hoping for a discovery.
And as she’d waited for Ethan to finish today’s diatribe on the chemical properties of sedimentary rock so he would finally get off the bed and change his sheets, only one thing was certain in her mind: she was ready to admit defeat.
“Ethan, I need to tell you something.” Ali tried again to distract him. When he yammered on about salt and gypsum she used the time to gather what little was left of her paper-thin patience. If the attention he’d paid her over the past few days was any indicator, the boy probably wouldn’t hear a word she said. So, why bother?
And that’s when the fight broke out. Pillows flew, blankets were tossed and a battle for the linens became a life and death issue. But the bed would get stripped.
“After I drag you over this line, we’re gone for good!”
“But you just got here,” Ethan insisted between grunts of exertion. “Why are you leaving already?”
“For your information, bituminous breath,” she jerked her head toward the clock placed prominently above his flat-screen television, “It’s been two hours since I arrived and we haven’t accomplished diddly squat.”
“How can you say that?” Indignation filled his wide, incredulous eyes. “If you’d pay attention to me when I speak instead of constantly looking at your notes, you might learn something.”
She ground her teeth, holding back the defensiveness that always accompanied being busted. She’d learned it was a waste of breath. The first time Ethan had called her out she’d been impressed with his intuitive nature. By the tenth time he’d taken her to task she realized he simply had no sense of tact. To an Aspie, diplomacy was tantamount to a lie. When something was straightforward, a candy coating made no sense. It was just that simple to Ethan, who had a remarkable ability to hit a nail on the head even if he could only hit one nail over and over and over again.
Enough already. Ali tossed her brush into her purse, resigned to what was about to happen. After the display of foolishness Benjamin Lamar had just witnessed, she didn’t figure he’d want her coming back again anyway. She slung her bag over her shoulder, opened the door and headed down the stairs with Simba in tow.
Chapter Six
As Ali softly descended the staircase, her gaze came to rest on the wallmounted fountain above the massive fireplace. A cross, crafted from rusty and twisted barbed wire, was embedded in the burnished copper and gray slate sculpture. A sheet of living water tumbled down the slick surface of the stone, then bubbled across the barbs of the cross, whispering forgiveness.
There was movement near the windows, where she caught sight of Ethan’s father. He was as lean as a Grecian statue and stood facing the twenty-foot wall of glass, with arms folded across his chest.
Probably searching for a positive way to say, “You’re fired.”
When her boots and Simba’s feet tapped against the hardwood floor he turned his head. The broad smile on his face sent an unexpected sizzle through Ali’s nervous system.
“Something funny?” Maybe he secretly enjoyed playing the bad guy once in a while.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he responded. “That whole scene upstairs was very funny. But I’m more pleased than amused.”
“Pleased?” She dropped her purse on the sofa table, then pointed to a nearby throw rug where Simba settled comfortably with her head on her front paws. “How can you be pleased about wasting your money?”
“Excuse me?” He blinked, looking unsure of himself for the first time since they’d met.
He was in good company because Ali’s self-confidence was shrinking by the minute. Ending this association sooner than later was probably for the best.
“My approach isn’t working with Ethan so it’s a waste of money to keep me involved in his treatment.”
The heart-melting smile was back. “Let me be the judge of whether or not the return is worth the investment. Right now, I happen to think it is.”
She slumped down on a plush floral sofa. He took the chair positioned at a right angle to the couch and propped his heels on the expensive-looking coffee table.
“Suppose you tell me what happened up there.”
“Nothing happened, that’s just it. I don’t seem to be having any impact at all.”
He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Give yourself time to get to know Ethan and you’ll start to recognize what we call progress in this house. You got him to engage with you and it’s only been a few days. That’s more than I’ve accomplished in the past few weeks.”
“I wouldn’t normally call an argument that degenerated into a wrestling match an accomplishment,” Ali countered.
“Tell me how your sessions usually play out.” He slid lower in his oversized Queen Anne chair and folded large hands across his flat abdomen. Ali’s head was splitting and she was ready to leave for the day, but he seemed to be settling in for a lengthy chat. She pressed fingertips to her temples and rubbed in small circles for a few moments before answering.
“Well, you have to remember that my patients are all suffering from the effects of abuse. Their experience may have triggered some mental illness but nothing as profound as autism. So, with one of my usual clients, I lead them into discussions that will eventually allow us to deal with the root of their problem.”
“Does that happen overnight?”
“Of course not.” Ali knew she was being baited and it irked her already-agitated nerves. “Therapy is a time-consuming process that requires cooperation from everyone involved.”
“Well, it’s obvious we won’t be getting much voluntary cooperation from my son anytime soon. But if you’d known Ethan before his Asperger’s became unmanageable, you’d understand how desperate I am to give him every chance to regain some of the life he’s lost. So while you may not be able to get his agreement, you will certainly have mine.”
“Would you mind a personal question, Mr. Lamar?”
“Ben.”
She opened her mouth but hesitated to speak his name.
“Is there another option? That just seems too casual for a man who could preside over Congress one day. It would be like calling Governor Schwarzenegger ‘Arnie.’”
Amused blue eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “You’re getting the cart way before the horse. I’m not even in the race yet.”
“Yet.” She repeated, catching the tag.
“Back to my name,” he sidestepped. “My sweet mama was the only person who ever called me Benjamin. I miss hearing
it and I’d be honored if you’d use it.” He didn’t stray off subject but leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Now, what’s the question?”
His smile was intended to put her at ease. She hoped he wouldn’t be upset with her for prying, but his answer was critical insight.
“How did Ethan get along with his mother?” Ali kept her voice soft and respectful.
Benjamin’s eyes narrowed and his focus shifted to some point high on the wall for long moments as he considered what she’d asked.
“If it’s too personal…” Ali prepared to apologize.
He sat tall in his chair and cleared his throat.
“Oh, it’s not that,” he insisted. “I was simply remembering how smitten Ethan was with his mama when he was a little boy. They couldn’t get enough of each other. Then pre-adolescence came along and showing affection became awkward for him. By the time he hit puberty we were living with social anxiety symptoms we couldn’t explain away.
“Ethan began to fall behind in classes and we started seeing signs of obsessive behavior. Then late one night he cut himself on the shin so deeply the bleeding wouldn’t stop. He had to come to us for help. That’s when we first saw the evidence that Ethan had been cutting for a while. He’d been careful to hide it under his clothing.”
The story confirmed Ali’s suspicion about the scars she’d noted on Ethan’s leg the day of the rescue. She’d seen similar markings on the homeless kids she worked with on Sundays, their sick method of stress relief an external sign of the internal pain.
“Once we realized Ethan was self-injuring, Theresa gave up her interior design career and made it her mission to get our son a proper diagnosis and treatment. We’d known about the Asperger’s for less than a year when my wife was killed. She lost control of her car during a heavy rainstorm and hit a tree. Ethan walked away without serious injury, but Theresa didn’t make it through the night. He thinks he’s somehow responsible and won’t accept my forgiveness.”
