Was this behavior an offshoot of the divorce, as Jill insisted? It seemed implausible, as he and Jill hadn’t lived together since Scott was ten months old. Still, that nagging of conscience couldn’t be silenced. What if that was all Scott needed; his two parents together?
Mrs. Parks, a woman whose patience continually astounded Eric, said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do but call you.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully and looked back at Scott. “I think he wanted the caps put back on the finger paints. Although, I can’t say for sure.” In her hand she held a wet paper towel. She handed it to Eric and got up and walked away. “Maybe he’ll let you wipe his hands.”
Eric took the towel. Scott had become increasingly obsessed with closing things—cabinets, windows, doors, containers—with an unnatural intensity. Anything that he wasn’t allowed to close sent him into an inconsolable tantrum, as if his entire world had been shaken off its foundation.
Jill’s mother said the child was overindulged, spoiled because his divorced parents were vying for his love. Jill’s family did not divorce. At first Eric had bought into the theory. But he’d been careful, studied to make sure they weren’t acquiescing to Scott’s every demand. The tantrums, when he tried to make a more scientific study of them, were not random. Lately, the trigger had been his need to close things.
“Okay, buddy, can I wipe your hands?” Eric asked, holding out the towel.
Scott’s cries didn’t escalate; Eric took that as permission. He got the worst of the blue off his son’s hands, then scooped him up in his arms and carried him, still stiff and crying, out of the classroom.
Scott wiggled and squirmed, but Eric managed to get him strapped in his car seat. By the time he was finished, Eric had almost as much blue paint smeared on him as Scott did. Before he climbed in the driver’s seat, Eric tried to call Jill again. No answer.
Eric then called the station. When the dispatcher picked up, he said, “Donna, I’m going to have to take the rest of the afternoon off; I had to pick Scott up at school, he’s . . . sick.”
Eric hadn’t discussed his son’s possible condition with anyone. It was still too new, too baffling. How could he explain something that was currently such a mystery to his own mind?
In many ways the trying to get confirmation that Scott had a problem caused as much confusion as his son’s behavior did. The professionals couldn’t seem to agree on anything. Specific diagnosis, treatment and prognosis were as varied as falling snowflakes.
Donna made a tiny noise of understanding. “No problem,” she said with overkill on lightheartedness. “Hope he feels better soon.”
Eric realized he hadn’t been fooling anyone—Scott’s problems were becoming evident even to those outside the family.
By the time Jill called forty minutes later, Scott was sitting quietly on the floor of Eric’s living room, playing with his current favorite toy, a plastic pirate ship.
“What happened?” she asked. “I went to pick him up and they said you’d taken him home early.”
“More of the same. A tantrum that wouldn’t stop.” Eric rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.
“You would think a preschool teacher could handle a two-year-old’s tantrum without calling parents.”
“Jill —” he took a deep breath “— you know it’s more than that. Dr. Martin—”
“Stop! What if Dr. Martin is wrong? Dr. Templeton saw nothing out of the ordinary in Scott. Why do you insist upon thinking the worst?” Thankfully, she caught herself before she pushed them into their normal angry confrontation on the subject. Her voice became pleading. “Eric, I don’t want him to be labeled. If they treat him like he’s disabled, he’s going to be disabled. He’s just slow to mature. Lots of kids are. He’s just a baby! A friend of Angela’s said she knew a boy who didn’t talk until he was four and he turned out just fine. And Stephanie’s daughter has tantrums all of the time. A few more weeks in school and—”
“And what?” Sometimes Eric felt he was fighting the battle for his son on two fronts—against both an as-yet-unnamed developmental disorder and Scott’s mother’s refusal to face facts. “They’ll probably ask us not to bring him back. We need to find a better solution for him. It’s not just the fact that he’s not talking. He doesn’t interact with the other kids. Maybe he needs more structure, like Dr. Martin said.”
“And Dr. Blanton said it’s too early to be sure. None of the experts can even agree! And you want him locked up in an institution!”
“Stop over-reacting. You know that’s not what I meant.” He closed his eyes and willed his anger to subside. “We need to find a better way to help him learn, help him cope.”
She sighed heavily. “Let’s give this school a couple more months. Please. Then we’ll decide.”
“I just feel that time is slipping away. The sooner we start, the better his chances.”
“I do not want this whole town talking about Scott as if he’s retarded. He’s not.”
“Of course he’s not! But he’s going to need more help.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t take the risk for nothing. I agreed to send him to school over the summer, isn’t that enough for now?”
“All right.” It was all Eric could do to hold his argument. It was going to take time to get Jill turned around. “We’ll leave things as they are for a few more weeks. But I think it’s time to start at least looking for options.”
She let it drop, apparently satisfied with her temporary victory. “Since tomorrow is your day, why don’t you just keep Scottie tonight? I have a ton of things to get done. It’d really help me out. I’ll just pick him up out at Tula’s on Friday after work.”
This was yet another tool in Jill’s arsenal of denial—spend less time with Scott so she didn’t have to see what was becoming progressively more obvious. But that worked out just fine as far as Eric was concerned. He’d been spending every minute he could with his son, studying him, trying to decipher what was happening inside the child’s mind.
“Sure. Do you want to say hi to him before I hang up?” Eric spoke to his son every day on the phone, regardless of the empty silence on the other end of the line.
“Sure.”
After holding the phone next to Scott’s ear for a moment while Jill held a one-sided conversation, Eric got back on the line. “I’ll tell Tula you’ll be there at five-thirty on Friday.”
“Okay. You boys have fun.” She hung up.
You boys have fun. As if he and Scott were going to a baseball game and sharing hot dogs and popcorn. Would Jill ever be convinced their son wasn’t like other children?
Eric hung up the phone and stretched out on the floor next to Scott. He’d taken to only setting out one activity at a time for Scott and keeping the background noise to a minimum, as Dr. Martin had suggested. It did seem that Scott was less agitated.
There was still blue paint in Scott’s hair. Eric decided to leave that until bath time—which would develop into a battle of its own; Scott didn’t like to be taken away from whatever he was doing. Changing activities seemed to trigger more than just normal two-year-old frustration.
For now, he tried some of the repetitive exercises he’d read about, just to see if it seemed to make a connection. Dr. Martin said sometimes these children need to find alternative ways of communication—it was just a matter of searching and working with repetition until you found the right one.
As Eric worked with Scott, the light in the room turned orange with sunset. Scott’s pudgy toddler fingers spun the pirate boat in tireless circles. With a lump in his throat, Eric wondered if he would ever understand what was going on inside his son’s mind.
It was sunset as Glory wound her way into Cold Spring Hollow. She’d driven twenty-five miles out of her way to avoid passing through Dawson; approaching the road to the hollow from the north instead of the west. It was foolish, but she somehow felt she’d be better fortified to face the town after spending the night with Granny.
&nbs
p; In the shadows of the wooded hollow it was dark enough that her headlights came on. Glory slowed for a hairpin curve. After the road straightened back out, she saw three deer standing nearly close enough to reach out and touch. They held their bodies poised for flight, their dark eyes wide and their ears twitching. But they remained in place, studying her as closely as she studied them.
She felt a peculiar kinship to them, with their wary eyes and nervous posture. She imagined she had a similar air about herself at the moment. They remained watching her bravely as she drove on.
The narrow gravel road that led to Granny’s house cut off to the right. Glory made the turn and felt more settled already. Normally, Granny would be on her porch with a cup of tea about now, impervious to the swarming mosquitoes as she sat on her beloved swing. Before Granddad died, the two of them used to sit on the porch every evening, at least for a short while, even in the winter. Glory remembered spending the night, lying in her bed and listening to their quiet voices drift up to her bedroom window. There was something about listening to them, to Granny’s soft laugh and Granddad’s gruff chuckle, that soaked contentment deep into Glory’s bones.
Granny’s house came into sight. Glory’s heart skittered through a beat when she saw it sitting dark and silent under the canopy of trees. It looked deserted.
Finally, in the deep shadow of the L-shaped front porch, Glory saw movement of the swing and drew a breath of relief.
By the time she’d put the car in park and gotten out, Granny had moved to the top of the front steps, leaving the swing to jiggle a jerky dance after her departure.
She stood there, her silhouette in the twilight tall and wiry, looking as strong as the ancient willow down by the old mill pond.
Glory got out of the car quickly and ran up the steps. She paused on the tread before the top, ready to give her grandmother the greeting she deserved. But the instant Glory opened her mouth the tears that she’d thought were spent spilled forth.
Granny opened her arms and pulled Glory’s head against her chest. “It’s all right, darlin’, you’re safe in the holler now. You’re home.”
As Glory cried in the comfort of her grandmother’s arms, she knew coming home was going to be even more painful than she’d imagined.
THE EDITOR’S DIARY
Dear Reader,
Like a breath of fresh air, love has a funny way of putting a little extra spring in your step and sparkle in your eyes. And, oh what a difference it is when you’ve just been through a bad patch. Need a little help keeping your faith in love? Try our two Warner Forever titles this March.
Booklist has called Wendy Markham’s work “breezy, scrumptious fun” while Romantic Times BOOKClub raves it’s “wonderfully touching romance with a good sense of humor.”Check out her latest, HELLO, IT’S ME, and don’t forget the tissues! It’s been almost a year since Annie Harlowe’s beloved husband died, leaving her to raise their two children. But she has a secret: she’s been paying his cell phone bills just so she can hear his voice. Yet with funds stretched so tight she fears they’ll never dig out of debt, Annie has to face the facts. Her late husband will never answer...until one night when the impossible happens and he does. Thomas Brannock IV has had his life mapped out from birth. But he never counted on Annie, a free-spirited woman with sun-kissed cheeks to blow into his life. When they literally crash into one another, it feels like a heavenly accident. But is an angel with cell phone reception playing matchmaker?
Have you ever worked for something your entire life only to find it just isn’t enough? That’s exactly how Molly Boudreau from Susan Crandall’s PROMISES TO KEEP feels. After years of work and sacrifice, she’s finally a doctor. But she yearns for a soul-stirring connection and she’ll soon find it in her own ER. Molly has befriended a young pregnant woman who refuses to speak of her past. Her only request: that Molly protects the baby from his dangerous father. So when the woman is murdered after giving birth, Molly must keep her promise. Fearing for their safety, she returns home where she passes him off as her son. But before long, Dean Coletta, a reporter with smoldering eyes and probing questions, starts digging for the truth. With each explosive fact he uncovers about Molly and her “son,” Dean’s desire to protect them grows stronger. But can they build a life together with the secrets of their pasts tearing them apart? Romantic Times BOOKClub raves that she “weaves a tale that is both creative and enthralling” so prepare to be dazzled.
To find out more about Warner Forever, these March titles and the authors, visit us at www.warnerforever.com.
With warmest wishes,
Karen Kosztolnyik, Senior Editor
P.S. Next month, check out these two spicy little treats: Sandra Hill delivers more laughter and even more hot Cajun love when a confirmed bachelor looking to escape it all winds up in the middle of a kidnapping plot with a tantalizing celebrity in THE RED-HOT CAJUN: and Julie Anne Long debuts her latest witty and heartfelt tale of a barrister who rescues a feisty pickpocket and passes her off as a lady to win another woman’s hand in TO LOVE A THIEF.
Promises to Keep Page 38
