The conversation became spirited. As with last week’s class, and the class he’d attended at the YMCA Wednesday evening, Brett kept his mouth shut and his ears open. He wasn’t a father. But he could learn something. Max struck him as a moody little boy—and why shouldn’t he be moody? He had no father, his mother worked, and he didn’t always get his way.
“Sometimes, when my daughter is really in a state over something,” one of the fathers ventured, “I can calm her down by giving her something—like a cookie, or a special toy. I have the feeling that’s not a smart move, but it works.”
A lot of the other fathers nodded.
“Just because something works doesn’t mean you should do it,” Molly gentle chided. With her petite build and her cute round face, she looked like a pixie, someone magically connected to the world of children. Yet she sounded more mature than any of the fathers in the class. “When you give your daughter a cookie to calm her down, she learns that if she throws a fit she’ll get a cookie. That isn’t a good lesson for her.”
They talked about other strategies, most of which fell into two categories: leaving the kid alone, and smothering the kid with attention. Brett wasn’t sure how helpful that advice was.
But he continued to listen, to absorb the debate. The most important thing Molly said, as far as he was concerned, was that children felt losses in ways adults weren’t always aware of or sensitive to. Again Brett’s mind wandered to Max, heroically trying to live his life without a father. Brett hadn’t had a father, either, and he’d soldiered on just as heroically—because he hadn’t had a choice. By the time his mother had remarried, he’d realized he was never going to get his father back. His stepfather was the best he could hope for, and while the guy hadn’t been evil or obnoxious, he hadn’t been Brett’s father, either. Nothing could ever alter the loss he’d suffered.
Had he been moody? Definitely. He’d been stoical in public, doing what was demanded of him, never complaining... but the resentments had piled up inside him, the pain layering into a laminated wall that separated him from his family, from his sister and brothers, from all children. He liked to think he wasn’t moody anymore, but the wall was still there.
With a few cracks in it, thanks to Sharon.
He was still mulling over thoughts about children and loss and temperament when noon arrived and children stormed down the stairs, hollering for their fathers and swearing that they were dying of hunger. Max was no exception. He seemed delighted when Brett suggested McDonald’s.
“We go to McDon-o’s!” Max crowed, so excited he had to jump and clap his hands. “We go to McDon-o’s!”
Definitely moody, Brett acknowledged. Max had traveled from inconsolable despair to rowdy exuberance in one morning. Just thinking about such a journey exhausted Brett.
McDonald’s was as noisy as it had been last week. Even though the weather was nicer, the place was packed with children and their parents. Brett let Max flop around in the ball pit while he stood on line and purchased their food. When Max made milk squirt out of his straw, Brett didn’t scold. When Max smeared ketchup on his nose, Brett only sighed. The symphony of shrill children’s voices from the play area throbbed inside his head, but he simply ate his burger, sipped his soda and resolved to ask Molly at next week’s class how she managed to stay so calm. After all, as the director of a preschool, she thrived within this sort of pandemonium every day.
“Are you done?” Brett asked Max, who seemed to be playing with his fries more than eating them.
“I want to go on the slide,” Max said, wriggling down from his seat and heading back toward the play area.
Brett drank the last of his soda and watched as Max climbed the ladder to the slide and rode it down, landing with a plop in the balls and giggling. If a kid was going to have a mood, Brett supposed a manic mood was better than a depressive one. Max climbed the ladder and slid down again, and again. Brett fantasized about popping a couple of aspirin as soon as they got back to Sharon’s place.
Please, Max, he prayed silently, get sleepy. If you take a nap, I’ll be a happy man. As Max rode down the slide yet again, Brett smiled. The more energetically he played here, the more pooped he’d be when they got back to the Village Green Condominiums.
Watching Max fly down the slide, he caught glimpses of Sharon in the boy’s face—his fair coloring, his sharp chin, his concentration as he scaled the ladder. His determination, his refusal to let sorrow crush him.
She’d made a miracle out of her son, he realized. Even a man who didn’t like children could admire what a widowed woman had accomplished without any help: she’d raised a healthy, headstrong boy who, despite everything, refused to quit.
Brett gathered the trash from their table and deposited it in the nearest trashcan. Max might still seem full of energy, but the drive home would probably tucker him out. Then he’d nap and Brett would call the day a success.
Max raised only a token protest when Brett summoned him from the ball pit. “I want to play,” he asserted.
“It’s time to go home.” The sudden shriek of a little girl who’d spilled her soda convinced him of that. The building practically shook from the intensity of her screams. What a perfect time to leave.
Max reluctantly let Brett take his hand and lead him from the restaurant. He climbed into his seat and remained still while Brett strapped him in. He must be tired, Brett thought hopefully.
Neither of them spoke during the drive home. Beyond the windows the world shimmered with heat, but inside the car the air conditioning whispered gently, cooling the edges of Brett’s headache. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Max clinging to his stuffed bear and staring out the window.
Once he got Max into bed, he thought, he’d fix himself some coffee and read the paper. He’d have the leisurely breakfast—minus the cereal—he’d been denied that morning. He’d unwind. He’d think about Sharon getting her portfolio together, preparing her submission. He’d have to give Murphy’s wife Gail a call this week to let her know Sharon’s proposal was on its way. Ultimately, the committee would decide whom to award the commission to, but Brett would make a case for Sharon. She was talented, she worked so hard—she performed miracles. She deserved the job.
He pulled up to the curb in front of her townhouse, glanced in the mirror again and saw that Max was still awake, although he seemed on the far side of mellow. Smiling, Brett climbed out of the car, opened the back door and unbuckled Max’s seatbelt.
As if he’d emitted an electrical charge to the kid, Max scrambled out of his seat, completely reenergized. “I want to play!” he yelled.
Brett cursed. He didn’t want to play. He wanted the kid to go to bed so he could have a little time to himself.
But Max had shifted into high gear. He pushed past Brett and out onto the grass, knocking over the tote bag in his eagerness. Brett shoved the spilled items back into the bag, hauled it out of the car and slammed the door. “Let’s go, Max,” he said, stalking across the lawn.
Max gave a little leap and darted away. “I play now!”
“Get back here,” Brett scolded, dropping the tote bag so he could chase after Max. A juice box and a few diapers spilled from the tote, and he paused to cram them back in.
Max giggled and ran some more.
“Max! Get back here!”
The brat halted, laughed, and then ran on, his legs pumping hard. “I play!” he cheered. “You can’t catch me!”
That was a lie. Brett easily caught him, clamped his hand hard around Max’s upper arm and yanked him to a halt.
Max let out a howl. “Ow! Let go! It hurts!”
“No.” He was pissed, he was tired, and he wasn’t going to let Max make a fool out of him.
“Let go! Let go! Ow!” The kid started crying real tears.
Brett took a deep breath. He was letting his anger and frustration rule him. His hand was big and strong—maybe he was bruising Max’s arm. He immediately relented, loosening his grip.
Ma
x slid his arm free, then burst into laughter. “I play!” he taunted, spinning and running away from Max again.
“Get back here!” Brett shouted, rage and impatience bubbling over inside him. He’d devoted his entire damned day to the kid, and now the kid was mocking him, laughing and running and ignoring the fact that Brett was also a human being, deserving of a little respect.
“I play!” Max hooted, charging across the lawn.
“Play, then,” Brett snarled, glaring at him.
Max grinned. “Catch me!”
Brett shuddered. He might as well have been eight or nine or ten again, with his brothers and sister squealing, “Brett! Brett! Do this for me! Do that for me! Watch me, Brett! Help me, Brett!”
“Catch me!” Max challenged him.
“No.” Brett stormed over to the tote, stuffed its contents securely back into it and started toward the front door.
“Catch me! Catch me!”
In his peripheral vision he saw Max race toward the curb that separated the front lawn from the street. The street. “No!” he shouted, dropping the tote and charging after Max.
Max was moving fast now, fueled by his lunch. The only cars Brett saw were parked—but a teenager suddenly zoomed down the asphalt on a skateboard, barreling down the road, traveling way too fast.
“Max!” he shouted. “Stop!”
Max spun around and gave Brett a brash grin. Behind him, the teenager leaped off his skateboard, unable to control it. The skateboard veered up the curb, its speed launching it off the ground, and slammed into Max’s back.
Brett had heard a lot of children’s screams in his life—but none of them sounded as horrible as Max’s utter silence as he fell.
Chapter Fourteen
Don’t fall apart, Sharon ordered herself, skidding the old Volvo to a stop between the painted lines of a parking space outside the Emergency Room entrance to Arlington Memorial. You can’t fall apart. You mustn’t.
Her heart felt as if it had risen to the base of her throat and was choking her with every pulse. Her baby. Her baby was hurt. On the phone, Brett had told her it wasn’t bad, but if it wasn’t bad why were they at the hospital?
It was bad. Oh, God. It was bad.
Don’t fall apart.
He was standing right inside the sliding glass door, watching for her. Ordinarily, she would have flown into his arms, seeking comfort. But she was too distraught. Her baby was hurt. She had to see her baby. She couldn’t think about anything else.
“He’s fine,” Brett told her before she could ask.
“Where is he?” She wouldn’t believe anything anyone told her until she saw Max.
“He’s right over here.” Brett took her arm, but she could only see his hand cupping her elbow. She couldn’t feel him. This man could usually arouse her with a single touch, but right now she was numb, removed from her surroundings. Until she was with her baby, nothing else existed, not even Brett, not even her love for him.
He was leading her somewhere, but before they got far a woman in civilian apparel intercepted them. “Is this the mother?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Brett said.
“I’m going to need some information, insurance and authorizations—”
“Let me see my baby,” Sharon whispered.
“We’ll take care of the paperwork later.” Brett nudged the clerk aside and ushered Sharon around a bend in the hall to a curtained alcove. On the other side of the curtain, she saw Max seated at the center of a hospital bed. A nurse in crisp blue scrubs sat behind him on the mattress, her hands on his shoulders and her legs hanging over the edge. A doctor stood to one side, jotting notes on a clipboard.
“Mommy!” Max smiled.
He looked okay. Really. A scrape on his chin, covered with a small surgical bandage, and splatters of blood on the front of his shirt. Both knees scabby with blood and taped with gauze. But he was okay. He recognized her. He was reaching for her.
She flew across the enclosed space and wrapped her arms around him. “Not too tight,” the nurse cautioned when Sharon would have smothered him in a hug. “He’s got a pretty nasty bruise on his back.”
“Oh, my baby, my sweetie!” Now that she knew he was okay, she could fall apart, and she did, releasing great, heaving sobs of relief. “Oh, Max! My love. Are you all right? I love you!”
“Mommy,” he murmured into her neck.
“He’s fine,” the nurse told her. “He had the wind knocked out of him, but he’s going to be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Still clinging to him, she twisted to view the doctor, searching for confirmation.
He peered up from his clipboard and nodded. “Some bruises and abrasions, but nothing serious. No fractures, no concussion, no internal injuries. That’s one tough little boy.”
“What happened?” Now that her heart was beginning to settle back down into her ribcage and her arms were filled with her precious son, she could start thinking again. Her gaze sought Brett. He stood at the edge of the curtain, as far from the bed as he could be without leaving the area. “All you told me was that there was an accident and you’d brought Max here. What happened?”
“He got hit by a flying skateboard,” Brett told her.
“I got hit,” Max said proudly.
“The skateboarder lost control of it...” Brett sighed and looked away for a minute. “Anyway, he got hit hard, and I—I didn’t know how bad it was. I brought him straight here.”
“I got hit,” Max repeated.
“Oh, my poor baby! It must have hurt.”
“It hurt,” Max declared. “A lot.”
“I think your friend made the right call, bringing him here,” the doctor said with a nod toward Brett. “An accident like that, you don’t want to take a chance. There could have been organ damage.”
Organ damage. God, that sounded so scary. But there wasn’t organ damage. Max was okay. He was okay.
She sniffled back her tears and kissed Max’s silky blond hair. He felt so warm and solid on her lap, so familiar. Only his smell was different—a sharp, antiseptic scent instead of his usual baby-powder sweetness.
“Can I have a cookie?” Max asked.
A weepy laugh escaped her. If he was asking for a cookie, he was definitely okay. “When we get home,” she promised.
“I’m going to need you to sign some papers,” the clerk who’d tried to corral her earlier announced. She had materialized beside Brett at the edge of the curtain. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bartell, but it has to be done.”
“Of course.” Sharon could handle signing papers now. She could handle anything. Her baby was okay. She turned back to the doctor. “What should I do? Does he need to have any special treatments?”
“Those are just superficial scrapes on his knees and chin,” the doctor told her. “Keep them clean, use an antibiotic ointment on them and they should heal up fine. He’ll probably be a bit achy, but Children’s Tylenol or a similar product should help. If he can tolerate it, you should ice the bruise on his back today. It’ll keep the area from swelling.”
“You can put compresses on it while he watches TV,” the nurse suggested. “Or while you read to him. I have the feeling this isn’t a little boy who sits still very often.”
Sharon nodded. Compresses. Antibiotic ointment. Children’s pain reliever. What did she have on hand in her medicine cabinet? Should she stop at the drug store on her way home?
Brett would pick up what she needed.
She turned back to him. He had saved her son’s life. He’d rushed her little boy to the hospital. A mixture of gratitude and love swelled within her, prompting a fresh spate of tears as she gazed at him.
He looked solemn, tense—and no wonder, after what he’d been through. As terrified as she’d been, he must have been even more frightened. He’d witnessed the accident. Yet he’d remained calm and done what was necessary. He’d brought her baby to the hospital. He was her hero.
She would make sure he knew how much she appreciated his le
vel-headedness and control. She’d give pain reliever to Max and a nice cold beer to Brett. They’d spend a quiet evening at home—she’d order out, and they’d eat, and they’d watch whatever Max wanted on TV and put cold compresses on his back. They were on the safe side of this crisis, and they would celebrate.
She smiled through her tears, but Brett didn’t smile back. His eyes were chilly, glinting with fear. “It’s all right,” she said to him, realizing as soon as she spoke that he might have no idea what she was referring to: not just that Max was all right but that everything was all right. The world was all right. Life was all right. Even being afraid of what might have happened was all right.
She refused to let go of Max when the doctor sent them out of the treatment area with the clerk. She carried her son back out into the reception room and held him on her lap as the nurse reviewed form after form with her. Insurance policy number. Primary care pediatrician. Releases for the radiology department, where Max had been taken for x-rays. Her poor baby, having to lie still while a big, scary x-ray machine roamed over his back, searching for fractured ribs, bruised kidneys and God knew what other injuries he might have incurred. She should have been with him through his ordeal.
But Brett had been with him, thank heavens. Brett had taken care of Max as if he were the boy’s father. He must have advocated for him, comforted him, reassured him. Maybe he didn’t like “children” in the abstract. But when Max had needed a daddy, Brett had been there.
At last, she’d signed the final form the clerk had for her. Still gripping Max, who was noticeably less squirmy than usual, she stood and searched the reception room for Brett. He hovered near the door, his hands plunged deep into his pockets and his expression unreadable. At her approach, he took a few steps toward her. “Do you want me to put his car seat in your car?” he asked.
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