Page 42 of Courage, Dear Heart

Jillian

This isthe second time we meet for lunch this week. It’s been exactly a month since that day we met. Between that and the text messages we’ve been exchanging every day, I’m getting to know him better—he reveals a little of himself with each message and with each time he stopped at the store on his way home just to say hi. And I guess I’m revealing a little of myself each time too.

Elliott’s eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint, and his lips curl into a devilish smirk. “I did it. I told my cousins.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up to the top. “What have I unleashed?” In this moment, I can imagine the troublemaker kid he’d once been.

He salutes me with his water glass. “Something that has long been overdue. I can’t wait to watch it unfold. The women are far better attorneys than the guys.”

He sets the glass down, his gaze fixed on his plate. His expression solemn. “I don’t want to pry, and you can tell me it’snone of my business . . .”

I resist the old instinct to close myself off. “What do you want to know?”

Elliott clasps his hands under his chin, elbows propped on the table. “Jamie.”

He wants to know what many people have asked me before. Often right in front of Jamie. At least Elliott is kind enough to ask when it’s the two of us. “You want to know what’s wrong with him?”

“No. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. I want to know what I can do to help.”

His words blow me away. People act like it’s my fault Jamie can’t speak. Like I’m spoiling him or not doing enough to fix him as if he’s defective somehow. Everyone, including his doctors and specialist, has always referred to Jamie as if something were wrong about him.

But not one person, not even his doctors and specialists, has ever said there was nothing wrong with Jamie. And no one but Sheila has ever offered help. I sit there, staring at Elliott with my mind in chaos and words trapped in my throat as I try to keep from jumping across the table and hugging him.

His hands drop to the table. “I overstepped. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything?—”

“No. That’s not it. There’s nothing to forgive or forget. It’s that . . .” I gaze past his shoulders, searching for what I want to say. Look back at him. “The last two years, it’s been just Jamie and me. People don’t offer to help, and their questions are more intrusive than caring. I’ve learned to put a wall up and the mamma bear in me goes into full defense mode when anything about Jamie comes up. Your offer to help me took me by surprise.Thank you. And thank you for saying there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Because there isn’t.” His tone is fierce. He’d make an excellent papa bear.

The random thought—the idea of him as a father—washes over me like a warm summer drizzle. Jamie already had a great father, and no one could ever replace that. But I can imagine Elliott as a dad and how loving and protective of his child he’d be. This makes me smile. “I wish more people could see how smart and loving he is and not get so hung up on his voice. He’ll speak again when he’s ready.”

Elliott reaches for me, places his hand over mine, resting on the table. “I hope to be there when he does.”

“I hope you are too.” I surprise myself with my response. But it’s true. I hope Elliott will be around for a while. More than a while.

He squeezes my hand and then sits back. “What do the doctors say?”

I sigh. “Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. His vocal cords are intact. The doctor says atrophy is unlikely because breathing, eating, coughing keep the muscles around the vocal folds active. When he starts talking again, vocal fatigue is likely. Meaning, he’ll get tired of talking.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes, but mentally and emotionally, that’s another story. Jamie has PTSD from the accident. He’s also being diagnosed with reactive mutism. Traumatic mutism is another name for it. His therapist thinks he blames himself. Which she says is something kids tend to do—they think it’s their fault something bad happened. It’s possible Jamie’s afraid that if he speaks, he’ll lose me, too.”

His eyes widen. “I sure hope he doesn’t feel that way. Is the therapy helping?”

“I believe so. He’s also undergoing trauma counseling. The doctors are collaborating to ensure he gets the best care, but it can be challenging when he’s unresponsive to their efforts. On a positive note, we’re both getting really good with sign language, and Jamie is thoroughly enjoying it. His progress with ASL has been remarkable, but we had to switch doctors and find one who can communicate with him using sign language. Finding someone who knows ASL was difficult, and she’s not covered by insurance.”

“He’s such a smart little boy.”

I smile. “That he is.”

Elliott rests his chin on his hand. “What does the therapy involve?”

I poke at my food with a fork. “The treatment involves behavioral therapy with positive reinforcement and desensitization techniques. And removing all the pressure to speak. Jamie is more himself now than he was a year ago or when it first happened.” I look away, the memories filling the space around us like overlapping movie screens. “The day of the accident, he screamed and screamed for what seemed to be hours and hours. Jamie dropped the phone somewhere inside the car during the impact, but we never lost the connection. I couldn’t see what was happening—but his screams”—I swallow the growing knot in my throat—“the screams went on and on. I heard a commotion as people came to help, and someone yelled, ‘call nine-one-one.’ There was a female voice trying to get Jamie to calm down, and I yelled on my side of the call. Someone picked the phone up. The FaceTime call was still connected,and a woman’s face filled the screen. She told me the little boy was okay, just scared. I asked about my husband, and she said she didn’t know, but I could see in her face that she lied. EMTs showed up then. They were a few cars behind CJ and Jamie and saw the whole thing. The medic told me they were taking them to New York-Presbyterian. I rushed to the hospital. Jamie was still screaming when I got there. He stopped as soon as he saw me. And he hasn’t made a sound since.”

I finish speaking, my words hanging in the air like a ghost between us, and I can’t bring myself to look at him. But I feel his presence, solid and quiet across from me, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

Finally, I glance over, and his face is pale, his lips pressed together as if he’s holding back something heavy, something too big for words. His eyes shine, a depth of sorrow there that isn’t pity—it’s understanding, an ache that seems to mirror my own. I hadn’t expected him to look like this, like he’s feeling every bit of pain I described, carrying it with me, even though it’s not his to bear.

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