Page 67 of Wounded Dance
Blitz steps up as if to speak, but I hold up my hand.
“We have to talk to her mother first,” I say. “She has no idea about any of this. She doesn’t know who I am.”
Denham stops walking. “What do you mean? Have you been seeing her or not?”
I glance at Blitz, then the lawyer.
“You don’t have to go into this right now,” Jeremy says. “Denham currently has no rights, and you should see a family lawyer before this moves forward.”
The officer interrupts us. “Move along. This isn’t time to chat.”
We continue down the long snaking hall.
“I have the right to know if you’ve seen her,” Denham says. “As her father.”
“Yes,” I say. “I have seen her.”
He smiles at that. “My baby girl! Tell me what she’s like. Does she look like you?”
“She does,” I say. “Black hair. She’s smart. And pretty.”
“I bet she is,” Denham says. “Does she dance like you? Tell me, does she go to that school? Is she a ballerina?”
I glance over at Blitz. His calm face gives me strength.
I take a deep breath, and just say it. “Denham, she’s in a wheelchair. She was in a car accident when she was three and she can’t walk anymore.”
Denham stops. The officer tries to move him forward, but Denham is rooted to the spot. “Our baby can’t walk?”
“No,” I say. “It’s been over a year. I haven’t talked to them about it, but I think if she were ever going to be able to walk, she would have done it by now.”
“Move ALONG,” the officer says.
Denham’s head is down, but his feet start moving.
We go in silence through a checkpoint, the sun finally coming in through glass doors at the back of the complex. This exit leads to a parking lot full of police cars.
“You can go out here,” the officer says. “Catch a taxi or have someone pick you up on the street. You can’t come back in this way.”
We’re unceremoniously dumped out onto the sidewalk.
He’s right, though. The lot is bordered on three sides by the complex. The street beyond the lines of cop cars runs with normal traffic. No bystanders. No cameras.
“Come on,” Jeremy says. “I’ll have my driver pick us up. We can get you away from here until it blows over.”
But as we move forward, Denham lags behind. I stop and turn to him. “Denham, you coming?”
“She’s a cripple?” he asks, his voice still incredulous. “She’s never going to walk?”
My throat constricts. “I had a hard time when I learned about it too,” I say. “But she’s a bright, sweet girl.”
I try to take his arm to lead him with us, but he shakes me off.
“Denham, we have to go,” I say.
He resists. “What am I going to do with a cripple for a kid?”
Now my chest starts to burn. “She’s a perfect little girl.”
