Page 36 of Broken Bayou
I want to hug this man, squeeze him, and tell him thank you until my voice cracks.
This is why I wanted to work with children, to provide them with that advocate. Well, that and an excruciating stint as a research assistant in undergrad when I volunteered to help with court-appointed grouptherapy for sex offenders and child molesters. After that year, I knew my line in the sand, whom I couldn’t work with as a therapist. I wanted to like my patients. I wanted my patients to like me. And I wanted to help the young.
I manage to restrain myself and say, “I’d suggest taking him somewhere for testing. At the very least, you need to talk to his pediatrician about his lack of speech.”
Charles’s cheeks go pink. “She recommended testing last year.” He looks back up. “But his mother didn’t want to label him. You know, not every kid is ADHD or whatever.”
“That’s right. But I’m not talking about ADHD. And I think you know that.” I keep his gaze. “I’m just talking about exploring an option that may not have been explored yet. I’m happy to help if needed.”
What I don’t say is sometimes the hardest thing for a parent to do is admit their child needs psychological help. We live in a world where children need to be the best or else you hire tutors and coaches to make them the best. Not therapists. I’ve seen plenty of children fall through the cracks because their parents lived in denial. When I was practicing, it was the hardest thing. Watching parents get angry when I suggested genetic testing, or any testing for that matter. Some remained polite as they told me I was wrong. Others would slam the door on their way out. Neither type came back. And then there was the flip side. The parents who demanded testing. Were adamant their child was on the spectrum, and that’s why he or she could not make an A in geometry. They were just as angry when I told them their child was a healthy, average child. I learned early on to strike the wordaveragefrom my vocabulary.
“I read your book,” he says, glancing at his son. “I want to help him.”
My heart swells. There are no greater words I can hear. “Of course you do,” I tell him. “I’ll research some testing sites in Baton Rouge. Get the information to you. How’s that sound?”
“Thank you.” His smile is genuine. I can see the relief in it.
“Charlie’s going to thankyouone day.”
My cell pings. I glance at the screen and gasp.
Your package is out for delivery.
“Well, we better be running along,” Charles says.
I look back up, smile. “I’m glad you came to me.”
“Me too.”
At the front door, a private jet roars overhead, and Charles and I look up. “Don’t see that every day,” he says. Even little Charlie watches it. Then Charles hands me his card. “Let me know if you need anything while you’re in town. Never know when a lawyer will come in handy.”
I pace in the kitchen, in the parlor, and now on the front porch. It’s not even ten in the morning, and it already feels over a hundred degrees. I check my phone again. My package is still coming today but no time is given. As I stare at my phone, I notice a missed call from my mother. Several missed calls.
I sit on the step and press her number.
Krystal Lynn answers with a deep wet cough. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”
“Sorry, Mama. I’ve been busy.”
“Where are you?” Mama says.
“I’m still in Broken Bayou.”
There’s a long silence, then in a quiet voice she says, “Did you find my things?”
“I did.”
“You should just burn it all,” Mama says. “There’s nothing down there worth a damn.” She wheezes into the phone, coughs.
A tightness forms in my throat. I never told her about that security tape. Why would I? I learned from her that lies protect your family. And Mama always needed protecting. The woman liked trouble, andI was the one who was expected to get her out of it. Like the time she was drunk and wrecked her car into the front window of her boyfriend’s neighbor’s house. She made me swap seats with her. Bleeding from a gash in her head, she climbed over my lap and shoved me behind the wheel. I’m surprised she didn’t drag Mabry from the back seat and try to pin it on her. More than once, after too many wine coolers, she’d allowed Mabry to sit in her lap and drive. When the police arrived, she was hysterical, screaming she’d begged me not to drive. I was thirteen.
I should have learned my lesson years ago. And yet, here I am.
“Mama,” I say and pause. Ask her. “What happened with that old convertible?”
She clears her throat. “What convertible? What are you talking about?”
I stare through the moss in the oaks, through the shadows in the front yard. “You know what I’m talking about.”
