From the Heart: Romance, Mystery and Suspense a collection for everyone (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Emily was positive Brad had convinced himself nothing was wrong with Trevor. After the glimpse she’d given Brad into some of the research she’d done, research similar to Trevor’s symptoms, Brad should have clued in. How much clearer did she need to be, when it was obvious there was something wrong with the child? He should recognize the similarities, shouldn’t he?

From what she read of Trevor’s symptoms, routine was essential. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Trevor’s day needed to be structured. He ignored Katy, not deliberately; he’d slip away into his own world to do the oddest things. Restack utensils, boxes and cans in the cupboard over and over. He’d play with the DVD player, shoving a movie in and out over and over. She knew Brad saw that much. She’d seen the odd look come over him when he thought she wasn’t watching.

Emily began to notice patterns. One full-blown meltdown came about after he’d consumed a big bowl of ice cream; on the floor, kicking, screaming and flailing his arms all because he couldn’t wear his blue pants because they were in the dirty clothes. She researched diet and read the suggestions. Many suggested they can’t digest gluten and dairy, and both have a big impact on behaviors.

It was time to talk to Brad. She hadn’t pushed. But how do you tell a parent, who doesn’t see it? He’d be angry, but it would
surely be worse if she said nothing.

Emily waited until she’d bathed and put the kids to bed. She breathed deep as her chest suddenly felt as if a hundred-pound weight pressed against it. She paused in the shadows and listened. The soft glow from Trevor’s nightlight shone on the wall at the top of the stairs. Emily could see Brad on the front porch, leaning against the solid white post. He was always outside. From the little she knew of him he wasn’t happy unless he was outside. Now as the sun dipped low in the sky, the bright orange and pink glow was the perfect vision before bed. The door squeaked when she pushed it open. Emily pulled the brown sweater she grabbed from the hook around her shoulders. It was cool this time of night.

“Do you have time to talk to me?”

He smiled warmly. “I always have time for you
, Emily.”

“Can we sit down?” She fisted her hands in her sweater
; how could she be sweating, it wasn’t warm enough.

“Sure.”

Emily chose the second rattan chair with the bright blue flowers. She didn’t need to look up to know when he sat next to her in the matching chair or that she had his full attention.

“You’re not okay. Something happened?”

Truth or dare. Stop stalling.

“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”

The man could change in an instant. All the warmth and support fled, replaced with something dark and ready to snap. The momentary change made her afraid.

“So you’ve decided to leave
,” he said. “I should have known better. Why?”

Her mouth gaped. The man jumped to conclusions faster than changing the station on TV. “I’m not leaving, where would you get that idea?”

He threw his hands up, squinting. “Then what is it? Your ex again?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. Brad, you know how much time I’ve been spending with Trevor?”

He relaxed a bit and leaned back in his chair, but she could still feel him wound up tighter than a steel coil. “Hmm, mmm.”

“Okay I just need to say this. You know how you keep getting after Trevor when he does something like dump over a plant and play in the dirt, or the way he latched onto that lady like a human leech?”

He brushed his hand in the air to dismiss her words. “Come on, Emily, he’s just a boy, doing little boy things. Don’t worry about it. Girls are different, they’re easier, just ask my mother.”

He truly didn’t see anything was wrong. “Trevor doesn’t talk, he avoids eye contact, sits lost in his own world and uses a one
-word vocabulary, of maybe fifty words total. He has full-blown tantrums on the floor, pounding and screaming. And I don’t know what’s going to set him off. Could be the wrong food, something was moved or a stranger comes to visit. Trips to stores are a nightmare and my anxiety level goes through the roof because I’m anticipating what he’s going to do. He’s urinated on the floor in the middle of the grocery store; he had a meltdown in the checkout lane, and runs his fingers over the conveyor belt where you put your food during checkout. Storekeepers get mad. If I grab his hand to get him to stop, he might scream. Depends on the day, what he’s eaten and what’s happened before we get to the store. I never know what will set him off.” Brad tilted his head, tapped his forefinger against his lips. Emily continued. “You can’t reason with him. And the way he stares, he doesn’t appear to understand. He plays alone and will not play with Katy, no matter how much we try; he moves away if she invades his space. I turn the television on; he loves it. It’s like he’s consumed by it and even then, he can’t sit still. He’ll stand in front it jumping, laughing and giggling, engrossed in the rainbow of colors flashing over the screen. I’m betting if you took Trevor to a family gathering or big social event, it’d most likely be a nightmare. His behavior’s odd. People get weirded out because they don’t know what to do. And I’m pretty sure he picks up on everyone’s anxiety. There are safety issues with Trevor, beyond the scope of a typical three-year-old. I always worry while in town if Trevor will dart out into the street. He doesn’t recognize cars, traffic or even people around him. He touched the hot stove last week and burned his finger. He never cried; no reaction. Brad, I started researching his symptoms. The internet is full of information and what I discovered were symptoms of autism.

Brad rose and paced, running his fingers through his hair.

Emily forged on. “Autistic children are not all the same, they have different symptoms. I’ve read about therapy for autistic children—therapy tailored for each individual child.”

Even in this dim light, Emily glimpsed the color rising in his cheeks. Brad wasn’t just pacing
, and she could feel the adrenaline cut through the space between them. “I need some air.”

“Brad, wait!”

“No Em, back off.” He kept going, down the stairs toward the barn, as she could almost feel the rage burning through him.

He knew. She’d gotten through. Now the real work begins.

Chapter Thirteen

Bright red numbers flashed 4:39 a.m. on the bedside clock. The rooster crowed. She heard a rustling coming from downstairs. Emily slipped out of bed, pulled on her brown housecoat, the one she kept draped at the foot of her bed. Guided by the hall nightlight, Emily tiptoed to the stairs.

A silhouette of light trickled from the kitchen.

Emily held the cedar handrail as she crept barefoot down the stairs. Brad held the glass carafe from the coffee maker as he fumbled for the coffee in the cupboard. He reeked of booze and wore the same brown plaid shirt from yesterday. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, his chin. His short hair stuck up clumps and tufts. She touched his hand and gently took the carafe. He stared straight ahead, and then turned like a man defeated and walked like the living dead to the table and sat in his chair. He stuck out his heavy work boots, coated with mud. Emily spied the trail he’d tracked from the back door through the kitchen.

Emily scooped coffee into the basket, poured water in the coffee maker and turned it on. What could she say to ease his turmoil? When enough coffee filled the pot, Emily poured out two cups, adding milk and sugar to his. He never looked up when she placed his mug in front of him. Emily pulled out a chair beside him. She sat and scooted closer to the table. She gazed into her coffee, searching for some miracle answer but one wouldn’t appear.

Brad didn’t move, nor did he reach for his coffee. He leaned forward
, resting his arms on the table. His lips trembled. A glossy sheen covered the tiny red lines that appeared like sandpaper in his eyes. Had he slept? She’d say not. Was he drunk? More likely, a poor attempt to anesthetize. His dark brown eyes reached out to her with something that appeared lost and helpless.

“Does Trevor have autism?”

Emily lean over and covered the hand he’d balled into a fist. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t know how to tell you. But from what I read, he shows all the symptoms.”

“Is it my fault, something I did?”

“Oh, God no, Brad. They don’t know what causes it. But the numbers are skyrocketing; from what I read, every one in a hundred-fifty children will be diagnosed, and it’s higher in boys. Out of every five children diagnosed with autism, four are boys. That’s an epidemic, not something you did.”

“So
… now what?”

“You need to get him diagnosed. And you need to start an early intervention therapy right away. I’ve been emailing a local parents group I found on the internet. They sent loads of information for you, so you know where to start.”

“I don’t understand what you do.” Brad was alone, and he was looking to her.

“One of the parents, a mother from a mom’s support group I’ve connected with by email, hired a consultant who is trained specifically in neurological disorders, and has a BCBA and psychology degree for children and adults with autism. The consultant is local, just outside Olympia and she has a proven track record. I don’t know all the details of what exactly she does, just the basics. But it’s a start.”

He watched her close, sobering as he listened.

“She works with the schools putting together a home and school program. She sets goals, creates programs for academics, socialization, peer interaction, language and behavior. She establishes strategies and changes what doesn’t work. These kids work hard but, from what I’ve read, these kids make real progress with the right therapy.”

“A mom’s group, huh? Well how about that? Women who actually care about their kids.”

This time when he looked at her, something inside of him pulled away. You know
, the feeling you get when someone needs distance. He downed the rest of his coffee that had long since gone cold, and scraped back his chair. “I need to go take care of the stock and feed the horses. See you at breakfast.” Then he was walking out the back door, snatching his barn coat off the hook on the way, as he strode into the darkness and cold morning while the rooster crowed.

Emily stayed where she was, wondering about his wife, the woman who left, the hurt she caused and the little boy she abandoned. Brad concealed it well, but this morning she saw the damage, like tread marks on his soul.

Chapter Fourteen

Emily loved to spend time in the kitchen, baking and creating meals. Brad needed his animals and the outdoors. The kitchen brought balance to her thoughts and emotions and gave her clarity and peace of mind. She was also a damn good cook. And that wasn’t ego. She loved putting together a good meal for her loved ones to enjoy, and for the first time since she could remember, she truly felt needed.

When Mary Haske dropped by this morning to clean, she brought with her two freezer bags of Blackberries. And mentioned how much Brad loved pie. So what did Emily do, she took the hint and ran with it, baking not one but two Blackberry pies, along with a marinated roast for dinner. The aroma alone set Emily’s mouth to water.

It had been an exhausting week. Brad scheduled a doctor’s appointment after breakfast Monday and began the long, grueling path to obtaining an autism diagnosis. Emily contacted the mothers group and provided Brad with names of a local therapist and private psychologist in Olympia. Brad worked the impossible. In two days, he’d somehow arranged for a speech and language pathologist, and occupational therapist to work with Trevor at the ranch once a week.

Emily grinned like a silly schoolgirl, just thinking of Brad and how dedicated a father he could be. Heat pooled inside her tummy until it ached. “Oh, bad idea, girl.” And she knew why. He was her boss. She lived under his roof. But he didn’t treat her like an employee. He spoke to her like a friend.

They’d developed a nightly routine, similar to spouses, companions. She’d put the kids to bed; join Brad either outside on the porch
, or in the living room. They’d talk about their day, their dreams.

Brad planned to expand the ranch. Buy up the land around him, even though now he was one of the largest dairy producers in the area, and raising cattle for beef.

She loved listening to his confident whiskey-filled voice when he holed up in his office, off the living room, making calls to arrange transport for a hundred head of cattle. Then a feed order, next his realtor, a burly bald-headed man named Chuck, to put in an offer on a twenty-acre piece of property on the other side of Mary Haske.

Last night Brad told her the soil on that land was really good and the water pure, clean and plentiful. He’d also mentioned he was waiting for the day Mary put her property up for sale. When she did, he’d make sure it was his. A small parcel, but Mary’s husband had been sharp when he’d sold off most of his land. He’d held onto the best piece in this part of the peninsula; holding the water rights to the creek which flowed down to Brad’s property.

Emily grabbed the salad out of the fridge. She closed the door, and nearly dropped the bowl. Trevor stood in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but a saggy disposable diaper, rubbing his eyes. “Oh Trevor, I didn’t see you.” She could smell the heavy ammonia from his dirty diaper. Emily lifted Trevor up. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her, as she started up the stairs. Halfway up, the screen door slammed.

“Lunch ready?” Brad’s deep, soft voice tugged on her heart as if a line had knotted around it. She walked back down carrying his son.

“Oh man, something smells good.” Cliff and Mac strode right behind Brad, both lifting their noses in the air, sniffing.

“It is; I just need to change Trevor and wake up Katy.” Emily couldn’t erase the smile from her face if she wanted to.

“Need help.” Brad yelled behind her as she trotted up the stairs.

“Grab the salad dressing out of the fridge, everything else is ready to go.”

“Okay.”

Emily pulled off Trevor’s diaper and dumped it in the garbage; she helped him into his big boy underwear, a pair of blue sweats and Buzz Lightyear T-shirt, leaving him barefoot. Katy wandered into the bathroom, pulled off her own dry diaper and sat on the toilet. Girls were almost self-training. “Lunch’s ready. Who’s hungry?”

“Me, Mama.” Katy pulled up her pink sweats and flushed the toilet; Emily pulled up a stool to the sink, and helped Katy wash her hands.

With the kids, Emily strode back in the kitchen. Cliff and Mac were already sitting at the table, digging into the fresh bread and butter. Brad cut up the roast, while Emily sat Trevor in his chair and Katy in her booster seat, dishing up the kids’ food and cutting it into bite
-size pieces. Emily put a spoon in Trevor’s hand, helping him to grip the handle. He still didn’t know how to use a spoon or fork. He preferred to eat with his hands. But Emily was relentless, working with him at each meal. In the short time she’d been here, they’d come from Trevor launching his spoon, screaming, to where he now took three or four bites from his spoon before dropping it. Emily would reward him after each successful small step with praise and a gummy bear.

Today, it was as if he’d overcome some obstacle. He took the spoon without fuss or whining. Emily glanced over at Brad. “Did you see that?”

“Great job, Em.”

Except when Emily glanced down at Trevor, he now used his other hand to play the table like a piano. That was progress for you
: one-step forward and another back. Brad curled his fingers around the back of the empty chair beside him, and pulled it out.

“Sit down, Em.”

Every time he spoke. His deep, husky drawl was like music, turning her insides all soft and fluttery. Emily sat, very aware of his closeness, becoming a silly schoolgirl every time she passed him a bowl or plate of food and their fingers touched. And each time she looked up, he watched her in a way that was personal.

Trevor tossed his spoon across the table, breaking the magic spell where it clanked and landed beside Cliff’s plate. At least it didn’t hit him. Last week his spoon hit Mac on the side of the head. Trevor, with his tiny fingers, mushed his potatoes and broccoli between his fingers, cramming a fistful in his mouth.

“No.” Emily jumped up and leaned across the table, grabbing the spoon.

“It’s all right Emily; he didn’t mean nothing by it.” Said Cliff in his raspy smoker
’s voice, followed by his nervous laugh.

“Actually it’s not all right
, Cliff. Trevor can’t learn unless you stay vigilant.” Emily wiped the food from Trevor’s hand with a dishcloth and put the spoon back in his hand. “Try again.” Emily said as she scooped a piece of potato on his spoon, and then let go of his hand. This was a fine line with Trevor. There was only so much hand over hand you could do with him before he’d freak out from being touched.

Trevor scooped up another piece of meat himself and shoved it in his mouth. “Good job Trevor. Eat.”

When Emily glanced over at Brad, he was already finishing up his plate, guzzling down the last of his coffee and pushing away from the table—distracted again. The man was such a mystery; the way he changed from hot to cold, a difficult and complex man.

“Great lunch
, Emily. Cliff, Mac, I’m going to need your help as soon as you’re done, to move the horses. Don’t dawdle.”

She’d be a fool to miss the annoyance that dripped from his sharp words. What the hell happened? Her heart sank a little as Brad went out the back door without a simple glance in her direction. Mac scraped up his plate and Cliff downed his coffee; both pushed away from the table
, nodding their thanks as they hurried after their boss. Brad, teasing and thoughtful one moment, turned quicker than she could snap her fingers; turning her world upside down, leaving her mystified as to what she’d done. Emily pushed her plate away. Well whatever it was, Emily was sure time scooping up manure would most likely take the edge off whatever bothered him. Or so she hoped.