Second Time's the Charm. Tara Quinn Taylor
on his son’s issues.
“I’ve seen Abraham a couple of times over the past week,” she assured the harried father who, in all fairness, sounded completely calm. “He’s a very sweet, responsive boy,” she added, because it was true. “Except when he’s, as you say, exhibiting anxiety.”
“Usually he’s a prince,” Jon Swartz said as though they had all the time in the world, which she didn’t. Curiously, she didn’t tell him so. “He does whatever I ask of him.”
“He’s not a discipline problem at the day care, either, if that’s what’s concerning you. He does what he’s told, when he’s told. He doesn’t have altercations with the other children. But he has been experiencing seemingly inexplicable moments of extreme anxiety.”
Tantrums that in no way seemed to be a result of temper upsets. And because, a couple of times, they’d happened in the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure they were separation related, either.
“Mrs. Nielson suggested that I call you. She says that, as part of your work for her, she asked you to observe Abraham. She says you’re certified at what you do. And I need to know, do you think my son has a problem?”
“I think he’s struggling and I’d like to help, Mr. Swartz.” Holding her phone with one hand while she swiped her card and quickly pulled open the door with the other, Lillie lowered her voice in deference to the office suites opening up off both sides of the hallway.
From a therapeutic masseuse to an orthopedic surgeon, a dentist, several general practitioners, counseling services and three pediatricians, the Shelter Valley Clinic was home to more than forty health care professionals—including Lillie.
“I’d like a chance to speak with you. Is there a time we could meet?” she asked the father who’d been on her mind for much the day.
“With or without Abraham?”
“Without would be best, but either is fine. I understand that you don’t have a lot of free time. I will make myself available to fit your schedule. Early morning, late evening...”
She didn’t mind the long hours. She didn’t mind time off, either.
“I’m a little in the dark here about what we have to discuss.”
She’d reached the small room designated for Bailey’s procedure and had to go. Had to get the room ready for Bailey. She didn’t have time to explain what she, as a child life specialist, did.
“I’m trained to help little ones deal with anxiety—from trauma, separation or even just the stress inherent in learning to share. I’m at the day care a few hours every week, and Bonnie calls me in more when she thinks I can help. She’s noticed Abraham’s escalating stress in your absence and asked me to observe him. I have some ideas where he’s concerned,” she said, still on the phone when she shouldn’t be. Pulling stuffed animals out of her bag, she placed them around the room.
“You want to talk professionally?”
“Yes.” Her work was her life. Professional was pretty much all she was. The purple bear with the heart on his chest toppled over and she righted him.
“I can’t afford another bill right now. If he’s sick or exhibiting some symptoms that concern you, I’ll get him to his pediatrician immediately.”
“I don’t think your son is sick.” She was fumbling this entire conversation. Which wasn’t like her at all. “I’m talking about observations, not symptoms...” Placing the portable music player in a corner of the room, she scrolled through songs until she found the lullaby she wanted—soft, soothing.
“...and Bonnie pays for my services,” she added. Occasionally she took on private clients, but she made most of her money from the clinic, which used her services on behalf of its young patients. Shelter Valley schools called her in on occasion. And she got the weekly stipend from Little Spirits, too, but only because Bonnie wouldn’t let her work there without pay. Lillie had more than one client that she’d helped on a pro bono basis. And that was nobody’s business.
Turned out Jerry Henderson, Kirk’s father, had had different ideas than his son regarding Kirk’s mistress, Leah. And Lillie, Kirk’s wife. Lillie’s divorce settlement had been generous.
Which was nobody’s business, either.
Lillie could hear voices at the end of the hall. It sounded like Bailey’s mother.
“I have to go right now, Mr. Swartz. But I’d love to talk more if you’re interested.”
“I’ll be at the university in the morning,” he said. “I have a break between classes from nine until ten. We could meet there if you’re free.”
She had a procedure at the clinic at eight. And another, a PICC change for a little preemie who’d been released from a hospital in Tucson, at ten-thirty. “I’ll do my best,” she told him. She could make the date if the procedure at eight happened on time and without problems, and if she left the university by a quarter to ten.
Arranging to meet him outside the student center at nine, or to call him if she couldn’t, Lillie shoved her phone into the pocket of her rainbow-colored scrub top just as an extremely frightened-looking blonde sprite came hesitantly around the corner.
A genuine smile on her face, Lillie moved toward the girl and took Bailey’s small hand in hers. She spent the next half hour engrossed in the six-year-old’s trauma and doing everything she could to make the experience better for her.
Bailey made it through without shedding a tear.
CHAPTER THREE
“GOGGLES ON,” JON said as he stood back from the apparatus he and his lab partner, Mark Heber, had just built inside a safety-glass room at Montford University. If all went well they would soon know how quickly glass would craze when set five feet from a fire started by nail polish remover, and if, in the same amount of time, the same type of standard window glass would craze from a ten-foot distance.
“On,” Mark said, grinning as he joined Jon. “Light the fuse.”
Shaking his head, Jon motioned toward the long piece of fuse protruding from the puddle of accelerant. “It’s your turn,” Jon said.
A little more than halfway through the semester, the two “old men,” as they’d been dubbed in the freshman chemistry lab, had gained a bit of a reputation for the ingenuity, scale and success of their experiments. Jon’s lab partner, Mark, who’d worked as a forensics safety engineer for years without the title, and who was now in school to get the degree that would allow him to officially work in the field, deserved most of the credit.
Mark stepped forward, lit the fuse and ducked as a whorl of flame exploded from the puddle, bursting in front of them.
“Whoops.” Mark wasn’t smiling.
“Guess our calculations were a little off on this one.”
“The velocity of the fire was greater than we’d calculated for the amount of polish remover,” Mark said.
Straight-faced, they looked each other over.
“No singeing,” Jon declared.
“Make a note that idiots should not be allowed to play with fire,” Mark said as they stood, watching their piece of window as the fire burned down.
On the upside, the glass at the five-foot distance crazed—bearing spiderweb-type cracks that would allow arson investigators to determine that the fire had been set by an accelerant and that the glass had been close. The point of their experiment was to help arson investigators determine how long the fire had burned.
The glass at ten feet did not craze.
Another correct prediction.
“Nice experiment, gentlemen.” Professor Wood came up behind them. Several students had found