When the phone rings, I assume she’s calling back with additional declarations of the Many Ways in Which I am about to Ruin My Career, but the number on the display is unfamiliar and begins with 512. Local.
My hand shakes as I jab talk and say, ‘This is Brooke,’ in the most confident voice I can muster.
‘Miss Cameron – hello, this is Wendy Long. I’m River’s foster mother.’
My fist clenched to calm the shaking, I strive to maintain my feigned composure. I know this woman has voiced concerns to River’s caseworker, his ad litem and the judge about me adopting him, though I’m not sure exactly what was said. Norman keeps reminding me that she’s just looking out for his best interests, but I can’t help feeling personally affronted.
I’ve got to do whatever it takes to mask that feeling.
‘Yes, Wendy, good evening.’ Shit. I automatically used her first name – something I do to even the playing field in adversarial confrontations. Awesome. I thump myself in the forehead with that clenched fist. ‘Please call me Brooke.’
‘Oh, certainly. Brooke.’ Her drawl is heavy, words fading into soft endings, fusing and linking together, mirroring my mother’s dialect. My brain screams hick, and I struggle not to assign that personal bias to it. ‘I thought we should have a chat about River before tomorrow’s visit. Is Mr Alexander going to be accompanying you? Is this a good time to talk?’
‘Yes, it’s fine. Reid will be in town this evening, and I’ll pick him up on my way over in the morning.’
‘Ah. Um. All right. Well, about River. There are a few important things you should know about him before you meet.’
‘Okay.’
‘First off, and most importantly – he doesn’t talk.’
Everything I know about children, I’ve learned in the past few weeks. I may not know much, but I know that most four-year-olds are language-proficient and can supposedly talk your ear off. Kathryn says four is the age of Why?
‘Kylie was more of a quietly observant child – oddly enough,’ she said, ‘but oh my Lord, Kelley asked why a million times a day. Why do apples come in so many colours? Why did the dog eat that? Why do teeth fall out? Why can’t I jump off the roof into the pool? The house always seemed unnaturally silent the moment she fell asleep.’
‘What do you mean, exactly?’ I ask Wendy.
‘I mean he doesn’t say words. He doesn’t communicate by speaking.’
‘At all? Ever?’
‘At all. Ever,’ she confirms.
‘Is he … developmentally challenged? From – what happened to him?’ I bite my lip and taste blood, cursing his adoptive mother to hell. Again.
‘I don’t believe so. He understands what’s said to him just fine. And he’ll nod or shake his head, so you get your basic yes or no responses. And most notably, I’ve heard him verbalize words and short sentences in his sleep a few times – usually during nightmares. So he can talk … he just won’t. It’s possible that he doesn’t even know he can.’
I frown. ‘What’s been done to address that?’
‘He sees a therapist every week, and his social worker every month.’
‘What the – what good does a therapist do if he can’t – or won’t – speak?’
‘He has River draw pictures about his feelings. He’s real good at that. He’s smart, and he’s a good little artist.’ I hear the affection lacing her words and almost lose it. ‘He’s just had a rough time of it.’
‘Yes. He has. I intend to end that, Ms Long. I promise you.’
‘Please, call me Wendy. And … I want to believe you, Ms – er, Brooke. But the stories in the tabloids, about you and Mr Alexander both … Well, I’m worried. I’m sure the gossip is played up and all to sell papers. I mean I seen one last week that said a lady gave birth to a thirty-pound baby, and I’m here to tell you, that’s just not possible.’
‘Well –’
‘Don’t get me wrong – you two are both young and nice-looking, and I don’t mean to pass judgement on you for your lifestyles, whatever they are. It’s not my place to say, you understand, except where River is concerned. He’s not …’ She swallows audibly. ‘He’s not a knick-knack, or a pet. He’s been hurt, and all the pretty clothes and new toys in the world aren’t gonna fix him. He’s like a little flower bud that just won’t open up, and to be perfectly frank – with what he’s seen, I don’t know if he ever will.’
Tears stream down my face and clog my throat. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Wendy. Now let me give you mine.’ My voice is earnest, pleading – such a foreign effort for me. But I need her to believe me. ‘I don’t know anything about raising a child, except how not to do it. I know he needs a home. He needs love. And I mean to give him those things.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘If he never wants to speak, then I’ll just have to get really good at artistic interpretation. He can draw on the damn walls if he needs to.’
Reid slides into the passenger seat of Glenn’s king cab pick-up wearing his sunglasses and a Cal baseball cap, an open plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, jeans and boat shoes. He looks like a cute college boy, not a Hollywood sex symbol.
‘Brooke Cameron – sporting western boots one day and driving an F-250 the next. Will wonders never cease … What’s next, a ten-gallon hat?’