Everly
EVERLY
“Rhett, over here, honey.” I crouched and held out my arms. Instead of running toward me, my six-year-old son trudged over, his satchel dragging along the floor beside him. As he got closer, I noticed a tiny rip in his school shirt. “What happened, little man?”
He shook his head, his teeth biting his bottom lip almost as if he wanted to stop the words spilling out, and a flush spread across his cheeks as he lowered his eyes to the ground.
A lump of lead settled in my stomach, my nerve endings on high alert. I rose to my feet in time to see Miss Carmichael making her way over, her expression stern and somber.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Not again.
“Mrs. Lawson,” Rhett’s kindergarten teacher said. “Do you have a moment?”
I sighed heavily, then smiled a despondent apology and nodded. “Rhett, why don’t you go wait in the truck for me?”
His shoulders dropped, and he plodded the few feet to where I’d parked my battered old pickup in front of the school gates. Most other parents had already collected their kids, with Rhett being one of the last to appear. Now I knew why.
Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I turned to Miss Carmichael. “Fighting again?” I asked, resignation taking root in my chest.
She nodded. “There was a minor scuffle with one of his classmates who teased him about not having a dad. I’ve reprimanded the other student, but Rhett’s response to the teasing was disproportionate, Mrs. Lawson. Believe me, I’m not unsympathetic to how difficult it is for Rhett. But if his behavior doesn’t improve, I’ll have to report it to the principal, and then it will be up to her to decide on the next steps.”
Next steps. I knew what that meant. Possible expulsion. This was the third occasion in as many weeks where Rhett had gotten into a fight at school.
“I’ll talk to him,” I stated, leaving out the word again. “He just misses his dad a whole lot.”
Miss Carmichael’s face softened. “I’m sorry, but I have an entire class of students to consider. Have you thought about therapy?”
I almost snorted out loud. I couldn’t afford regular medical insurance, let alone expensive mental health coverage. Last time Rhett freaked out at home, his frustration spilling out of his little body with such anger that he’d somehow managed to upend a bookcase, I’d taken him to a doctor. His suggestion? Anti-anxiety drugs. Drugs! For a six-year-old whose pain was steeped in his father’s abandonment. He didn’t need medication. He needed counseling. He needed someone qualified to help him understand that his dad’s leaving had nothing to do with him, that he wasn’t bad or unlovable, just unlucky in who’d fathered him.
Not for the first time, I cursed Paul for walking out on us. Two years later and I still didn’t know what had happened to him. Nor did I care. Not anymore. Lesson well and truly learned. These days, I relied on one person. Me. To protect my son. To protect my heart.
To protect us both.
My pregnancy hadn’t been planned, and Paul’s fury when I’d told him the news still haunted me. I’d thought he might ask me to marry him after Rhett was born, but Paul had been hell-bent on avoiding the discussion. The only reason I used his surname was to make things easier for Rhett. I didn’t want the cruel name-calling hurled at my son. You’d think in these modern times, it wouldn’t matter, but in some communities, it still did.
Even now, alarm clogged my throat when I thought back to the day Paul disappeared. He got up as normal, ate breakfast, went to work, and never returned. During those first few weeks, I’d convinced myself something truly awful had happened, and every knock on the door had given rise to a cold fear that I’d open it and discover a police officer standing on the other side with sympathy painted all over his or her face. But after an extensive police search failed to locate him, I’d come to realize he’d left me but had been too cowardly to tell me. Or he’d wanted to avoid paying child support. Possibly both.
The bastard.
Rhett had just turned four when Paul walked out. Back then, he’d been a happy, well-adjusted, bright little boy. After he lost his father, he morphed into a sullen and withdrawn child prone to bouts of rage that I didn’t have the skills to help him understand. In the absence of the right kind of medical attention, I feared for my son’s future.
And now this.
More fighting at school.
“I’ll look into it,” I mumbled.
Miss Carmichael nodded. “I think that’s best.”
Returning to my truck, I fixed Rhett’s child restraint belt and stroked a hand over his silky hair. He refused to look at me. With a sigh, I climbed into the driver’s side and we moved off.
The second we got home, Rhett ran to his room and slammed the door. I unpacked his satchel and threw away the empty candy wrapper I found at the bottom, along with a half-eaten banana.
After I’d put the potatoes on to boil, I traipsed over to his room and tapped on the door, then entered. Rhett had his back to me, his skinny little body curled into the fetal position, his shoulders shaking.
“Honey.” I sat on the edge of his bed and pulled him into my arms. “It’s going to be okay.”
More lies.
I didn’t know that at all. I wished for a magic wand that I could wave and make all his pain and anger and confusion disappear.
He sobbed in my arms. I let him get it all out, rocking him back and forth until his tears dried up. Shuffling up the bed, he stuck his thumb in his mouth—a habit he’d reverted to after Paul left—and stared at me with round eyes and a tentative expression.
“Want to tell me what happened?” I asked gently.
He removed his thumb, his bottom lip wobbling, on the brink of crying once more. “He said my dad left because he didn’t love me. That no one loved me. He said I didn’t have a dad because I didn’t deserve one.”
I briefly closed my eyes, anger boiling up inside me like a hot spring ready to blow. Christ, kids could be so cruel sometimes. The cruelest of all because they hadn’t yet learned the art of tact. They thought something and blurted it out regardless of how their words might hurt the other child.
“Who said those things, sweetie?”
“Brad.”
I sucked in my lips. Brad Wilson, a bruiser of a kid whose dad was an arrogant prick. If it were any other kid, I’d consider talking to the parents, but not in this case. Going around to the Wilson household to see if we could work things out between our sons was out of the question. I’d tried it once. Never again. The Wilsons were the type of people who thought their child was perfect, and trying to tell them otherwise only resulted in a heated, and pointless, debate.
I reached for Rhett’s tiny hand and squeezed. “Baby, none of that is true. I love you more than my life, and while your daddy isn’t here, I know he loves you, too.”
“Then why did he leave?” Rhett asked.
Not for the first time, I cursed Paul right to hell.
“I don’t know Daddy’s reasons, but I am certain they had nothing to do with you. He loved you to the moon and back, and wherever he is, I’m sure his heart is hurting because he’s away from you.”
How I managed to get the words out without choking on them was beyond me, but the little spark of hope in Rhett’s eyes made me glad I had.
“How about chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes for dinner?”
He broke into a broad smile. “Yes, please.”
I got up off his bed and motioned to him to join me. “You got it, soldier.”
By eight o’clock, I’d put Rhett to bed, and the evening stretched out ahead of me. After several bouts of channel-hopping where nothing caught my attention, I turned the TV off and put on some music instead.
I reached for my laptop. The screen opened onto a website I was designing for a local bakery. Before he left, Paul had insisted that he take care of the bills while I looked after Rhett. He was a firm believer in kids needing at least one parent around full-time during their formative years, and as I was inclined to agree, I’d let him go out to earn the money while I’d poured all my love into bringing up our little boy.
Once Paul disappeared, leaving me without a source of income, I’d gone back to website design—something I’d done before I met Paul—and slowly, over the last couple of years, I’d built a solid business. We weren’t rich by any means, but I could afford the rent on this little house and put food on the table and clothes on Rhett’s back.
What I couldn’t afford was extortionate medical insurance to get Rhett the help he needed.
I had to source more clients. Get up early before Rhett awoke and work late into the night. That way I might be able to afford one, or possibly two, therapy sessions a week. With a renewed vigor, I pulled together a list of businesses where I felt a website overhaul might increase turnover, and set about contacting every one. I was polite and professional and gave them links to other websites I’d designed, as well as pointing to client testimonials.
I glanced up at the clock. Almost midnight. Yawning, I half closed my laptop, when an ad caught my eye. I reopened the lid and clicked on the ad. I scanned down the page, devouring the information. A company called PFK Racing was advertising for underprivileged kids to join their school, the idea being that they might benefit from the discipline required to drive cars and learn skills that would help them in all kinds of areas in the future. They were accepting applications for kids who met the requirements, and acceptable ages were from four all the way up to eighteen.
This could be it. The answer to my problems and exactly what Rhett needed. Like a lot of boys, he loved cars and would sit in front of the TV if any racing was on, his eyes glued to the screen as the cars went round and round. I didn’t understand the point of it myself. My interest in cars started and ended with being able to get from point A to point B.
His age concerned me a bit. Six seemed hellishly young to get behind the wheel of any kind of motorized vehicle. Still, I could apply, and if accepted, I’d voice my concerns to the people running the place. If I didn’t get a warm feeling from them, I’d simply walk away. Rhett’s safety came first, and regardless of the challenges of his mental health, I refused to put his physical well-being at risk.
I filled in the application. This had to work. Some of the questions made me a little uncomfortable, especially the one that asked me to justify why I thought Rhett was such a good fit. Usually, I shied away from sharing personal information of any kind, but I couldn’t let this chance pass by without giving it my all.
I hit send and went to bed. For the first time in a while, I had a dreamless night’s sleep.
A couple of days passed with no response from the PFK Racing school, and the initial optimism I’d felt when filling out the application waned. The only slight chink of light on the horizon was the lack of further troubles with Rhett’s classmates, and I hoped and prayed that was the end of it.
Friday morning came around, and I dropped Rhett off at school, stopped by the market to pick up some groceries for the weekend, and was on my way home when my phone rang. As I was driving, I let it go to voicemail. I nosed the car into my driveway when a text alert popped up.
You have one new voicemail.
I put the car in park, switched off the engine, and dialed my mailbox.
“Hello, Mrs. Lawson. This is Adele from PFK Racing. I’m calling about your application for your son, Rhett, to join our school. I’m delighted to tell you that we’d love to offer a place to Rhett. I need a little more information from you before we can get things started. I’ll send it across on email, but if you could return it to me as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. See you soon. Bye.”
Unable to contain my grin, I punched the air and whooped. “Yes!”