11. Sloane
ELEVEN
Sloane
I shield my eyes from the bright Palm Beach sun, watching Lennon methodically fill and empty his blue plastic bucket with damp sand. The rhythmic scrape of his shovel against the sandbox edge has a soothing quality, like a metronome keeping time while my mind races ahead.
"And what about the staff-to-child ratio?" I ask, finishing outlining the star I doodled at the top of the notepad in the caregiver binder I started yesterday.
"We maintain about one staff member to four children," Dr. Serrano explains through the speaker. Her voice carries the calm assurance of someone who's answered these questions a thousand times. "For children needing extra support, we can adjust as needed."
I double over the numbers I doodled several times, making it extra thick and black. "And the daily schedule? You mentioned it's a half-day?"
"Yes, we run from 12:30 to 4:30, Monday through Friday. Most families appreciate that window. It gives them mornings for appointments or quiet time at home."
Perfect timing for us, allowing for our homeschool schedule in the morning.
A seagull lands near the sandbox, and Lennon freezes, watching it with intense concentration before it flies away. He returns to his sandcastle without a word.
"What about children who are processing loss?" I keep my voice steady and clinical. "Do you have staff trained in trauma-informed approaches?"
“We see a lot of children working through different things like anxiety, behavioral challenges, and sometimes big transitions at home. Our staff isn’t made up of therapists, but everyone here is trained in trauma-responsive practices.
We keep the groups small and the days short so kids never feel lost in the crowd.
It’s not therapy, but being outside, learning to care for living things, and working alongside peers. All of that can be incredibly healing.”
This isn’t therapy, but it doesn’t need to be. Kids regulate in nature. Sand and water hit the senses without demanding words. Caring for crabs or shells gives them a safe way to project feelings they can’t say out loud.
It’s not about making him “better.” It’s about giving him space. A short day, a small group, week-to-week flexibility. No grades, no labels. Just room to breathe. That’s exactly what he needs.
Plus, it will eleviate having to bring in the weekend nanny for a few hours each day. I can keep the hours to the required forty and give him a fresh, healthy outlet.
I write trauma-responsive practices in large letters, underlining it twice.
"I think I already know the answer, but children who are a little withdrawn? Lennon, the child I'm working with, is quite reserved. How do you handle drop-offs for children who might be hesitant?"
The ocean waves crash in the distance as Dr. Serrano describes their gentle transition approach. I glance at Lennon, still absorbed in his sand world, unaware of the research I'm doing for him.
"We don't force participation," she continues. "Observation is a valid engagement for many children. Some kids spend their first few days just watching before they join in."
I nod, forgetting she can't see me. "And enrollment? Is there a minimum commitment?"
"We operate week-to-week. Many families in transition appreciate that flexibility."
I cap my marker. "Could you email me an information sheet? I'll need to review everything with his father before making any decisions."
After ending the call, I pocket my phone and pull the second patio chair closer, propping my feet up as I process what I’ve learned. This could work. This could actually work.
“Hey, Lennon?” I call softly.
He looks up, dark hair falling across his forehead, hands still buried in the sand bin.
I nod toward his little rake. “That is a cool moat you're digging there.”
His mouth tugs, the smallest flicker of pride, and he goes back to digging a circle around the lumpy mound.
I gather my hair and twist it up, securing it with the ponytail holder I’ve been wearing on my wrist all morning. The breeze slips across the back of my neck, cool and welcome.
“You ready for some lunch?”
"Not right now."
I look at my watch. It’s eleven-thirty. I’ll give him twenty more minutes.
Lennon is bent low over the sand bin, rake scraping slowly and methodically around his fortress. His focus is unshakable. That buys me enough time to make another call.
I dial Maris’s number, pressing the phone tight to my ear while keeping Lennon in my peripheral vision.
“Mar? Can you talk?” I lower my voice, though he’s still hunched over his project like I don’t exist.
“Hey! Yeah. I’m done for the day. How’s it going with Lennon?” Maris’s voice is bright and clear, cutting through the muffled crash of waves.
I shift on the chair, angling my body away from the sandbox, but my eyes never leave Lennon. “We’re still finding our way together, but we’re getting there. Pope is another thing.”
“Have either of you acknowledged anything? Or are you both just tiptoeing?”
“It’s strange, sharing a house with a man I know intimately and don’t know at all. We avoid each other like the plague.”
“Awkward. But probably for the best.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” A breeze lifts a strand of hair that escaped the elastic, tangling it across my cheek.
I tuck it back and glance at Lennon again.
He’s still digging, still silent. “Lennon is the sweetest, though. He's very quiet, but I’ve broken through a few times. Baby steps. It’s only my second day. ”
“How’s the teaching going?”
“I haven’t started yet. I decided to build trust first.” I smile faintly, watching Lennon’s shoulders hunch in concentration.
"That's smart. Look at you, using your skills already."
“I'm trying. He’s playing in the nicest sandbox I’ve ever seen right now while I sit in the shade with the ocean in the background. Besides the awkward living situation, it's pretty heavenly here.”
“I'm glad for you. He's a lucky kid to have scored you.”
The praise warms and stings all at once. I push past it. “I wanted to run something by you. I think I found something perfect for him. Do you have a second for me to tell you about it?"
"Of course."
"It’s called Seabreeze Nature Enrichment. It's an outdoor program similar to what we did last spring in Charleston. You know, kids connecting with nature, working through things by caring for creatures and the earth.”
“That sounds amazing. Can I sign up, too? Do they take adults?”
“You remember Barrier Island, right? That rotation we did ?”
"Of course. That was my favorite rotation. I learned how to seine net fish."
I twist a loose thread on my shorts. "It's like that. I just spoke with the director, and it literally sounds almost identical."
"Those kids made so much progress in that month," Maris says. "They didn't even realize it was therapy."
"Exactly. Being outside, touching things, smelling, exploring. It anchored them." I watch Lennon pat down one side of his sandcastle. "I think this would be perfect for Lennon, considering everything he's processing," I say quietly, careful not to let him hear me talking about him.
“What does Pope think?”
I sigh. “I haven’t told him about it. I’m going to. Right now I'm working overtime because the agency hasn't filled the mid-day slot. This program would solve everything. Lennon gets some peer time, I get actual off-hours, and I can still handle evenings and bedtime."
"What about weekends?" Maris asks.
"In theory, I have weekends off. The agency wants me to stay overnight in case Lennon needs me, but I'm not required to be here during the day. They're looking for a weekend nanny."
"That poor kid," Maris sighs. "Where is his father in all this anyway?"
"I don't think Pope was involved before Lennon's mother died," I whisper, feeling almost guilty saying it aloud. "They seem like strangers to each other. It's heartbreaking. I think Pope only stepped in because he had to. Lennon clearly doesn't know him."
“And Pope’s just… what? Working while you handle everything?”
I press my lips together. “Pretty much. I’m piecing things together as I go. No one’s really told me the full story.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement through the glass. I see his broad shoulders crossing the kitchen. My heart drops.
Shit. He’s home in the middle of the day.
“Hey, I’ve got to go,” I whisper urgently. “Pope’s here and this guy needs some lunch, anyway.”
"Call me later. I want to hear more about the nature program."
“Will do. LYLAS.”
I end the call fast, set the phone on the table, and look at the page I've been scribbling on. I close the binder.
Lennon’s still bent over his sand fortress, oblivious. I wait, watching the kitchen door through the glass. A shadow, the faint bang of a drawer closing, then quiet. He must’ve just stopped in for something.
Good. He's gone again.
"Buddy, let's go grab some lunch. We can come back out here later to finish. What do you say?"
He doesn’t answer, but he lines up his tools carefully and stands. The precision of it guts me. Kids shouldn’t have coping mechanisms this tidy. My chest aches with the urge to pull him into my arms, but I keep my hands to myself.
He pulls out the necklace he always wears from under his shirt. I've noticed sometimes he likes it hidden, and other times he prefers it to sit outside of his shirt.
I guide Lennon through the sliding glass door, watching as he carefully wipes his feet on the mat before stepping onto the polished marble floor of the kitchen. Grains of sand still cling to his forearms despite my attempts to brush them off outside.
"Why don't you wash your hands at the sink? I'll get lunch ready."
The kitchen gleams with midday light, everything scrubbed to a pristine shine. The faint scent of lemon cleaner hangs in the air, mingling with the salt breeze that follows us inside.
I pull the coloring book he started on yesterday from my tote bag and set it on the island alongside a small box of crayons.