Chapter 6 Charli
SIX
Charli
The Snare: Enters after the bass. The steady beat is a sound that will not allow you to stand still.
I sit across from Dr. Henderson at the polished conference table, my notebook open and pen ready. The air smells faintly of citrus and new carpet.
Everything in the MidSouth office is deliberately bland. Beige walls. Abstract watercolors. Even the pens have the logo perfectly centered.
"Thank you for coming in, Ms. Parsons." Henderson offers a practiced smile. "We're excited about the possibility of bringing Pediatric Therapy Solutions into our network."
I nod. "I appreciate the offer. I have some specific questions about the details, as you saw from my email. I'm eager to understand this fully before making any decisions."
"Of course." He spreads the proposal folder between us. "$150,000 for the practice acquisition, plus the guaranteed salary package that's comparable to what you currently earn. Hopefully more. We also have annual increases."
The numbers look good on paper. I can almost hear Mom's voice asking what happens after they own my practice.
"What about employment protections? If the company decides to terminate me after acquiring my practice?"
Henderson's smile doesn't waver. "As stated, we have the standard at-will employment in Mississippi, but we have an excellent retention rate for our clinical providers. Your patients love you. We aren't looking to replace you."
That's not an answer. "And the productivity benchmarks noted on page four require thirty-two billable sessions per week. Correct? What happens if I fall below that target?"
"Our regional managers work closely with providers who struggle to meet benchmarks. We provide administrative support to help optimize scheduling."
"The non-compete clause restricts me from practicing within seventy-five miles for two years if I leave. Is that negotiable?"
"That's our standard agreement across all our facilities." His fingers tap lightly on the table. "It protects our investment in the communities we serve. I don't believe there is any wiggle room there."
"The treatment protocols mentioned here…" I point to the section titled "MidSouth Model of Care." "Can you explain how that works with my existing treatment approaches?"
"Our clinical oversight committee reviews and approves treatment plans to ensure consistency across our network." Henderson leans forward. "Your expertise is valuable, but standardization helps us maintain quality."
I think about Emma, the baby with torticollis from yesterday, and how I adjusted her treatment when I noticed her sensitivity to touch.
Consistency across network doesn't account for nuance.
"And documentation requirements?"
"Our electronic system tracks all sessions, outcomes, and billable time. Reports are generated weekly for regional review."
Through the glass wall, assistants move efficiently between cubicles, everything orderly and contained.
"Any other questions, Ms. Parsons?" Henderson sits back, pen poised.
"I saw your email signature has a New Orleans address. Would you be the one handling Mississippi practices as well?"
"Yes. I'm the acquisitions partner for the entire Gulf region."
"That's a lot of practices."
He smiles but doesn't say anything more.
I close my folder. "I think I have what I need to consider the offer fully."
Henderson pulls out another sheet, sliding it across to me. "You might also be interested in our five-year expansion plan."
I glance at the map dotted with red pins across Mississippi and Louisiana.
"We're establishing regional centers of excellence," he says. "Each hub supports five to seven satellite clinics."
"And where would my practice fit?"
"Your location would become our coastal Mississippi hub. We've identified three potential satellite locations within thirty minutes of Bay St. Louis."
I watch his finger trace the map. My practice is already renamed: MidSouth Pediatric Partners - Bay St. Louis Center.
"All billing, scheduling, and marketing becomes centralized," he says. "Our system handles everything."
I smile politely. "That's certainly appealing. I appreciate you walking me through this."
Henderson stands and extends his hand. "Of course. Most providers find our resources transform their practice in ways they never imagined possible."
I'm sure they do.
We shake hands before he walks me toward the reception area, pointing out the sleek workstations and efficient layout.
I nod and thank him again before stepping out into the humid afternoon. The glass building gleams behind me as I walk to my car.
Nothing he said was wrong. From a business perspective, it all makes sense.
But as I slide into my car and check the time, I realize I have twenty minutes until school pickup.
This isn’t a partnership.
It’s an acquisition.
I'm not a hundred percent there, but it's definitely where I'm leaning.
I turn into the school parking lot, joining the line of cars waiting for dismissal. After that meeting, the simple rhythm of school pickup is a relief.
The bell rings, and kids flood into the courtyard. Benjy spots my car and runs over, his backpack bouncing. He climbs into the backseat, face lit up.
"Mom! We made rockets today, and mine went so high that the teacher said it might hit a bird. But it didn’t actually hit any birds because birds are too smart to get hit by paper rockets. But Jimmy’s rocket went sideways and hit Anna, but she didn’t cry because it’s just paper and—"
I click my seatbelt. "Whoa, slow down, there, Bruce Jenner. What kind of rockets?"
"Paper ones with straws." His hands move in wild gestures. "You blow through the straw and the paper part flies off and Mrs. Taylor said it’s about air pressure. Air pressure is invisible but still really strong, you know. I made mine with blue paper and folded it tight so it went super high."
I navigate through afternoon traffic, catching pieces where I can. His excitement fills the car, pushing away thoughts of productivity benchmarks and corporate policies.
"Did you write in your science journal about what you learned?"
"Yeah, but I want to make better ones at home. Can we stop and get straws? I need the bendy kind."
"We have some in the pantry from your birthday party in November."
"The stripy ones?" His eyes widen. "Those would look awesome!"
At home, Benjy drops his backpack by the door and heads straight for the kitchen. I fill a glass with milk while he rummages through the pantry for straws and grabs the fruit snacks.
"Can I go outside and play, Mommy?"
"Sit down and eat something real first."
He perches on the chair, legs swinging. I set an apple and peanut butter in front of him.
"So Mrs. Taylor showed us this video about real rockets and how they have stages that fall off when they’re empty." He takes a bite of the apple, talking around it. "And did you know the space station is as big as a football field, but it’s just floating up there?"
His gaze drifts toward the window. The treehouse in our backyard stands solid and inviting in the afternoon light. His body leans toward it while he talks, words picking up again as his attention splits.
"And Jimmy said his dad worked on a real rocket once, but I think he was just—"
I laugh and cut him off. "Benjy, go play before you burst. The snack and rockets can wait."
He bolts from his chair. The back door slams as he runs across the lawn toward the treehouse ladder, climbing with quick, nimble movements.
I gather the plates and watch him through the window. That restless energy burns through him, always moving, always in motion. I’ve had the thought a hundred times over the years.
That part didn’t come from me. Benjy got that from his father. The kind of energy that never slows, that always has somewhere else to go.
Reeves always did. Planes, deployments, jet-setting from one city to another. Money and connections can allow you to feed that energy if you have it.
The realization still brings the same small ache. Sometimes I wonder what life might have looked like if Reeves had wanted this kind of life. If he had wanted us.
But he didn’t. He wanted movement, not the quiet that comes with building something steady.
And if he had been someone different, he wouldn’t have been Reeves.
The doorbell rings, interrupting my thoughts. Mom stands on the porch with a plastic container in her hands. She sees me, waves, and walks in before I can reach her.
"I was cleaning out the pantry and found that vanilla extract you asked to borrow last week." Mom steps inside, carrying the small brown bottle along with the plastic container. "And I made extra potato salad."
"Perfect timing. I was just starting to think about dinner." I take both items, moving back into the kitchen. "Benjy's in the treehouse if you want to say hi."
Mom peers out the window, smiling as she spots him. "Let him play. I can't stay long anyway. Your father's waiting for me to help hang those new shelves in the garage."
She leans against the counter, eyes on the day's mail I'd scattered across the table. "So? How did that meeting go today? The one with that healthcare company?"
I set the potato salad in the fridge, buying myself a second.
"I'm glad you pushed me to look more carefully at their offer. You were right to be skeptical."
"What happened?"
"They were professional. And a lot of what they're offering makes sense." I tap my fingers against the counter. "But I don't need it. What I have works for Benjy and me."
Mom nods, unsurprised. "I think that's a very wise assessment."
I lean against the counter, watching Benjy in the treehouse.
"You built that clinic from nothing, Charli." Mom crosses her arms. "You should ask hard questions before handing it over."
I nod. "I'm not going to do it."
"So you're turning them down?"
"I am."
Mom smiles, pride visible in the crinkles around her eyes. "You know your own mind, Charbar. Always have."
Through the window, Benjy waves frantically from the treehouse window, pointing at a red bird in the branches. I move toward the back door, hand resting on the knob.
"He's spotted a cardinal out there," I say, attention shifting toward the yard.
I push open the back door, warm air meeting my face as I step onto the porch. The late afternoon sun stretches long shadows across our yard, painting the grass in golden light.
"Benjy! Did you find a new friend?”
He points excitedly at something in the oak branches. "Mom! There's a whole nest with baby birds! Three of them with their mouths open super wide!"
"Don't get too close," I caution. "The mama bird needs to take care of them."
Behind me, Mom continues talking about Dad's endless garage organization project. Her voice fades slightly as I lean against the porch railing, squinting up at the treehouse where Benjy kneels by the window, completely absorbed in his discovery.
"He's going to be hungry after all that climbing," Mom says. "Should I help you start dinner?"
“I’ve got it covered,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen. “Just need to—”
The words stall when the low rumble of an engine rolls down the street. My hand pauses against the doorframe.
There’s a particular sound to a big engine moving slowly past a row of houses. It's deep and heavy. The kind that reverberates through the pavement before the vehicle even comes into view.
The kind of powerful engine that doesn’t belong on a street like this.
I glance toward the road just as a black Hummer passes the front of the house.
Sunlight flashes across the windshield. The windows are too dark to see inside.
For a moment, everything inside me goes still.
I haven’t seen Reeves in six years, but my body remembers that vehicle instantly.
The Hummer keeps moving without slowing, rolling past the yard and down toward the stop sign at the corner.
By the time it disappears from view, the tightness in my chest eases. I let out a slow breath and push away from the doorframe.
There are plenty of black Hummers in Louisiana. It could belong to anyone.
"Charli? Did you hear what I said about the church potluck?"
Mom’s voice pulls me back to the present. Inside the kitchen, she’s rinsing her hands at the sink, completely unaware of the momentary detour my thoughts just took.
“Sorry,” I say, turning back toward the counter. “What time did you say it starts?”
Benjy’s laughter floats through the open window as he climbs around in the treehouse.
I glance toward the street once more before stepping back into the kitchen.