Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
POLLY
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there.”
“Then it’s a damn good thing that I’m no ‘ma’am’.”
American Thighs by Lady Jane
Narrated by Brittney Houston
M y clinic day was back-to-back patients followed by a meeting at the high school with Leah’s friend, Rose.
Rose Hammel was a warm hug of a person. She was just as cheerful as I’d pictured from her emails last week. I couldn’t decide what I liked about her best: her thick Tennessee accent, her contagious enthusiasm for the school, or her office. I marveled at all the Disney princesses and Star Wars figurines along her shelves while we talked. I’d been a little nervous, wondering how we’d get along, but she was clearly a kindred spirit.
“Leah told me about the grant the school was awarded last spring, the one meant to expand disability and 504 plan accommodations. Congratulations.”
Rose beamed, her tight curls bouncing as she nodded.
“I tell you what, I practically scared Reggie half to death in his office next door when I found out. I shrieked so loud he came runnin’—expectin’ a spider, ’cause he knows I hate those little devils and he’ll take ’em outside for me now and again.” Rose paused, seeing my confused expression. “Oh sorry, sugar, that’s Mr. Sievers, the guidance counselor. His office is right next door.” Rose pointed behind me, then continued on. “The grant is great news for the district. We’ve got more kids than ever needin’ accommodation, which is wonderful, knowing that we’re helpin’ more students succeed, but that also means we need help. Reggie and I try to attend every meetin’ so we can walk the families through the evaluation process, but we can’t get to ’em all, there’s just too many students needin’ help. What I’d really like is to hire a special education advocate for each school in the district. That way, the advocate can work with every student and their family needin’ an IEP or 504 plan.”
I shook my head. “I’m not familiar with a special education advocate, what’s that?”
“An advocate knows the federal and state school laws for disabilities. They work with a family to help coordinate with us at the school level, so the students get the services they need,” Rose explained.
“That sounds amazing. What else is the grant money going toward?”
Rose flipped through her stack of papers and pulled out a packet.
“Here’s the proposal I gave to the school board at their meetin’ earlier this month. I proposed updates for special education technology aids, like tablets with those text-to-speech apps, and to expand the standard 504 plan templates to include each individual mental health disorder, like sensory processin’ disorder and the like.”
I flipped through the proposal as she talked. “Please excuse me if this question sounds ignorant, but how does the district determine if a student meets criteria to be eligible for service? Like, for ADHD as an example.”
“Shoot, that’s not ignorant, hun. If I had more folks askin’ questions like you, there’d be a heck of a lot less judgment ‘round these parts. Like how people still judge me when my accent slips now and again. Growin’ up we were as poor as church mice. Even though I got myself an education and a ‘highfalutin vocabulary,’ per my meemaw, people still think I’m dull as a sack of nails.”
I’d known Rose for all of ten minutes but the thought of anyone insulting her infuriated me, even if I was mildly curious what Rose considered to be her accent “slipping”.
“Now what were you sayin’, hun? Oh, that’s right, determinin’ who needs what. Well, if a student already has a diagnosis from an outside provider, like a counselor, we use their medical notes to help determine eligibility.”
Being a pediatrician for years, this is something I already knew. “What if the student doesn’t have an official diagnosis? How long does that take? Because it’s been taking months to get my patients into a counselor, much less a neuropsychologist or psychiatrist.”
Rose pointed to her nose. “You got that one right. That’s exactly why the last part of my proposal aims to reduce wait times for a medical provider down to thirty days.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. Thirty days? It’s been taking months for my patients to see any mental health provider, period. I shook my head slowly. “Is that even possible? Unless a family can afford to pay out of pocket for a private provider or has a favor called in, the wait times have been months.”
Rose’s mouth twisted grimly. “It’s the same here, I’m afraid. We’re tryin’ to build up our referral pool and have the grant provide stipends for private providers to assess the student within thirty days, but it’s been a tough row to hoe so far. First, we gotta get the board to approve the stipends. Then, we gotta get a confirmed list of providers willing to see these kids.” Rose smiled and winked at me. “That’s where you can help us.”
I sat up straighter. “Me?”
Nodding, she slid a paper across her desk. “I need someone on the medical side who can help me recruit these providers.”
I scanned the sheet, wincing as I took in the full, single-spaced list of provider names, and balked. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to overpromise. “Listen, Rose. I’m a single mother. My ten-year-old son, Max, is going to need his own 504 plan due to his anxiety. I’d love to help, but I don’t know if I have the extra time to research and field all of these calls.”
Rose held up her hand. “Oh, no, Dr. Alberton?—”
“Polly, please,” I interrupted.
“Polly,” Rose corrected with a small grin. “I’m not expectin’ you to make all those calls, I’ve already contacted them. There are few providers with a mark next to their name who’ve indicated a preference to speak with a doctor, rather than a coordinator .” Rose pointed to herself, then let her drawl slip a little more. “I didn’t tell ’em I was an ER nurse for a decade before this. Better to let ’em think I’m one of them backwoods folks who was raised on moonshine and mud.”
My mouth gaped. “Did someone actually say that to you?”
Rose’s eyes flashed. “Not in so many words, bless their hearts.”
Looking at the list, I saw only a handful of names with a star next to their names, which seemed much more manageable, but I frowned just the same at the thought of talking to these providers. I didn’t want to bring her into my family drama, but I could handle talking to elitist jerks. I’d spent over twenty years placating the biggest jerk of them all.
“When will you start hiring advocates?” I asked Rose.
Rose glanced at her shut office door, then leaned closer to me. “We haven’t started the hirin’ process, yet. The school board has to approve my proposal first and they were deadlocked at the last meeting: three said yes, three said no.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“Not out loud. Brad Goldenstein, that’s the school board president, found a loophole that the grant funds could be used for anythin’ the state considers a disability, including orthopedic disabilities. He announced this last month, when lo and behold, a proposal of his own materialized out of thin air. It had some small upgrades to equipment for students with physical disabilities, but he proposed that the majority of the funds should go to resurfacing the high school and middle school basketball courts and football fields. Mind you, he’s got four sons—all of whom play basketball and football. He tried to explain it away, saying it would reduce injury. And while I don’t oppose anything like that, only three percent of the students in the district have orthopedic disabilities. But forty percent of our students, which is above the US average, have a plan for a mental health diagnosis.”
“The rest of the board didn’t see through him?” I asked Rose.
Rose’s face took on a sour expression. “It’s really only two of the members who are the holdouts besides Mr. Goldenstein, but he, is the stickiest of ’em. One school board member is for sure in Goldenstein’s pocket, and the other member took the opinion of Dr. Dixon over any of us who work in special education. When Dr. Dixon spoke in favor of Mr. Goldenstein’s proposal at the last school board meetin’, the vote was split three to three.”
I wanted to tell Rose that sticky wasn’t the right word. Smarmy, slimy, and sleazy were what came to mind.
“Any idea why Dr. Dixon would be in favor of this Brad Goldenstein’s proposal?”
Rose chuckled sadly. “Dr. Dixon plays golf with Mr. Goldenstein weekly and somehow managed to snag tickets to every Vols game this year.” Rose leaned forward and patted my hand. “That’s University of Tennessee football, hun. I forget you’re practically a Yankee.”
I actually knew that reference, but let it go. “With Dr. Dixon retiring, how do you see my role in this?”
Excitement danced in her eyes. “What we really need, is someone who can advocate for these program upgrades to the school board. We need someone who won’t roll over to Goldenstein’s demands. I ’reckon if we can even turn one vote in our favor at the next school board meetin’, our proposal will get the green light.”
What kind of political nightmare had I walked into? I suddenly felt caught. Rose didn’t want someone who would roll over to any demand. I had a lot of practice placating smarmy, elitist pricks, but standing up to them was a new development.
“When’s the next school board meeting?”
“It’s the first Friday in August so about three more weeks.”
It was an awful lot to take on. I know I needed the money, but was I really what the school district needed?
Then, I pictured Max crying in the backseat of my car, pleading with me to take him home every morning when I dropped him off for kindergarten. I recalled the frustration I felt when his school attributed his behavior as “normal” school adjustment for his age, telling me he was smart so there was no problem. How good it felt to finally meet with a doctor at Max’s IOP program who understood what we were going through, who helped Max regain some control, only to be met with a brick wall at his school when he was discharged from his IOP. I wondered if things would have been different for us, if there were someone like Rose at his school.
I was nodding before I even realized it. “It sounds like we have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
The next hour flew by; Rose and I made plans to meet again later this week. I was truly excited by something at work for the first time in years. It felt like I could make a difference not only for my son, but also for kids with similar struggles.
Pulling into the driveway, I saw Jace and Ryla sitting in one of the spare garage bays, door open. Ryla waved happily to me. As I got out of the car, I noticed Jace was sitting strangely: sitting on bent knees, his arms were straight, and his palms flat on the garage floor. I squinted as I walked closer. It looked like there was something . . . oh my God! There was something looped around his neck!
Hurrying closer, I saw that yes, there was indeed one of Ryla’s jump ropes tied around Jace’s neck and the other end was held by my daughter. Panic gripped me as I took in Jace’s tongue, which was hanging out of his mouth, and his chest was moving up and down in short pants.
“Ryla! Did you tie that around Jace’s neck? Jace, are you ok?”
Jace merely looked at me, calm as ever, despite being strangled by my daughter.
Ryla shook her head at me. “This isn’t Jace, Mom. This is Kevin.”
“Ruff!” Jace . . . barked.
I stopped short, looking between Jace and Ryla.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m puppy training him.”
“Ryla.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and softened my tone, lest she pull on that leash. “Please explain what’s going on. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you made a leash out of your jump rope, looped it around Jace’s neck, and are making him act like a dog you named Kevin.”
“I know what we’re doing. We’re almost done with training. He only has to earn his gold star for stay and then we’re done.”
Ryla pointed to a makeshift poster behind her, which I hadn’t noticed until now.
Sit:
Fetch:
Speak:
Roll Over:
Stay
Well. Just . . . well. This was an interesting turn of events. Biting my bottom lip, I turned my head slowly to find Jace watching me. He was still panting but had raised his eyebrows in the strangest resigned puppy/human expression ever, as if to say, Just go with it .
“Ok,” I squeaked out, fighting laughter. “I see you’re fine here.” I glanced at my watch without actually seeing the time. “Guess I should head inside for dinner. When you’re . . . done here, why don’t you come inside? Oh, and uh, Ryla? Is”—I coughed to cover my laugh—“Kevin, housebroken? Maybe he should stay outside and Jace can come in with you when you’re finished.”
“Wuf!” Jace/Kevin barked, eyes twinkling.
“Shh. Quiet, Kevin,” Ryla admonished.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing, practically running into the house before erupting into belly laughter. As I walked through the house, my worries from the day melted away with my laughter. A light sensation took root in my chest as I bounced up the stairs, one that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I found Max in the playroom after changing out of my work clothes. He was working on the red shoes of what looked like a one-foot-tall Lego statue of Boyfriend from Friday Night Funkin’, complete with blue hair and a red baseball hat.
“Look at that! It’s amazing!” I said, walking toward him, giving him a hug before I sat across from him.
Max flashed me a smile. “Thanks.”
“I don’t remember you getting this set.”
“Jace found the instructions online from a mod and helped me find all the right pieces,” Max said as he continued assembling his Lego creation.
Did I know what a mod was? Why, yes, I did. I gave myself a quick mental high five that I still understood some of Max’s lingo thus far, knowing that in a few short years I’d probably have no idea what he was saying.
“I guess I’m not surprised we had all the pieces,” I teased. Max loved collecting things, most of the time just to collect them, but sometimes he’d also play with them.
“Jace even played some Friday Night Funkin’ and was sooo bad,” Max giggled.
“It sounds like you had fun.”
Max’s eyes flitted up to me, then back down, his cheeks still upturned with a smile.
“How did your journal entry go today?” I asked, still admiring his Lego work.
A guilty expression crossed his face. “I didn’t do it, yet.”
A flash of panic went through me, thinking that he could relapse if we didn’t follow his therapist’s instructions perfectly. But the typical bone deep, heavy feeling I’d carried with me on the daily wasn’t there to drag me further into panic mode, giving me the mental energy to pause and think before responding.
I placed my hand over Max’s. “‘Yet’ is a great word. And feelings are hard to think about, right? It’s tougher still to put your feelings into words. Tell you what. We can do the exercises together, tonight. I’m so glad you had a good day.”
His answering smile filled my heart with joy and that feeling of lightness persisted on my way to the kitchen to make dinner.
I was almost done preparing an oven meal kit for dinner when Jace carried Ryla inside, piggyback style. Ryla was chattering and giggling in Jace’s ear and that light feeling turned to a glowing, so much so that my chest practically ached. I’d never seen Ryla do that with anyone except Giselle. Certainly, never with her dad. David was more like a distant relative than a father. He was away from home more often than not since she was one year old. When he was home, he was a very hands-off father, particularly with anything that involved a traditionally female task. And of course, I wanted to make it so that I was the perfect mother, wife, and doctor, thinking that if I did that, everything would be okay. Instead, I enabled the passive relationship he had with the kids, until he acted more like an elderly great-grandfather than a father. Like he was someone you tell happy stories to but never make happy memories with.
“Polly! When did you get home?” Jace exclaimed as Ryla continued to giggle on his back.
“A few minutes ago,” I answered, playing along. “Ryla was outside with her new dog, Kevin. It looked like training was going well.”
“That Kevin is a menace! Don’t let him fool you. We left him outside with a bone and some water. No inside sleeping for that rangy mutt!”
“How did everything go today?” I asked as Ryla climbed down.
“I think it went ok, what do you think?” Jace had his hands on his hips, smiling down at Ryla, who smiled impishly at him, shaking her head teasingly, her entire body vibrating as she giggled.
“Not good?” I teased, taking a knee in front of her. “Then what’s with all this giggling, huh?” Peals of Ryla’s laughter rang through the kitchen as I tickled her belly.
“I missed you,” I whispered after her laughter quieted, giving her forehead a kiss. “I was just finishing up dinner. You want to head upstairs and wash your hands? I need to talk to Jace for a minute and then you can help me if you want. Or do you want some tablet time before dinner?”
“Tablet time!” Ryla shouted and ran out of the room.
Jace held out a hand to help me up, but I popped up on my own despite longing to take his outstretched hand. Would his grip feel as safe and strong as it did yesterday?
I plucked a dish towel off the island and folded it, playing off any hint of how I was feeling. “It sounds like the day went well. I was worried for a minute when I saw that rope around your neck. I thought I’d need to get a lawyer on the phone.”
Jace leaned against the island counter on his hip, facing me. “I was worried for a minute, too,” Jace teased, putting a finger in the collar of his shirt and turning his head from side to side. Picking up an apple to slice it, I quietly ignored how the movement of his neck made my mouth go dry.
“How was your day?” Jace asked.
I stopped mid-slice. “My day?”
Jace narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Your day.” He raised his eyebrows. “You alright?”
“Fine! My day was fine. I’m fine. Work was fine,” I stammered, then rolled my lips over my teeth and pressed them together. I couldn’t admit that it’d been so long since someone genuinely asked how my day was going, that I actually misunderstood the question.
He cocked his head to one side. “You sure? You can tell me. I know your job must be hard.”
“Sometimes. But today was kind of great, actually.”
“So more than fine?” Jace teased.
“Yes,” I chuckled, peeling some of the apple slices. Max didn’t like the texture of the skin. “I recently accepted the position to be the medical director of the school district. I met with the special education coordinator at the school today, and I’m kind of excited about it. Even if it’s strangely more political than I expected.”
“How so?” Jace asked, stealing an apple slice. He winked as he crunched it between his teeth. I had to tear my eyes away from his jaw as he chewed.
He is your employee. He is NOT a steak. He is your children’s nanny.
“The school district received a grant this spring to support special education programs. Apparently, there are members of the board, including the school board president, that wants to use a large portion of the grant to resurface the school’s basketball courts and football field. I guess the old medical director was always a sure supporter for him.”
“It’s that what you did back in Chicago? Work with school districts?”
“No, this is new. I was aware of what an IEP or 504 plan was, only becoming more familiar with it when I tried to get one for Max this past spring. They never taught us much about specialized education plans in medical school or my pediatrics residency. But I do see a lot of kids with mental health problems and the system is so backed up, it takes months for kids to get care. If we can have kids see the providers they need faster and work in concert with the school and their families, it could change a lot of lives, including my son’s life.”
“That sounds pretty incredible, Polly.” Jace’s voice was closer than I expected. I glanced up and startled, not having noticed that Jace was so close that I could feel the heat of him against my side.
I cleared my throat nervously and shifted away from Jace. “Uh ha! I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’m not counting my chickens, as they say. How did things go here?” My tone was too bright.
“I’m afraid we didn’t follow your schedule to the letter.” Jace nodded and I followed his gaze to Barry, the tablet.
“What do you mean?” I wiped my hands on a towel and turned on the tablet.
Nothing on the kids’ daily checklists had been checked off.
“We started off with breakfast, but then we just went where the day took us. Ryla showed me her dollhouse after breakfast, which turned into an impromptu Barbie fashion show. Then Max taught me how to play Friday Night Funkin’, which, by the way, was incredibly hard and your son needs to take piano or drums or something, because that kid’s rhythm skills are amazing.” Jace ran his fingers through his hair as he continued, “Then after lunch, Kevin the dog showed up and the checklist kind of went out the window.”
Jace was absently rubbing his hand through the tangle of curls at the back of his head, looking at me with raised eyebrows, as if waiting for me to be, what . . . mad? Mad that my kids were happy and laughing and clearly had a great day? I was confused how he could possibly think I’d be mad. Then, I looked back down to the schedule, realizing for a moment, how this must look to anyone else.
Controlling.
Like I was some sort of anti-fun momzilla, making a checklist for my kid’s day. Max’s therapist didn’t see any problem with creating structure for the kids, in fact, he encouraged it. This past year was a constant juggling game of coordinating the kids’ schedules, meals, laundry, housework, and counseling appointments—and that’s not to mention all the other odds and ends. If the kids needed new shoes, who got them? If they needed haircuts, who scheduled them? It was all here on Barry, keeping me sane.
But somewhere along the way, I lost the fun stuff. A sinking feeling settled in my belly, weighing me down.
“I’m sorry. We’ll do better tomorrow.” Jace’s quiet words came from my right, obviously mistaking my silence for censure.
I flashed a smile, shoving my feelings of embarrassment and horror and disappointment into a box deep within myself.
“It’s totally fine. My kids are happy, healthy. We’re all good.”
“Polly—”
“Please, no need to apologize," I cut him off, the heavy feeling in my belly moving into my chest and turning into pressure—the intense need to be alone was suddenly overwhelming. “I’m sure you’re eager to have some free time. Thank you for your help today. You’re free! Go! Before Ryla makes you be a cat!”
My attempt at a joke fell flat as Jace stepped back, a troubled look in his eyes. “You sure? I can help with supper. I don’t mind.”
How could I explain that I wasn’t mad at him, and it had everything to do with me? I waved him off, stepping backwards a few paces.
“Yes, really! Take your freedom and go. The kids will only take advantage of you if you stick around. Well, Ryla at least . . .” I trailed off with a humorless laugh.
I would love to say that I stopped talking right then, but that would be a dirty lie. No, instead I entered the portion of the evening I’d like to call, Polly felt so awkward she blabbered in run-on sentences until she borderline insulted his Southern roots portion of the evening.
Coming soon to a theater near you.
“You’re young! You should be out drinking and living life at one of those, what do people call it?” I looked up at the ceiling and snapped my fingers. “A honky-tonk!” I practically shrieked. “Yes! A honky-tonk. You should go and dance and drink some moonshine at a honky-tonk until the wee hours of the morning!”
Jace, to his credit, was looking at me with confusion, not with pity or fear, which was most certainly deserved. Though, his kindness didn’t stop me from wanting to dissolve into a puddle on the floor.
“Alright. If you need me, you know where to find me.” Then, like a polite Southern gentleman, he gave me a head bob along with a dimpled smile I didn’t deserve. “Y’all have a good night.”
I held my breath as I watched him walk out of the kitchen, not letting it out until I heard the faint snick of his door close.
Bending at the waist, I fell forward onto the island countertop. I rocked my forehead back and forth against the cool granite in pure self-loathing until I heard one of my kid’s footsteps on the stairs. I forced myself upright to act like everything was ok—I was well practiced at that.
Later that night, I found myself sitting at the table after dinner, my laptop in front of me. Usually after dinner, I tried to spend a little time with the kids. But tonight, like so many nights over the past few months, I had things to do: emails to return, new shoes to order for Ryla, etc. The conversation I’d had with Jace played on repeat in my head until I read the same email three times and finally closed my computer, utterly exhausted. Rubbing my face, I leaned back in my chair and looked over at my kids. They were both on their tablets, the house dreadfully quiet. The laughter and smiles from when I got home had been extinguished.
We’d reverted to our factory settings.