Chapter 12
EVERETT
After a rough Monday morning with Quinn, I’m treading dangerously close to a mental breakdown. I used to brush off her outbursts as toddler tantrums. They didn’t faze me like they do now.
If it was my only problem, I could handle it. It’s not. It’s been almost a week in my new studio, and I haven’t written anything but a basic melody.
I play a riff, adjust the tuning pegs until I get the perfect pitch, and then strum the first chord on my favorite guitar.
It’s the same one I was gifted at graduation from my parents.
Everything I’ve ever written has been on this instrument.
I used to call it “lucky strings” in the same way a basketball player might consider a pair of socks after winning a state championship in them.
This guitar used to tell me what to write. It doesn’t feel so lucky anymore.
I tuck a pen between my teeth and play the next few chords. Over and over until five minutes drag into ten, ten into twenty, twenty into an hour. The melody is there but nothing else. Nothing but empty words and blank promises.
I shove the guitar off my lap and chuck the pen across the room. It slaps the wall and topples, end to tip, on the floor.
I’m distracted. It’s been three days since meeting with Quinn’s teacher. I convinced myself I didn’t give a shit how long that business card lived in my car; I was never going to look at it again. That was before doubt sunk in. Fear that they might all be right about her.
I’ve tried every trick I know to help Quinn communicate—getting her to look at me when I’m speaking, asking her to repeat what she said, attempting to fill in the blanks for sounds she leaves out. I don’t know what else to do.
An evaluation feels like the only option.
Most days I’ve been in such a hurry to get in the studio that today’s slow, defeated climb down the stairs has me noticing they don’t creak anymore. Next time I see Will, I’ll have to thank him for that too. I register I’m heading toward my car before I mentally catch up.
The number of reporters lurking outside the house has died down in the last few days.
Must be bored with my new mundane life. I’m still discreet, snatching the business card for the speech therapy clinic from my glove box and stuffing it in my pants pocket before getting out of the car.
It’s not how I imagined utilizing the soundproof paneling in my new studio, but letting the tabloids catch wind of the phone call I’m about to make is the last thing I need.
Whether or not they’re legally allowed to write about what happens in the confines of my private property is irrelevant. People talk and word will travel fast.
I rush back inside. You’re just finding out your options, I remind myself as I prop my feet up on the desk and lean back in the chair. This doesn’t have to be a sure thing.
An automated voice answers after a single ring. “Hello! You’ve reached Words Matter. Press one if you’d like to schedule an appointment. Press two if—”
I punch the number one, and a perky voice answers. “Thank you for calling Words Matter, this is Katie!”
“Hi.” The word rushes out of me before I can take it back, hang up, and burn the business card.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh… yeah.” I scratch the top of my head and run a palm down the back of my hair, flattening it. “My daughter’s teacher recommended your clinic.”
“Typically, we take referrals from the child’s pediatrician. But if you provide their name, we can reach out and get the information for you. Can I get your daughter’s first and last name, please?”
It hits me, the panic…
How much information are these people going to want to know?
“Uh… I was hoping to ask a few more questions first,” I answer.
“Of course. How can I help?”
I want to tell her I don’t need her help, but that’s the reality of why I called, isn’t it? There’s no sense skirting the truth with this woman the same way I did with Caroline, Quinn’s teacher, even Summer.
“Who finds out about this evaluation?” I ask.
“It’s completely confidential. We encourage you to share the results with your child’s pediatrician and teacher so they can be a part of the progress monitoring that’s put in place to support your daughter’s needs. But if you prefer to keep it private, you can turn down the form.”
I add turn down the form to the mental pros column.
“And what exactly will we be committing to by having the evaluation done?”
“Nothing yet. The first step is to simply find out if she qualifies for services,” she says.
Making this phone call felt like admitting she already needed them. I hadn’t considered she might not even qualify. The tension in my neck and shoulders eases with her answer.
“If she does qualify, there are a few things that determine how often she’ll be seen here.
It will depend on how many visits in a calendar year your insurance covers and the severity the evaluation uncovers.
Most of our kiddos come once a week. If you are open to it, I can send you the preliminary paperwork by email to get started while we wait for the referral from her pediatrician.
You’ll need to fill out the forms to the best of your ability before her evaluation. ”
“Okay.”
“We have some availability next Monday. Would that work for you?”
A week to change my mind about this.
“Yes,” I agree.
She asks for my email address. I give her the fake one I use whenever a situation warrants discretion as well as the pediatrician contact information before we end the conversation, and then I pick up an incoming call.
“You’ll never guess who came into my office.”
I rip up the business card, toss it in the trash, and pick up my guitar.
“Em, I don’t exactly have time for gossip right now.”
Appearances have always been important to my sister. Not in the same rich-obsessed way as her boyfriend or the having-it-all-together way as me. She cares about being in the know and what people think of her.
“That gal from Quinn’s birthday party… Summer? She interviewed with me this weekend.”
I sit up taller and abandon my instrument. That was not what I was expecting her to say.
I contemplate a light response. Act interested for her benefit, when in reality, I’m trying to figure out Summer for myself. She’s recently divorced, living with a friend, and up until this weekend, was gunning to be my nanny. Now she’s working with my sister?
“You’re interviewing?” I ask. This is the first I’m hearing about this. I didn’t realize Emma’s assistant quit. What was her name…? Gloria?
“Yeah. It’s been… yeah.”
Well, that’s a lot to go on.
“How did it go?” Maybe that question will encourage details.
She squeals. “She’s so amazing! I hired her in the first five minutes.”
I clutch the phone a little too tight. My hand cramps. I found her first, the stupid voice in my head argues.
“Like full time or…”
“I mean, you know my hours. They’re all over the place. She didn’t seem to mind though. I got the impression she could use the work, and I love that I get to help someone who needs the money.”
“She needs money?” I ask before thinking. That’s why she’s been offering to help me.
“Wow. What’s with the twenty questions? Are you into this girl or something?”
“You were the one who called me about this. I’m making conversation,” I argue.
“You’re in your music studio, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“I can tell when you’re working on music lately. You’re tense.”
“Gee, thanks.”
It’s not like she’s saying something I don’t already know. But she had to point it out?
“You know, Ev, if the label is pressuring you in any sort of way, I can look into your contract.”
I don’t need my sister meddling in my career.
“Thanks, but no. I should go though.”
“Okay, well, if you need any help with Quinn—”
“Em, I’ve got it,” I bark.
Had it, before you went and stole my nanny anyway.
She sighs. “When did we stop relying on each other for things?”
Probably when my problems became a burden to your social life, I want to say but don’t. That was a long time ago. We aren’t kids anymore.
“I’ll call you tomorrow?” she finally offers. As if we’ll be ready to have this conversation by then. Something I highly doubt is true after we’ve managed to dodge it for years. But I want her off the phone, so I agree.
By the time she hangs up, the email from the speech place hits my inbox.
The document opens in Adobe Reader. I itch the skin on the back of my hand, reading over the section asking for guardian contact information.
The spot I’m tearing into becomes a full welted rash by the time I reach the family history section.
Cursive letters read confidential across the bottom. Sure as hell better be as I check the tiny box that feels like a confession of something I haven’t had to admit to anyone in a very long time.
I hope I’m not making the biggest mistake.
Summer shows up to preschool drop-off on Tuesday in the brightest red dress I’ve ever seen.
There’s not a single person in my sister’s office that won’t notice how much it hugs every curve on her body.
That fact wouldn’t bug me if it weren’t for everything I know about the head of the firm.
I’ve seen Jason Ford’s wandering eye despite the gold band on his ring finger.
She hasn’t been a minute late since that first day I ran into her a week ago, but she might be to Emma’s with the way she’s attempting to run across the parking lot in a pair of stilettos.
I’m going to guess this is one of her first times wearing them.
Her ankles are rocking to keep herself upright.
I really wish I didn’t have to talk to her looking like that, but I need to have this conversation.
“You have legal assistant background?” I ask as we meet on the pavement.
“And you have a close relationship with your sister,” she replies. An assumption that’s not entirely accurate as of late, but I nod anyway.