Chapter 16
EVERETT
I’m questioning all of my life decisions when I leave that gym. Agreeing to step foot in that school again? To sing in a talent show with Quinn? To let myself get wrapped up in Summer’s world? It’s all too much.
I was riding a high last night. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I got to focus on somebody else’s problems other than my own.
And her face… her face when she held that cat?
It was like I gave her everything she’d ever needed.
I was in freefall watching her run to my car.
Unafraid and unaware of what she was doing to me.
Then her ex pulled her into the hallway this afternoon. A web of discomfort spidered through my chest, and all I could think was why.
He didn’t even acknowledge her existence before that. I barely kept up a conversation with the kids about music after she was gone because I was bloody stuck on what he wanted from her.
I have no claim over Summer other than she’s my daughter’s nanny. She can do whatever she wants. And I don’t know what their relationship was like other than the few things she told me. Am I to take “it was for the best” to mean she’ll never want him again?
The most frustrating part is that I can’t ask her about it today because we’re heading to Quinn’s speech evaluation.
Her teacher wasn’t kidding when she said this place was across town. As a kid, a drive to the mall would have taken ten minutes. But since 2020, this place has exploded with people. Road infrastructure is only one of the ways it hasn’t kept up with the growth.
I navigate a single lane with stoplights spread out a mile apart until I’m finally pulling into the parking lot.
Sandwiched in a complex of office buildings is Words Matter.
I park in the back next to one of ten Heating and Cooling vehicles dominating the spots.
I don’t want to risk my Bronco being seen here.
It takes careful effort to get Quinn out of her car seat without bashing the door next to me.
“Are you ready?” I set her feet on the pavement and take her hand.
“Mm-hmm,” she says back.
I don’t know why I asked her that when she doesn’t have any idea what we’re about to do. Even for me, it’s been decades since I stepped foot in a place like this one. I’m sure a lot has changed.
We follow a wall of chipped stone to the front of the building.
A woman gets to the door first, and a chime rings out when she opens it.
She smiles at her child as he hops on one foot through the entrance.
It drops when she spots us. She does a double take to be sure her eyes aren’t playing a trick on her.
Dread coils in my stomach fast and tight, already proving my worst fear.
It’s going to be difficult to make this appointment discreet.
I silently plead for her to hurry inside. That’s not what happens. She waits. While we’re still halfway down the sidewalk. Forces me to hustle Quinn along so I don’t have to make her hold the door longer than she has to. Then she stops us when we finally get to her.
“Would you sign my shirt?”
Does this woman think I carry a Sharpie in my pocket? “Uh… I don’t have anything on me. I’m sorry.”
“I do!” She reaches in her purse, whips out a ballpoint pen, and hands it to me.
Her shirt is tight and ribbed. On so many levels this is a recipe for disaster.
I let go of Quinn’s hand to uncap the pen.
I’m not about to sign this woman’s cleavage in front of our children if that’s what she thinks, so I step to the side.
It’s awkward even touching her shoulder.
I use as little pressure as possible dragging the dried-up pen meant for paper down her cotton shirtsleeve.
“I don’t think it’s working.”
I hoped she’d say “Thanks anyway.” Not step aside when an onlooker offers their child’s marker.
Terrific.
I scribble my signature and pass it back.
“Thanks,” she finally says. The door collapses with her back no longer pressed to it. I catch it with my palm before it slams into my shoulder.
There isn’t anything else that could surprise me about this place after that. Not the neon saturated walls or the toddlers playing with trains in the entryway. Not how the entire city of Boise seems to have a five o’clock appointment here or the speech pathologists who don’t look a day over twenty.
It screams of chaos and inexperience, and I come to accept I’ve made a mistake.
One I can’t back out of with a front desk lady shoving an iPad against my chest. I barely register the information she’s asking for on the screen—our names and Quinn’s birthdate maybe?
—before someone says, “You must be Quinn.”
I look up. An older woman with silver curly hair is bent over at the waist and holding out her hand. “I’m Sue.”
“Say hi,” I prompt Quinn.
Quinn doesn’t look away from the twin boys who are drilling holes in the vinyl tile with a pair of matchbox cars.
“She does better when it’s quiet,” I tell her.
Sue nods. “Come with me.”
It takes a tug of her hand to get Quinn to leave the lobby. Even after that, her attention remains glued over her shoulder the entire way to the exam room.
I was expecting this place to feel older but not small. Sue invites us into a space that’s barely larger than a closest, and I must not hide my surprise well.
“I know. It’s suffocating.” She sighs as she presents us both with chairs that had been previously stacked in the corner. Then she closes the door for privacy.
That’s not at all what I was thinking. Refreshing would be more like it. Usually, people roll out the red carpet for me.
“They’re wanting to add occupational therapy to the services we offer here, so they had to remodel half the building for it. It will be really nice when it’s all done.”
“I’m Everett, by the way,” I say to change the subject. Now that we’re in an enclosed space, I feel comfortable enough to share my name.
She shakes my hand and sits down across from us. “You don’t go by ‘Quinn’s dad’ all the time? I swear I didn’t have autonomy until my kids were grown.”
I go by Rhett Dawson, I think to myself. It’s something I’ve been proud of until this moment.
“I saw on my paperwork that you like bugs.” Sue turns her attention to Quinn when I don’t acknowledge her comment.
Quinn nods.
“Well, look what I have for you!” She pulls out a wooden bug puzzle and sets it in front of her. “Can I talk to your dad while you play with this?”
“Mhm.” Quinn gives her a closed-mouth smile before she takes the puzzle apart.
Sue turns her attention back to me. “She’s adorable.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I don’t know how much was explained to you over the phone, but I’d like to go over the process. Ask you a few questions about Quinn’s birth, development, home life, and family history. As her parent, you know her best.”
Do I? Two months ago, I would have told this woman, that might be true for most people, but not me.
A parent should know their child better than anyone else.
It was true for El. But I didn’t know Quinn the same way her mom did.
Hell, I didn’t even know her the same way my parents did when they came and stayed with her after El died.
Seeing her a day or two at a time between legs of a tour doesn’t give you much of a chance to know that she rubs her right ear when she gets sleepy or prefers Frosted Flakes over Fruit Loops. At least I didn’t before.
Everything’s changed. Now I know she likes pretending to be a puppy when she eats cereal. How it’s best not to argue if she wants to sleep in her rain boots.
A foreign emotion threatens to take over as I realize how little my life has looked the way I thought I wanted it to. It’s easier to feel like you know someone when you witness the hurt and the triumph in the little moments of every day. That’s what being with Quinn has shown me.
I’m sitting here in front of a woman who has the power to help Quinn. To fill her life with more moments of triumph. How could I deny her that? That’s what I can give Quinn by going through with this.
With renewed confidence—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel walking in here—I say, “I’m ready.”
Sue lifts her eyes from the family history form in her hands and studies me through a pair of glasses.
“Okay then. I’d like to talk to you about your auditory processing disorder.”