A Million Little Things--A Novel

by Susan Mallery

  Jen poured the tea, then brought the baby monitor from the counter to the table and took her seat. “I’m still doing a lot of home testing with Jack,” she said. “He does so well on nearly everything. I think he’s bright. He’s not regressing, at least not that I can see. I have another specialist I’m going to take him to next week.” She sighed and reached for a scone. “Maybe it’s nutritional.” She waved the scone. “I’d never let him have this. I’m so careful with his diet.” She sighed heavily. “I just wish I could sleep. But it’s hard. I worry.”

  “Of course you do. You have a lot going on.”

  “Tell me about it. I had to let the cleaning service go. They were using a spray cleaner. Can you believe it? I told them they could only use steam and those special cloths I bought. What if the fumes from the chemicals are affecting Jack’s development? What if it’s the paint on the walls or the varnish on the floors?”

  “What if he’s fine?”

  Zoe spoke without thinking, then wanted to call the words back. Jen’s gaze turned accusing and her mouth pulled into a straight line.

  “Now you sound like my mother,” she snapped. “Look, I know it’s not a big deal to you, but Jack is my child and I’m his only advocate, okay? I know there’s something wrong. I just know it. If you had children of your own, you’d understand.”

  Zoe had been looking forward to her chocolate chip scone. Now she found herself unable to take a bite.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I only meant to help.”

  “You didn’t.”

  She waited, wondering if Jen was going to apologize for her snipey remarks, but her friend only continued to glare at her.

  “Then I should go,” Zoe said quietly. She rose and started for the door.

  Jen followed her. Before Zoe walked out of the house, Jen touched her arm.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to hear that Jack’s okay from one more person. He’s not and I seem to be the only one who sees that. I’m drowning and no one sees it. Please understand.”

  “I’m trying,” Zoe told her. “Do you want me to come back next week?”

  “What?” Jen’s eyes filled with tears again. “No, don’t say that. You’re my best friend. I need you. Please come back. We’ll do better next time. It’ll be great. Promise?”

  Zoe nodded slowly. The words were there, but they weren’t best friends anymore. They hadn’t been in a while.

  “I’ll see you then,” she said and made her way to her car. When she was driving away she realized that she’d never had the chance to tell Jen about what had happened to her in the attic or anything else that was going on.

  Everything was different now, she thought. There was no Chad. Jen was slipping away. Zoe felt as if she was living in total isolation. If she didn’t want to die alone, then she was going to have to make some changes in her life. Step one, she told herself, find a handyman to fix her attic stairs. Step two, get her butt out of the house and make new friends.

  * * *

  Jennifer Beldon knew that every mother thought her child was special, but in her case, it was genuinely true. John Beldon, who was named after his late grandfather and who went by Jack, was handsome, happy and oh, so bright. At eighteen months old he could walk and run, albeit unsteadily. He could stack large blocks, understand words like up or down or hot. He could laugh, point to objects she named, recognize the sound of his father’s car pulling in the drive and kick a ball with surprising accuracy. He was careful with his grandmother’s very odd and delicate little dog and even washed his hands himself—sort of—before meals.

  What he didn’t, couldn’t or wouldn’t do was talk.

  Jen sat on the family room floor with Jack across from her. Classical music played in the background. The rug was organic cotton and plush enough to provide a little protection when there was a tumble. Sunlight streamed through steam-cleaned windows. As far as the eye could see, the nose could smell and the lungs could breathe, there were no chemicals of any kind.

  She held up a simple drawing of a spider. Jack clapped and pointed. The second drawing had all the spider parts, but they were put together incorrectly, creating more of a random pattern than an insect. Jack frowned and shook his head, as if he knew something wasn’t right. She showed the spider drawing a second time and got a happy grin.

  “You are a smart boy,” she said cheerfully. “Yes, that’s a spider. Good for you.”

  Jack nodded, then patted his mouth with his palm. She immediately recognized the signal, then glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eleven-thirty.

  “Are you hungry?” As she asked the question, her stomach growled. “Me, too. I’m going to make lunch. Want to watch?”

  Jack laughed and crawled the short distance between them. Once he reached her, he stood and held out his arms for a hug.

  She pulled him close and let the warmth of his little body comfort her. He was such a good boy, she thought, her heart overflowing with gratitude. Smart, loving, sweet. If only...

  She pushed that thought away. The day was going well. She would focus on that and deal with the rest of it later.

  She rose and together they headed for the kitchen. Jack made a beeline for the small activity table set up in the corner by the pantry. There were all kinds of things to keep him busy while she cooked. A giant pad of paper and chubby, nontoxic crayons, a blue-and-green “lunch box” that played music and talked about the various items he loaded in it. She’d wanted to put in a small play kitchen, but Kirk had objected. When she’d pointed out that it was perfectly fine for boys to cook, he’d insisted on equal time, with a play workbench, and even though their kitchen was large, it couldn’t hold both toys and still leave room for her.

  She carefully pulled the gate closed behind her, so Jack couldn’t go exploring without her, then plugged her phone into the small speaker docking station. After starting Pandora, she scrolled to one of their favorite stations.

  “In the mood for disco?” she asked with a smile.

  Jack looked at her and grinned.

  The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing” started. She moved her hips. Jack did the same—kind of—he was a little awkward, but still pretty coordinated for his age. She began stepping from side to side, moving backward toward the sink. Jack laughed and clapped his hands. She spun twice and he did the same.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting down to their meal. She’d pulled Jack’s high chair close. Disco music still played from the overhead speakers.

  His lunch was a small portion of tender chicken and a cauliflower-potato fritter modified from a recipe she’d found online. She used an air fryer to make sure it wasn’t greasy, with eggs and a bit of organic cheddar acting as a binder. She made them smaller than the recipe called for so they were the perfect size for him to pick up. While Jack was pretty good with a spoon, she found that the meal went better when he could simply pick up everything on his plate.

  She had leftover salmon from the night before and a couple of crackers. She probably should have made herself a salad, but it was so much effort. Kirk would tell her to buy one of those premade bags, which probably made sense, but seemed a little wasteful to her.

  “Today is Wednesday,” she said between bites. “It’s nice that it’s so sunny outside. We can go for a walk later and see the ocean.”

  Everything she’d read said to be sure to talk to Jack as if he were capable of understanding. Just because he wasn’t talking didn’t mean he wasn’t hearing. She was careful to always use complete sentences and plenty of specific nouns. Lulu, her mom’s pet, wasn’t just a dog. She was a Chinese crested. Food was specific, too. Bread, apple, rice cereal. The same with his toys.

  Every second he was awake, she knew where he was and what he was doing. She was always looking for opportunities to stimulate his brain, to help him grow. She knew al
l the warning signs of autism and except for his inability to speak, Jack didn’t have any of them. But there was a reason he didn’t talk and a thousand things that could still go wrong. That reality kept her up at night.

  After lunch, Jack carefully carried his plate back to the kitchen. She took it from him and put it on the counter, next to hers. She drew the gate shut again and turned off the music. Because a child had to get used to quiet, as well.

  She plugged in her earbuds and, as she did every day after lunch, tuned into the police scanner app. It was the usual barrage of chatter. Two officers being sent to investigate possible domestic abuse. Someone checking in with dispatch to see if they wanted breadsticks with marinara. She glanced at the counter to make sure she’d put all the food away. Seconds later, her entire body went cold.

  The words came too fast for her to follow what was happening, but enough of them got through. Two detectives. Shooter. Officer down.

  Kirk! Panic flooded her, making her heart race. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch her breath. Even knowing she wasn’t having a heart attack didn’t stem the growing sense of dread. Her chest was tight and even though she was inhaling, she couldn’t seem to get air into her lungs.

  Crackers are a tasty snack.

  The singing voice from Jack’s toy cut through the growing fog in her brain. She glanced at her son, who pushed the square of plastic crackers into the lunch box, then laughed.

  She hung on to the counter and told herself to stay calm. If Kirk was the injured officer, she would be getting a phone call. A squad car would show up to take her to wherever it was family went in times like this. In the meantime, she dialed Kirk’s cell, but it went right to voice mail—as it always did when he was working.

  She desperately wanted to turn on the TV, but couldn’t. Jack couldn’t be exposed to the news. It was too violent. She didn’t know what memories he might retain. Besides, everything she’d read or heard said to limit television at his age.

  She carefully scraped the food into her composting bin, then put the plates in the dishwasher. She wiped down the counters, all the while listening to the scanner. There were no details, just more jumbled information. No mention of names. Just a repeat of what she’d heard before.

  When the kitchen was clean, she reluctantly took out her earpieces. She didn’t want to wear them in front of Jack. He needed to know she was paying attention to him. She was still having trouble breathing and was wracked by occasional tremors. Going to the beach was out of the question now. She had to stay home in case the worst had happened.

  Jen took Jack into the backyard. She kept the slider open so she could hear if someone came to the front door. She had her cell phone in her pocket. For an endless hour, she played with her son, all the while waiting anxiously for some bit of news from Kirk. About one forty-five, they headed inside, where she gave Jack a light snack of pumpkin dip with a quarter of a sliced apple. When he was done with that, they went into his room to begin his afternoon prenap ritual.

  She pulled the curtains shut while he picked out which stuffed animal he wanted with him. Winnie the Pooh usually won and today was no exception. She helped Jack take off his shoes, then got him into bed. She sat next to him and turned on the night-light/music box she played every afternoon. The familiar music made him yawn. One story later, he was already asleep. Jen turned on the baby monitor, then slowly backed out of the room. Once the door was closed, she ran into the family room and turned on the TV.

  All the local stations were back to their regular programming. She switched over to CNN but Wolf Blitzer was talking about an uptick in the stock market. She raced to her desk and waited impatiently for her laptop to boot, then went to her local affiliate’s website and scanned the articles.

  She found one on the shooting, but it hadn’t been updated in thirty minutes. There was no news beyond a suspect shooting at two detectives. The suspect had been taken into custody. There was no information on a downed officer—which meant what? No one had been shot? They didn’t want to say anything until family had been notified?

  She tried Kirk’s cell again and went right to voice mail. She told herself he was fine. That he would be home soon. She needed to get moving, to tackle all the chores that piled up during the day. Jack’s nap was only about an hour. The quiet time was precious.

  Only she couldn’t seem to move—mostly because her chest hurt and she still wasn’t breathing well. Panic loomed, threatening to take her over the edge. She needed her husband. She needed her son to start talking. She needed someone to keep the walls around her from closing in.

  Her eyes burned but she didn’t dare cry. If she started, she might not stop and that would frighten Jack. She didn’t want any of her craziness to rub off on him. She still remembered being little and having her mother always worry and how that had upset her.

  She forced herself to stand. She had to plan menus for the next few days then create a grocery list. There was laundry and the sheets needed to be changed. She would just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Kirk was fine. He had to be fine. If he wasn’t—

  She sank back into her chair and wrapped her arms around her midsection. She was going to throw up. Or maybe faint. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

  Her phone chirped, notifying her of an incoming text message from Kirk.

  She straightened and grabbed her cell off the desk. Relief poured through her as she read and she sucked a lungful of air.

  Hey, babe. Did you want me to pick up something at the grocery store? Sorry, but I can’t remember what you told me this morning. Love you.

  Jen made a half laugh, half sob sound and typed back a response. Kirk was okay. Order was restored.

  She stood and ran through her mental to-do list. Sheets, grocery planning and the list, if she had time. Then five minutes online looking for information on someone who could tell her why her little boy refused to talk.

  Chapter Two

  “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Pam Eiland allowed herself a slightly smug smile as she rolled her shoulders back to appear more in charge. Because she knew she was right. “Oh, please, Ron. You’re doubting me? You know better.”

  Ron, the blond, thirtysomething plant guy and part-time coach of the UCLA volleyball team, shook his head. “You can’t grow bush monkey flower in a container. These guys like rocky soil, lots of sun and excellent drainage.”

  “All three conditions can be created in a container. I’ve done it before.”

  “Not with bush monkey flower.”

  What was it about men? They always thought they knew better. One would think after nearly two years of her buying plants he swore wouldn’t grow in containers on her condo deck and then making them flourish, he would be convinced. One might think that, but one would be wrong.

  “You said that about the hummingbird sage and Shaw’s agave,” she pointed out.

  “No way. I totally told you Shaw’s agave would grow in a container.”

  The man was incredibly intense about his plants. Intense and wrong. “I’m going to buy the bush monkey flower and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “You don’t even have a plan,” he complained. “You buy your plants based on the names.”

  That was true. “When my grandson asks me about my plants, I want to be able to say they all have funny names.”

  “That’s a ridiculous reason to buy a plant.”

  “So says a man who doesn’t have children. One day you’ll understand.”

  Ron didn’t look convinced. He collected the three one-gallon plants, shaking his head at the same time. “You’re a stubborn woman.”

  “You’re actually not the first person to tell me that.” She handed over her credit card. “You’ll deliver these later?”

  “I will.”

  The words wer
e more growl than agreement. Poor guy, she thought. He didn’t take defeat well. He would be even more crushed when she showed him pictures of the flourishing plants.

  After returning her credit card to her, he tore off the receipt for her to sign, then he held out his hands, palms up. Of course. Because Pam and her regular purchases were not the real draw for Ron.

  Pam opened her large tote. “Come here, little girl.”

  A head popped out. Lulu, her Chinese crested, glanced around, spotted Ron, yelped with excitement then scrambled toward him. Ron picked her up and cradled her against his broad chest.

  The tiny dog looked incredibly out of place against Ron’s How’s Your Fern Hanging T-shirt. Lulu was slim, hairless—except for the white plumes that covered the top of her head, her lower legs and tail—and wearing a pink sundress. The latter as much to protect her delicate skin as to make a fashion statement.

  Ron held her gently, whispering into her ear and getting doggy kisses in return. It was an amazing thing, Pam thought. Lulu was a total guy magnet. Seriously—the more macho the guy, the more he was attracted to the tiny dog. Pam’s friends teased her she should put that power to good use. Which was not going to happen. She was old enough to be Ron’s...

  She glanced at her plant guy. Okay, maybe not mother, but certainly his much older babysitter. Not that the age thing mattered. She wasn’t interested in any man. She’d lost the great love of her life two years ago. While she would never forget John, the sharpest pain had faded, leaving wonderful memories. They were enough.

  Ron reluctantly handed Lulu back. “She’s a sweet girl.”

  “She is.”

  “You’re wrong about the bush monkey flower.”

  “When I prove to you I’m right, I will mock you for your lack of faith.”

  Ron flashed her a grin—one she was sure sent hundreds of coeds swooning. “We’ll see.”

  Pam put Lulu back in the tote, slung it over her shoulder and headed out onto the sidewalk. It was mid-March. She was sure there was a massive snowstorm happening somewhere in the country but here in Mischief Bay it was sunny and a balmy seventy-two. There were skateboarders practicing their moves in the park, people on bikes and mothers out with small children.