“I know this,” Greta said. She took a few quick breaths, trying to calm the swell of anger brewing inside of her. “I know all of this. I’ve raised this before. I raised this in kindergarten – with Miss Alice. I’ve raised it every year since! All the school has told me was to be patient and that it was developmental. Be patient, be patient, we’re working on it. That’s what you all said!”
“And that’s what we did—”
“Well then why…why is he still…” Greta swallowed hard and threw her hands up in the air. “Why can’t he…why is he still illiterate? He’s nine years old!”
Brooke placed her hand gently on Greta’s shoulder. “Greta, I promise you, it’s going to be okay.” Her voice was calm and trained – a well-seasoned responder to parental hysteria. She continued. “John has learning disabilities – in reading, writing and spelling. He’s going to get services and an IEP – that stands for Individualized Educational Plan. He’ll get specialized instruction, accommodations and modifications to the fourth grade lesson plan. It will all work out. Don’t worry.”
Greta shook off Brooke’s hand and stood up from the table. She was angry and didn’t want to be comforted. The school was telling her to believe in its ability to get to John, to be patient and relax. It was no different than what she’d been told for the previous five years. Meanwhile, other fourth graders were putting together science fair projects and reading chapter books, developing models of the solar system and testing soil. John was barely able to function at a first grade level, despite his high IQ. Somehow the boat of elementary school education had left the dock, with John standing humble and alone at the shore.
“I hope you’re right,” Greta said weakly to Brooke. “I sure hope you’re right.”
***
Lucroy, Broxton & Hill had a very uninspiring waiting room. There were two black leather couches, two oval-shaped glass coffee tables, a smattering of niche-hobby magazines and a mounted television that broadcast the local news.
Greta had been waiting no more than two minutes when a man in a blue-button down shirt and khakis greeted her. “Are you Greta Brock?” he asked.
He was tall – neck-craning tall, with a broad chest and curly brown hair that threatened to flop over his eyes. When she nodded in response to his question, he smiled. “My name is Tuck Carpenter and I’m the paralegal assigned to your divorce proceedings. Can you come with me?”
She followed him down a hallway and into one of the conference rooms. They sat across from each other and made idle chatter while waiting for her lawyer to arrive. Greta learned that he lived in the small downtown section of Vetta Park, that he was unattached except for a Labrador retriever who chewed up his furniture and that he dreamed of traveling the world one day.
Tuck was candid and funny – and during their conversation, he frequently threw his head back and laughed fully – an authentic, deep-voiced chuckle.
Greta laughed too, and not just because of the jaunty nature of the topic at hand. For the first time in years, she could envision the future and all of its promises, everything she had spent her girlhood waiting for. She saw a speedy conclusion to the divorce proceedings, the ability to focus solely on John and his needs. And if she looked hard enough or even allowed herself, she saw herself dating attractive, available kindhearted men – men who looked directly at her instead of at numbers smattered across rows and columns. Everything that had once seemed crushing or impossible now seemed manageable.
That is, until her lawyer showed up and dropped the anvil.
“Griffin’s suing for full custody of John,” her lawyer said as soon as he arrived and closed the door behind him. His name was Lance Garcia and he was a partner in the firm. He spoke and moved quickly, as if propelled by a motor. When he delivered bad news, he usually stared at the person he was speaking with and pressed his lips together. This time he pressed them into a line so thin they nearly disappeared.
Greta shook her head. “That’s impossible! Why would he do that? He barely sees John. He’s been such an absent father. He doesn’t even know all that John has been going through. He can’t have full custody! That’s crazy! The judge will see that, right?”
Lance stood up straight and crossed his arms but didn’t say anything.
“Why would he do that?” Greta repeated. “He can’t actually want full custody of John!”
“He’s doing it to get back at you and to run up your legal bills,” Lance said. “I see it all the time.”
“Well he’s got no case, right?” Greta insisted. “I mean, he never sees John so obviously he would have no case.”
“It’s too soon to tell what kind of a case Griffin has,” Lance answered. “He might claim to be a more suitable parent due to financial reasons. He might claim to be more stable. If there’s anything unseemly in your past, such as mental illness or drug use, he might try to use that against you. There are several tactics he could try to take. So our job is to figure out what we claim to convince the Family Court judge that he’s a negligent parent.”
“The fact that he’s a negligent parent makes him a negligent parent!” Greta said. She turned around to face the window so as not to display her emotions. A tear fell and she tilted her head back to staunch the cascade. She had been so silly to think that this could be easy – that her divorce could be processed without a battle. And why wouldn’t she have foreseen that Griffin would try to take away John – the one person in the world who meant more to her than anyone else? The only person she had left in her world.
Lance cleared his throat. “Ms. Brock…Greta…we promise you that we’ll do everything in our power to ensure you get custody of John. Our legal team is among the best in the greater St. Louis metro area. We’ll do whatever we have to do.”
Greta stared out the window for a few more moments. The threat of tears had passed but she still felt a pit in her stomach. Lance’s tone of voice reminded her of Brook Tremble – both professionals trying to comfort her without any way of knowing what would happen. They gave her assurances, platitudes, sound bites that had been rehearsed on countless others before her. For the sake of her sanity, she chose to believe them, even though she knew how real life could play out.
A minute passed and then Greta turned around and faced the two men. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go to court.”
Chapter Eleven
May 5, 2009
It was ten o’clock at night at and John was still awake. When Greta went to check on him, she found him curled into a fetal pose on top of his sheets. He was trying to read a book, lips moving in a soft whisper as he ran his index finger along one of the lines.
Greta smiled at him, taking notice of his thick brown hair, recently grown out because he thought long hair was a sign of maturity. A few strands stemmed away from his head – like branches of a tree – and Greta had to resist the urge to reach forward and flatten them down. He was ten years old now – and always battling for sovereignty over his appearance. Whatever he wore out the door in the morning, whatever he looked like when he went to bed at night – as long as he was weather-appropriate and hygienic, Greta had to let it go.
“What’re you doing?” Greta asked, joining him on the bed.
John’s head popped up and he inched closer to the wall. “Reading,” he said. “It’s my homework. I have to have this book finished by tomorrow.”
He closed the book for a moment and Greta saw the title. Jacob Gray Wants a Dog. A banner across the front of the book announced in thick black letters: I Can Read! Step 1, For Emergent Readers, Grades Pre-K – K.
“Can you read it to me?” Greta asked.
John shrugged and re-opened the book. He took a deep breath and placed his finger under the first word.
John read slowly. “I…do…I…do…want…him. I…will…take…cay-…cay-…care…of…him.”
He glanced up expectantly to see Greta’s face and she beamed. “Great job!” she acclaimed.
John continued. “I…will…give…h
im…food…to…eat.”
Greta smiled again, trying to quell the growing unease she felt as she heard him read words strung together for children half his age. It wasn’t just his slow pace but the fact that he was now four months into his IEP and clearly relying on his old tactics, reciting one-syllable words he had previously memorized at a glacial pace.
When John finished the book, Greta smiled, heaped praise on him for the effort, and then took the book in her hands. She pointed to the word on the cover’s banner: Emergent.
“Can you tell me what that says?” Greta asked. She knew it wasn’t a word he had seen before, but it was a word that could be sounded out. There weren’t any silent letters or deviations from known rules. The hard ‘g’ might be a struggle but everything else was guessable.
John looked at the word just off the edge of her fingernail and then looked back at her. “I can’t read that,” he said.
“Just try it,” Greta urged.
John pushed her finger aside and stared at the word. “It says…” he brought the book up to his face and stared harder. “Muh…Muh…mutt.”
“Well, what’s the first sound?” Greta asked.
John looked at her curiously.
“The first sound is ‘em’, right? E. M,” Greta continued. “Em…em…emergent. Do you see?”
Despite her intentions to buoy his schooling, to nudge him forward, Greta could hear herself and knew how she sounded: pushy instead of patient, judgmental instead of unfailingly supportive. She wasn’t surprised when John threw Jacob Gray Wants a Dog on the floor and thrust his covers over his head.
The book landed with a clatter on the hardwood and Greta responded by placing it gently on his backpack and rolling his desk chair to the side of the bed. She would respect his desire for space and sit a few feet away from him.
“It’s alright, John. You’ll get this down. I can tell you’re working hard and that’s what matters.”
“No I won’t.” John’s voice was muffled from underneath the covers. Then he pulled them back and sat up. “Bryce Lipnowski says I’m stupid. Today he called me ‘brainless Johnny Broccoli’ and the whole class laughed.”
“What?” Greta was furious. “I can’t believe he said that! Tomorrow I’m going to call his mother.”
“You can’t call his mother, Mom.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s embarrassing. If you call, I’ll wish I hadn’t said anything to you. And also, it’s not just him. It’s the whole class. They call me John Broccoli instead of Brock because they say my brain is the size of broccoli.”
A million thoughts flooded Greta’s mind. Her first instinct was to teach him how to fight back, to call out the weaknesses of his classmates. Surely Bryce Lipnowski and his classmates had flaws – and John could learn to counter-punch with a caustic jab that could take the heat off of him and onto them.
But she hesitated because it wasn’t him. John was sweet and curious, imaginative and kindhearted. She had never heard him tease another kid and she didn’t want him to start because she’d encouraged him to. It wasn’t his personality to make fun of someone else and that made his vulnerability all the more crushing.
“You know, Johnny, a lot of successful people struggled when they were younger. Visionaries, leaders, CEOs, politicians, artists…so many of them were just like you. They learned how to cope with their issues and how to think outside the box…and that’s why they’re so successful today.”
John didn’t say anything so she continued.
“And John, you are so smart. Don’t listen to those kids in the class. They have no idea what they’re talking about. You have a lot of potential and you’re going to do great in life, I have no doubt.”
John flopped down on his bed, his head crashing on the pillow like a paperweight. He gave no indication that her words had sunk in or that he’d even heard them. Instead he leaned over, produced a frog-shaped stuffed animal from the area between the mattress and the wall and flung it on the floor. “I’m too old for that,” he declared.
“Did you hear what I said, John?” Greta pressed.
John moaned and writhed a few times in his bed. “Can’t we change the subject?” he asked.
“Okay…sure,” Greta said. “Do you remember our plans for the weekend?”
John appeared to like the new subject. His face lit up. “Yeah! Mr. Tuck is going to help me with baseball practice!”
“That’s right. And then you have a game on Saturday.”
He nodded and traced the line of red lettering on his St. Louis Cardinal-branded sheets. Then he looked up and asked, “Who drives the yellow car?”
Greta frowned and leaned forward. “What do you mean, John? Which yellow car?”
“The yellow car that got into an accident. When I was six years old. Who drives it?”
Greta was completely taken aback. “You remember that?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t sleeping in the back seat. I remember it. Who drives it?”
“Well…I don’t know, John. I haven’t thought about that accident in years.”
It was a lie – well delivered without the faintest pause. Greta had thought a lot about that accident in the years since – who the two men were and how they related to Griffin. But for the sake of mollifying John and leaving the past in the past, she acted like the accident was nothing. Just a blip in that crazy February night when he’d come down with croup and had to be rushed to Children’s Hospital.
“Are you ready for bed now, John?” Greta asked. It was late and she was ready for bed, eager to tuck him in, help herself to a half-glass of red wine and then call it a night. A lot had been discussed – from the mean kids at school to the yellow Ferrari. She wasn’t sure if it was a stalling tactic or if he felt the need to purge his thoughts on this night, for some particular reason.
She stood up from the chair, tousled his hair and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Good-night, sweet boy.”
“Mom, why do we spend so much time with Mr. Tuck?” John asked when she was perched over him. “He comes by like every weekend and plays baseball with me. Why does he do that and not Dad?”
Greta sighed, resumed her position in the rolling desk chair and thought about how to answer John. Whether stalling or genuine, his question deserved an answer.
Since first meeting Tuck at Lucroy, Broxton & Hill, Greta had become romantically involved with him. She never intended to start a relationship before her divorce was finalized but it was one of those non-prescribed things that sort of happened.
In early March, Tuck had stopped by with some paperwork on a rare evening when John was with his father. She had offered Tuck a glass of wine and they talked for hours. It was clear they both wanted more than friendship but they were unsure how to proceed, or even whether they should. Greta was concerned about jumping into anything too soon and Tuck had doubts about dating one of his firm’s clients.
Just before he walked out the door, they made promises to each other. They would take things slowly and with caution. They would start with a friendship and see if anything blossomed from there when the time was right.
Then Tuck leaned forward to give her a hug and they began passionately, fervently kissing – tossing aside everything they had just proclaimed. For Greta, it was the culmination of years of pent-up distance – a marriage started when she was too young, then years of being ignored by her husband.
The kissing continued for ten minutes but then Greta prodded him towards the door. It was too much, she insisted. She needed some time.
But it only took a few days for Greta to realize this was something she really wanted. Soon there were other nights – nights Tuck stopped by after John was asleep, evenings he encouraged her to get a babysitter and meet up with him for dinner. Before long, they were seriously dating and he was integrated into her life with John – all in the span of two months.
Greta was caught up in the deliriousness of it all – a love affair, a positive ro
le model for her son, and a partner to talk to. She hadn’t stopped to think about how the hasty addition to their family structure was affecting John. At least, not until he asked.
“We spend time with Tuck because he likes spending time with us,” Greta answered. “Your dad does too but he’s very busy with his job. He sees us every chance he gets. Is it confusing for you?”
John nodded. “Yeah, sometimes it’s like I have two dads.”
“Well you should consider yourself very lucky. I wish I had even one parent. My dad died a long time ago and my mom—” Greta caught herself and stood up to leave the room. She could feel her face flush at the last memory of her mother. “Good night, John.”
“Wait!’ John called out. “You didn’t finish what you were saying. What about your mom?”
Greta was halfway to the door but she stopped. The room was still mostly dark and she faced the closet to ensure John wouldn’t be able to see her face…although he could still hear the fluctuation in her voice.
“My mom was a lovely woman…is a lovely woman,” Greta said. “Did you know that you were named after her?”
“Yeah. You told me that already. You said that one day I’d meet her.”
Tears formed in the corners of Greta’s eyes. “I said that, huh? Well I hope so.”
“What happened?” John asked. “Where is she?”
“It’s too late to talk about it right now,” Greta answered. “But one day I’ll explain it.” She tiptoed out of John’s room and made her way to the wine cabinet. She needed just a half a glass to take the edge off of the night.
All The Hidden Pieces Page 7