By Appointment Only

by Lisa Eugene

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.” I started toward the door.

  “If you walk out of here, do not come back.”

  The words struck my back with such force that my steps faltered. I turned to face Marie, a tremor shaking through me. I felt my face crumble.

  “Marie, please . . . I have to go. She’s my little girl . . .”

  Marie’s lips pulled into a hard, thin line. “We have tables full of customers. You get the fuck back to work.”

  There was nothing more to be said. I pivoted and crossed the room to my locker, grabbing my handbag and coat. Without a word, I walked out the back door.

  Gladys was still outside when I stepped into the early winter morning. My friend’s eyes widened with concern when she saw me carrying my coat.

  “Sorry, Gladys. Potty time is over.” I tried to lighten my voice, but knew Gladys saw right through me.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Long story.” I shrugged. “I gotta go get Emmy.”

  She nodded her understanding, about to stomp out her cigarette. I stole the butt from her fingers and took a long drag. The dry heat felt good in my lungs, smothering the cloying stench of my employer.

  Gladys knew Marie’s temper, and I could tell from the look on her face she’d guessed what just happened. She hugged me hard and disappeared inside, not quick enough to conceal the soft pity in her eyes.

  I headed toward my car, biting my lip so hard I thought I’d draw blood. I blinked and blinked, determined not to cry. I wasn’t going to cry.

  I didn’t cry when I got pregnant at eighteen, I didn’t cry when I had to get married, I didn’t cry when my daughter was found to be developmentally delayed and later diagnosed with autism. I didn’t cry when I’d walked in on my asshole husband screwing our neighbor on our kitchen table, and I wasn’t going to cry now.

  My toe throbbed in my sneaker. I refused to ease off of it. I’d grown used to pain. I refused to limp. I was stronger than that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I dug a half empty pack of Marlboros from the glove of my beat-up Nissan. By the time I reached the Rutherford Academy, I’d inhaled about three smokes. They did nothing to soothe me. In fact, I was still so enraged that a slight tremor shook through my fingers. My annoyance ballooned when I was forced to park two blocks away from the entrance of the school.

  For some reason, the front of the building was cordoned off with large orange pylons, yellow tape, and neon No Parking signs. I shrugged into my coat and started walking at a fast clip, trying hard not to limp. A cool wind kicked up the edge of my knee length dress and destroyed my ponytail. As I got closer, I noticed news vans and trucks from local TV stations parked outside the school and wondered what was going on.

  Several men in suits were stationed at the entrance as though waiting for someone. They gave me a cursory once over before asking for ID and allowing me to pass through the large glass doors. In the shiny lobby, I was met by two nervous secretaries who immediately ushered me up a flight of stairs. Already Emmy’s high-pitched screams could be heard bouncing off the walls, making my heart wrench.

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked with a frown as we pushed through the stairwell door. I rushed forward, not waiting for an answer. Any length of time was too long.

  The first person I saw was Mrs. Nancy, Emmy’s music teacher, standing in the hall wringing her hands with worry. The kind, middle-aged woman was usually full of smiles and praise for Emmy’s achievements, but today her face was tense with alarm.

  The teacher offered me a look of consideration but I kept moving, following the noise shooting down the hall. The sight of Emmy had me swearing beneath my breath. Her slight frame was huddled in a corner, her back plastered against the wall. She had her arms wrapped tight around her tiny waist as she belted out piercing screams.

  What immediately struck me was how disheveled my daughter looked. Emmy was fastidious about neatness, sometimes obsessing over the slightest wrinkle in her skirt, or a stray hair. Now her dark, soft waves were a tangled mess around her head and her dress askew. Three men hulked over her. The one in the middle, who I recognized as Mr. Clancy, was demanding she be quiet.

  Idiots!

  I pushed through them and approached my daughter. They would never get her to calm this way.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Mr. Clancy exhaled relief. “I was about to—”

  I shot him a look that slaughtered his words, not giving a rat’s ass that he looked imperiously offended. I moved in close to Emmy and our gazes met briefly. Some of the fear evaporated from her eyes, but she kept screaming. The tormented sound landed somewhere inside me, twisting and tunneling deep. I wanted to pull Emmy into my arms, but she would never allow that now.

  I talked to her softly, focusing only on her pale, little face. I assured her she was safe, that everything was okay. Emmy seemed not to hear, but eventually longer intervals snuck in between each screech. I trained my voice to a quiet whisper, projecting a calm I didn’t feel.

  It was about fifteen minutes later when Emmy finally quieted. Her gaze sought mine and an angelic smile slowly pulled up the corners of her lips. Emmy rarely spoke, and her smiles were just as scarce. The only sounds she ever made were high-pitched screams when she was upset or scared, and on occasion, inarticulate grunts. But her face could tell a story. Her eyes, on the rare occasion she made full eye contact, spoke the poetry of her heart. And when Emmy smiled, my entire world lit up.

  I pulled her close, my lips brushing her forehead. Emmy didn’t return the hug, but laid her cheek flat against my bosom. My plaguing worries and heavy burdens receded into the background. Nothing mattered except for my daughter. It was always like this when I was gifted a smile. A part of my heart opened and nothing but happiness and love flowed inside.

  I longed for more moments like this, moments when I could temporarily lose myself to emotion and forget the troubles of my world.

  Footsteps sounded behind me, followed by the urgency of quick whispers. Panicked voices caused me to turn. Two of the men in suits from the front of the building spoke to Mr. Clancy.

  “Mr. Rutherford’s ETA is ten minutes, sir,” one of the men informed.

  My anger ignited as I watched Mr. Clancy visibly pale. The joy I’d felt moments ago evaporated in a puff of irritation. Understanding dawned, and it was all I could do to keep myself from spontaneously combusting. Now I knew why all the news vans and trucks were outside, why I had to park almost a mile away from the damn school, why everyone around here looked as nervous as an overfed turkey before Thanksgiving, and why they wanted to be rid of my daughter.

  “Is that what all this is about?” I demanded incredulously, my voice thrown at Mr. Clancy. “Is that why you ordered me down here? Because Mr. Rutherford is visiting the school?”

  Mr. Clancy stared, his glasses perched on the very tip of his bony nose. I caught Mrs. Nancy on the fringe of my vision and asked her to take Emmy to the classroom to collect her backpack. Mrs. Nancy shot me an understanding smile then took Emmy’s hand. We all waited, the air thickening with tension until the click of the classroom door was heard.

  “Do you understand who Mr. Rutherford is?” Mr. Clancy asked haughtily.

  I straightened my spine and took a step toward the obnoxious man. “I don’t give a damn if he is the president of the United States. I will not have my daughter herded out of this school like unruly cattle you need hidden away.”

  “She was disrupt—”

  “If your staff had taken the time, or had the patience to follow my instructions, this situation could’ve been avoided.”“She bit—”

  “Someone probably got in her face, or tried to manhandle her. I would’ve bitten them, too!” I exclaimed hotly. “I left specific instructions how to handle her episodes. This has never been a problem before.”Mr. Clancy was livid now, his entire face a blustery red. “We do not ‘manhandle’ students! We simply do not have the time, or the staff today to dedic
ate to one student’s tantrum.”

  “My daughter does not have tantrums. This is how she sometimes expresses herself, you idiot!”

  A collective gasp sounded behind me that I chose to ignore while feet shuffled restlessly. I guess it wasn’t often that someone put Mr. Clancy in his place.

  Mr. Clancy’s eyes simmered with pure hatred. “How dare you speak to me that way.”

  “I only speak the truth! What the hell kind of school is this? Some big-wig comes to visit and you all lose your damn minds?”

  “It’s not just any visitor, Ms. Carmichael. Mr. Rutherford owns the school and is holding a press conference, which includes a tour of the facilities. We cannot have your daughter screaming in the hallway,” Mr. Clancy stated, as though that justified their incompetence.

  “I don’t give a shit about a press conference, or Mr. Rutherfucker! I’m appalled at the way my daughter is being treated. You scared her half to death. I’d bet if she was the daughter of one of your wealthy patrons, this would’ve been handled differently.” It was all I could do to keep my voice contained, but I didn’t want to take a chance of Emmy or any other student hearing me.

  “That isn’t true,” Mr. Clancy replied quickly. “Classes will resume as scheduled tomorrow. I’m sure after you calm down, you’ll understand the necessity of our actions. Now, please take your daughter and leave before she starts up again.”

  Apart from his anger that I was still standing there, the administrator didn’t seem the least bit remorseful about the insensitivity of the school, or how poorly this situation was being handled. I balled my hands into fists. He should be kissing my ass with apologies.

  I considered telling him I’d been fired today because he’d demanded I come down to the school, that I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do without a job, that I was barely getting by as it was, but I knew that would mean nothing to him. All he cared about was Mr. Rutherford’s imminent arrival and his damned press conference. His boss was probably as big an asshole as he was.

  In fact, I was wasting my breath. My words were innocuous, falling without impact on deaf ears. Anger stiffened my spine, but I felt so beat-up I just wanted to take my daughter and go home. Everything was a fight, a struggle—the story of my damn life. I thanked God for my little girl. Emmy was my one ray of light. My heart. And I would fight like hell to do right by her, to make sure she wasn’t taken advantage of, or treated like less of a human being because she was different.

  But today I felt like someone had pulled the stopper on my endurance. Energy steadily drained out of me, circling its way out and leaving me empty.

  “I’m parked two blocks away and it’s chilly out. I won’t have Emmy walking that far. I’ll bring the car up,” I informed.

  Mr. Clancy puffed out his relief, motioning wildly to the other staff members. “Yes, yes, certainly. Mrs. Nancy will meet you at the back of the school. We can’t risk the girl having a fit in front of the press.”Is he for real? I’d just about had it. I leaned in, shaking a finger in his face.

  “I will be parked directly in front of this school, damn you! And maybe I’ll give a press conference of my own, telling those reporters a thing or two about how shitty this school treats its students.”

  Mr. Clancy’s lips pursed into a pucker that I thought would crush the bones of his face. He exchanged worried looks with the men standing behind us. For the first time, he looked alarmed, finally taking me seriously. I resisted a smug smile, sick of being discarded, of being looked at like scum by people like him.

  Now he realized just how potentially explosive I could be and the trouble I could cause them. Good! I was a fucking stick of dynamite. And he looked like that stick had just been shoved up his stuck-up ass. I walked passed him, immensely pleased by his constipated expression.

  My anger had cooled somewhat by the time I’d walked to my car. Driving over the pylons and crushing the neon signs offered marginal relief. I pulled up in front of the school, my vehicle a rusted tin can in a parking lot of shiny, expensive metal. My toe still screamed with pain, but I shoved that awareness someplace deep, determined to deal with one crisis at a time.

  Emmy wasn’t downstairs. Getting out of my car, I waited at the entrance. Tapping out a cigarette, I lit up and puffed out a few warm breaths. I leaned back against the cold stone and huddled into my short coat, hiding from the wind. I needed to calm down. Emmy could astutely read my mood and I didn’t want her seeing me like this.

  The smooth purr of an engine drew my attention, and I turned just as a car pulled up in front of mine. It wasn’t just a car. The pristine, navy-blue Bentley looked like it’d just rolled out of the showroom. The luxury vehicle probably cost more than I’d made in the last five years.

  The door pushed open and a man unfolded from the car. He was so tall it seemed to take a full minute for my gaze to travel from the tips of his shiny Italian shoes to the top of his dark head. He wasn’t just tall, he was broad, solid, and imposing. He carried himself like he owned the world and commanded everything in it.

  Even before the glass doors of the building flew open and people came rushing out to kiss his feet, I knew the man could be none other than Mr. Rutherfucker, himself. I hated him instantly. The sight of his stern features and the arrogant tilt of his chin had my anger sizzling anew.

  I’d seen him a few times on TV, but never in person. I didn’t know much about him except that he’d been on the board of some large corporation, and was now running for mayor of New York City. I never paid attention to politics or the news. My life was eventful enough without wallowing in the tribulations of the world, but I’d heard his name occasionally spill out of conversation at the diner.

  Rutherford Academy had a reputation as a top-notch facility for educating children with disabilities. How could this man employ staff who acted so despicably? What did this school really stand for?

  I’d expected the owner to be an older man, but he appeared to be in his late thirties. A short man with a clipboard spoke rapidly to him, then murmured into a headset. It disgusted me the way people fluttered around him, treating him like he had liquid gold flowing through his veins instead of blood. What made him better than anyone else? What made his staff think they could treat people like shit?

  I took a drag of my cigarette and slowly blew away the smoke, watching it curl then disappear into the air. One of the men walked slowly around my car, giving it a curious inspection. He cupped his palms over his eyes and spied into the window before straightening to looked around the lot. I wasn’t surprised when his scowl settled on me.

  “That your car?” the security guard asked, stalking toward me.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re not authorized to be here,” he informed roughly.

  I inhaled. “Who says?”

  “Didn’t you see the signs? The pylons?”

  I had. I’d run over them and rejoiced as they crunched beneath my wheels.

  “You have to leave. Now.”

  I took my time responding, blowing a lazy halo of smoke into the air.

  “Make me.”

  The man’s eyes widened in brief surprise. His face tightened.

  Mr. Rutherford and his entourage started toward the entrance, and something boiled over inside me.

  Blowing away a cloudy breath, I heard myself shout, “Your staff stinks! They don’t give a crap about the students here!”

  The man at the center of attention stopped abruptly. The entire group froze mid-motion like a stalled herd of sheep, wide-eyed and addled.

  I watched as Mr. Rutherford pivoted slowly, seeking out the cause of the disturbance. His crystal blue gaze found and bore into me. He had a daunting presence, but I straightened my spine and stood my ground. I held his steely gaze as he approached, dreading the distance shortening between us. Taking a breath, I resisted the urge to shrink away from his potent aura.

  Stopping directly in front of me, he made a thorough sweep up my body. I could see him cataloguing my Tar
get sneakers and ankle socks, polyester dress, and short, second-hand, wool jacket. My hair was a mess, stray locks holding on to the wind.

  When his gaze returned to my face, I saw it. The disdain. The superiority. He regarded me as though I was nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe, and that more than anything carved a fissure in glass that was already fragile.

  “What did you say?” he asked calmly. His voice was deep, rich, demanding an answer.

  My heart beat through my chest.

  What the hell am I doing? Have I finally lost my mind?

  I was lucky Emmy had even gotten into this school. Why would I make this already bad situation even worse?

  Tasting my umbrage, I drew up self-righteously. I was doing what was right. Who the hell did these people think they were?

  “You heard me.” Shifting my weight onto my good foot, I swallowed nervously, throat suddenly dry. “My daughter was practically thrown out of your school today because they thought she’d be a disturbance during your press conference and tour. She’s autistic. No one took the time, or had the patience to deal with her appropriately. Instead, they antagonized her, then callously dismissed her. I think that’s appalling.”

  His brows rose slightly, but beyond that, his expression remained impassive.

  “What is your name?”

  I paused, arrested by the most intensely blue eyes I’d ever seen. “Danielle Carmichael.”

  Mr. Rutherford swung his head briefly to the reporters hovering in the distance, then toward the crowd at his back who now looked bewildered and astonished he was even giving me the time of day.

  The short man huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Chase, everyone is waiting! Tommy can handle—”

  Mr. Rutherford’s hand shot up, slicing through the air and instantly silencing the man who glared at me like I’d ruined his morning.

  Focused on my face, he scrubbed a palm across his square chin, and for a moment, I let a slither of hope weave through me. Maybe he would listen, maybe he’d be outraged by the egregious behavior of his staff. Maybe just once, I’d be heard, I’d get some measure of justice in a world that constantly tried to kick my ass. As he stared, my breath quickened with a strange anticipation, my body alternating between hot and cold. His gaze dropped to my cigarette.