Raising Connor

by Loree Lough

  “I believe you,” he said. “But there’s still an elephant in the room.”

  He wasn’t totally convinced she was fit to raise Connor, but he wasn’t sure he was, either.

  Soon it would be up to professionals who earned a living making decisions like that. If the gavel fell in his favor, Hunter would include Brooke at every stage of Connor’s life. If it landed on her side, he hoped she’d do the same.

  She had built a tower of vanilla wafers, and Connor wasted no time toppling it. Normally, it would have kindled a fit of giggles. When it didn’t, Hunter decided two o’clock couldn’t get here soon enough.

  “Would you believe I have a friend,” she said, restacking cookies, “who works at the National Zoo in Baltimore?”

  “The zoo,” he echoed. What did that have to do with anything? “Sorry. I’m a little dense before my first cup of java.”

  “I’m sure he’ll help us get rid of it. The elephant, that is.”

  So her friend was a he. Did she know any women? Not that it mattered, since Connor was the magnet that held them together.

  “Pancakes,” the baby said. “Conner want pancakes.”

  “No, sweetie,” she said, “Uncle Hunter doesn’t have time for that.”

  And Connor pouted. “Pancakes?”

  “It’s no trouble,” Hunter said. “I froze the leftovers last time I made him breakfast. It’ll only take a minute to nuke ’em.” He kissed the top of Connor’s head. “Pancakes coming up, buddy.”

  “He already had oatmeal,” Brooke said. “But I guess it’s okay. Just this once.”

  He pulled a zipper bag from the freezer and emptied the contents onto a paper plate.

  “I hope Dr. Rosen can help us,” she continued, “because I’m at my wits’ end trying to figure out how to make him happy.”

  Hopefully, family court would soon relieve her of that obligation.

  Hunter set the microwave timer as Connor held a cookie near Brooke’s lips. She took a tiny bite. “Yum!” she said. “Thank you!” But not even her exuberance inspired a smile.

  She looked at Hunter. “Two o’clock can’t get here soon enough for me.”

  Great minds think alike?

  “My mom spent months in therapy after Dad died,” he said, “and nearly quit half a dozen times because things weren’t happening fast enough to suit her.”

  “Depression, huh?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “How long were your folks married when…before he passed?”

  “Forty-two years.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  The microwave dinged, startling them both.

  They shared a quiet chuckle, and as he cut up a pancake for Connor, Hunter said, “I only brought it up to make the point that we shouldn’t expect too much from the first couple of sessions.” He dropped the squares one by one onto the high-chair tray.

  “Dr. Rosen’s office is near the mall in Columbia. What time do you think we should leave?”

  “One-thirty ought to get us there in plenty of time.”

  She nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Hunter tensed. “Can’t promise I’ll answer, but…shoot.”

  “I’m surprised that you didn’t ask how long Donald stayed last night.”

  “That’s a statement, not a question.” And when that left brow rose, he added, “I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

  He already knew that the sleek convertible had been parked at the curb until well past one. It shouldn’t matter what Donald did. Or what she did…unless it affected Connor. But it mattered. A lot. And he had no idea why.

  “After he left, I read Beth’s diary.”

  He’d never heard Beth mention a diary. “Didn’t realize she was into journaling.”

  “Neither did I.” She sighed. “Just one more thing I didn’t know about her.” Brooke went to the sink, turned on the water and grabbed the sprayer nozzle. “It’s sort of your fault that I found it.”

  “My fault…”

  “Well, I got to wondering why you brought your own wineglasses over. I knew Beth had her own someplace, so I went looking for them. They were still in the original boxes on a pantry shelf. And right on top, her diary.”

  Her voice cracked on that last syllable. Because reading it eased the pain of losing her sister…or added to it?

  “Did you know that Kent was jealous of my relationship with Beth?”

  A pang of guilt shot through him. “Yeah, I kind of suspected.”

  “Well, it came as a total shocker to me. I would have expected to read about the way she and I used to squabble over…”

  She bit her lower lip, and Hunter knew why: he had been the cause of most—if not all—of the sisters’ arguments.

  “So what was it like,” she asked, “growing up with three older brothers?”

  It was odd, hearing her alter the subject for a change.

  “I took my share of big-brother bullying, and by the time their hand-me-downs made it into my closet, the other kids thought I was trying to set new trends.” He laughed at the memory. “Mostly, though, it was good. Real good.”

  “Sounds like you looked up to them.”

  “Still do.” He winced. “For the most part.”

  Brooke stopped chewing. “You mean…you didn’t want to be a policeman, like the rest of them?”

  He didn’t think anyone, not even his mom, knew that. How had she figured it out from the little he’d told her?

  “From the time I was old enough to hold a hammer, I wanted to be a carpenter, like my grandpa. My mom’s father taught me everything I know. Including how to run a business.” He had never admitted that out loud, not even to himself. Did her sudden silence mean she thought he was using this minor disappointment as a way to excuse his part in her mother’s death? As if he could forget, even if he didn’t picture her mother every time he looked into Brooke’s eyes…eyes the exact same shade of brown as her mom’s.

  A minute, maybe two, passed before she said, “As long as we’re admitting things—”

  His heart tensed, wondering what she might say.

  “—when I was talking to my new boss this morning, she said all the right things—that I should take my time, as much as I need—but of course she didn’t mean it. And I can’t say I blame her. I was a floor nurse years ago, and scheduling was my biggest headache. My new boss hinted around, hoping I’d have some idea when I could start. But with Connor in the shape he’s in…”

  “The Is are dotted and the Ts are crossed,” he said. “You worried he’ll get worse in day care?”

  “In a word, yes. Beth was a good mom, maybe a little too good. She sheltered him so much that he’d probably have trouble adapting to day care even if she hadn’t…”

  Hunter wondered how long it would be before any of them could say the word: died.

  “I have a friend who heads up the day-care program at Hopkins,” he said. “Don’t know much about the place, but if I know Stacy, it’s great. Want me to give her a call? Set up a meeting? If she’s available, maybe you can meet with her after we’ve had a chance to meet with Dr. Rosen.”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Okay, but—”

  “Don’t worry about Connor,” he said, looking at his cell phone and scrolling to Stacy’s number. “If she can’t see you today, I’ll keep an eye on him. Whenever.”

  Nodding, she frowned. “But what if Dr. Rosen says day care is too much for him to handle right now?” She shuddered. “I can keep the wolf from the door for eight or ten months, but what if that isn’t enough?”

  She must be under a lot of pressure to voice her concerns…to him of all people.

  “How about we cross that bridge when we get to it?”

  Okay. So she loved Connor. Enough to give up her career if necessary. Enough to run through her savings to do right by him. But her hands were trembling and her voice shook; if she got this rattled before meeting with Rosen
, how would she behave when Connor got older, and doing normal boy stuff that might land him in the E.R.?

  Until this moment, he hadn’t considered that his adopting Connor might relieve her of an enormous burden. Suddenly, he felt less like an ogre.

  “Guess I’d better get him home,” she said, “so he can get some sleep before the appointment.”

  “He always sleeps in the car,” Hunter reminded her. “Worst-case scenario, he’ll catch a twenty-minute nap on the way over.”

  Brooke shot him a look that was somewhere between astonishment and a scowl, and he read it to mean that she didn’t like taking child-care advice from a bachelor. He started to explain when Connor started squawking. Hunter could hardly blame the little guy. He’d been perfectly content sipping juice and eating pancakes and vanilla wafers.

  “Why don’t you leave him here with me?” he suggested as she removed the high chair tray. “You said yourself that he kept you up half the night. Go home. Catch a few Zs. I’ll give him a bath, then take him for a drive. The purr of that motor always puts him right to sleep. We could pick you up at, say, 1:15?”

  “I don’t need a nap,” Brooke said, zipping the baby’s sweatshirt jacket. “And there’s no need to pick us up. We’ll meet you here, and we’ll leave at one-thirty, as planned.”

  With that, Brooke carried the baby out the door and down the porch steps. She didn’t put Connor into his stroller. Instead, she rolled it behind her and half ran toward the Sheridans’ house, as if trying to outrun a criminal.

  He cringed slightly, because in her mind, he was that criminal.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STACY COULDN’T MEET with Brooke after the appointment with Dr. Rosen, but she did have a half hour between Book Time and Art the following afternoon. Brooke arrived ten minutes early and, rather than interrupt story hour, sat quietly on a purple plastic stool, leafing through a Golden Book. Remembering how she’d felt before talking with the psychologist, Brooke empathized with the little Billy goat, facing the ogre on the bridge. As it turned out, her fears had been unnecessary. With any luck, the meeting with Stacy would go just as well.

  Connor was far too young, the doctor said, to be told that his parents had been killed. He’d seen dead worms in the flowerbeds and dead bugs on the sidewalk, but at his age, he couldn’t understand that in death the body ceases to function. And it wasn’t at all unusual, Rosen added, for children who once slept well—like Connor—to have trouble falling asleep. Or staying asleep. Those with healthy appetites might develop an aversion to food, and cheerful kids could become sullen.

  And Deidre had been right, the doctor said, insisting that they bring Connor to the funeral. Though he couldn’t fully comprehend the meaning of loss and mourning, memories of these days would help him cope years down the road. “Even the youngest infants remember their parents,” the doctor had said. “It’s a powerful bond, and believe me, they notice when something as permanent as death interferes with it.”

  To avoid attachment disorder—which could result in an inability to trust people in the future—it was important for Brooke, Hunter and Deidre to give Connor as much attention and affection as possible, particularly when he acted out with tantrums and crying jags. Above all, it was imperative that they keep change to a minimum. “Stick to routines, like baths and meals and bedtime,” the doctor said, “and if at all possible, don’t expose him to something as out of the realm of his routine as day care. At least not until we see how he progresses during the next few months.”

  Brooke had kept her meeting with Stacy for two reasons. One, out of gratitude that she’d set aside time on such short notice, and two, to get Connor’s name on the waiting list. That way, when he was ready, she could trust that his environment would be safe and the staff reliable.

  A little boy sneaked away from the reading circle and peered over Brooke’s shoulder.

  “Hi,” he said. “My name’s Tony. Who are you?”

  “Nice to meet you, Tony. I’m Brooke.”

  “You should get a different book. That’s a dumb story.”

  Smiling, she met his dark eyes. “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “Well, first of all,” he began, crossing both arms over his chest, “there’s no such thing as talking goats. And there’s no such thing as ogres, either.”

  “You make some very good points,” she admitted. Before changing her major to nursing, she’d considered teaching English, and during her college literature class, Brooke read the original story, translated in 1859 by George Webbe Dasent in the collection Norske Folkeeventyr. “I wonder what lesson the writer was trying to teach children?” she asked, leaning toward Tony.

  “That grown-ups think kids like boring stories?”

  Brooke laughed, and before she could share her opinion, he added, “Did anybody ever take something that was yours?”

  A schoolyard bully had stolen her two-wheeler. Her Richmond neighbor regularly “borrowed” the morning paper. An ingénue had stolen Donald. But Brooke couldn’t explain all that to a five-year-old boy.

  “Someone took something of yours?”

  Tony glared and pointed at the little blonde front and center in the story circle. “That’s Madison,” he said. “She thinks everything is hers. This morning, she took my dollar. And I was going to use it to buy a book from the book lady.”

  “That wasn’t very nice. I wonder what made Madison do such a thing,” Brooke said. “Did you tell your teacher?”

  “No. Because my mom told me to be nice to Madison. She said Madison is acting out because her mom got in a car wreck last month.”

  Brooke thought of Connor acting out his frustrations over his mother’s accident in a completely different way.

  “You’re a sweet boy to be so kind and patient with Madison.” She couldn’t tell him to try and empathize with the girl. Doing that would only give the poor kid nightmares and who knew what else. “I’m sure Madison will be nice again after a while. But I’m also sure it wasn’t easy for you letting her get away with taking your book money.”

  He pouted, looking at Madison, but when his gaze met Brooke’s his expression brightened. “But it’s okay. I can always get another dollar. She’ll never get her mommy back.”

  Brooke’s hand tightened on her purse.

  She opened it, handed Tony two crisp one-dollar bills. “You deserve two books,” she said. “One for being such a thoughtful boy and one for not being mean to Madison.”

  “Wow,” he said, grinning. “Thanks, Miss Brooke!”

  A pretty young woman approached. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss O’Toole.” She held out a hand. “I’m Stacy, Hunter’s friend?”

  “Please, call me Brooke. And you didn’t keep me waiting—I got here early. Thanks to this young man,” she said, winking at Tony, “the time passed quickly.”

  “This young man,” Stacy said, smiling, “should be over there, drawing a picture to explain what this morning’s story was about.”

  Tony pocketed his dollar bills. “I’ve heard Never Tease a Weasel, like, a hundred times.” He trudged toward the big round table where his classmates sat scribbling. “And anyways, I never drawed a weasel before.”

  “Drew a weasel,” Stacy corrected. But Tony didn’t hear her, because he’d already grabbed a box of crayons from his cubby and started on his picture. Facing Brooke, she said, “Do you mind if we talk in there?” Stacy led the way to the small glass-walled office that connected four classrooms. “My assistant had a dentist’s appointment this morning, so I’m keeping an eye on her kids, too, just for a few hours.”

  She cleared a stack of file folders from the chair beside her desk and as Brooke sat down added, “I heard the tail end of your conversation with Tony. If you ever want to leave nursing, you’d be perfect for this job. I love the way you helped him see Madison’s point of view!”

  “I asked a couple of questions. Tony did the rest himself.”

  “Oh, trust me. You did more than that. A lot more. You’
re a natural with kids.”

  It felt good hearing a child expert say such a thing. Maybe she could get Connor over this hump and help him transition into life without his mom and dad. It would help him adjust to a setting like this, too, and at the park, or anywhere he’d interact with other kids…when he was ready.

  “Don’t mind me,” Stacy said, laughing. “As Hunter can tell you, I have a tendency to dream out loud.”

  Few things could have surprised Brooke more than the jolt of envy that shot through her at the suggestion that Hunter and this lovely young woman had been more than friends. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Stacy launched into a recitation of a typical day at the facility, handing Brooke page after page of information as she talked: drop-off and pickup times, payment options, immunization requirements, and permission forms she’d have to fill out and sign before Connor’s first day of school.

  Brooke explained what Dr. Rosen had said, and asked if filing the paperwork now would save time when Connor was ready to enroll. Comforted by the young woman’s assurances, she said, “Sounds like you love this work.”

  “Oh, I do,” Stacy said, “I really do! And you know, it’s funny, because I wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for Hunter.”

  “Oh?”

  “Once upon a time, he and I had a ‘thing.’” Grinning, she leaned closer. “The truth is, I’m the one who had a ‘thing.’” Stacy laughed again. “He’s a sweetheart, don’t get me wrong. But…I wanted the whole nine yards. Fairy-tale wedding, island honeymoon, then home to a house with a white picket fence that we’d fill up with chubby-cheeked kids. Hunter? I think the only time we exchanged cross words was when I forced him to admit that he didn’t want any such thing.”

  Didn’t want a life like that with Stacy? Or with anyone, ever?

  Stacy laid a hand on Brooke’s forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t look so surprised, hon! I think I knew all along that I wasn’t his type. And as it turns out, he wasn’t what I was looking for, either.”