The Quiet Child

by Debra Salonen

  A slight twinge in her stomach made Alex shift in her seat. Parents who volunteered to help a certain number of hours each month received a reduced rate for their child’s fee. Roberta Moorehouse was a beautiful woman who seemed to be vying for the title of CEO of motherhood. Her intensity wore Alex down faster than twenty kids on a sugar high.

  “The Moorehouse family went back east for Thanksgiving. Roberta offered to come in twice next week to make up.”

  Her sisters looked at each other and snickered.

  “Will Mark volunteer?” Liz asked.

  Alex hadn’t considered that possibility. “I don’t know. He hasn’t even enrolled his son, yet. Besides, the fee schedule is different for after-school students. Are we having breakfast?”

  After sharing a skillet of scrambled eggs, the three sisters went their separate ways, with Yetta accompanying Alex down the street to her house. They cut through the back gate to her private entrance. French doors led to her suite, which included a sitting room, kitchenette and large bath. The rest of the house—except for the small guest room that doubled as an office—was devoted to the Dancing Hippo, but this was Alex’s personal domain.

  “Alexandra, I’m worried about you,” her mother said before Alex could open the door. “You’ve been in my dreams lately. Something is shifting in your life, but I can’t tell if the change is for the good. How is your health?”

  Alex rested her shoulder against the stucco. Car engines and children’s laughter coming from the street told her it was almost time to become Miss Alex. Miss Alex didn’t have time for Gypsy mysticism—that was Grace’s thing.

  “Mom, the holidays are coming. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, the solstice—one major art project after another. Before you know it, we’ll be celebrating Cinco de Mayo again. I don’t have time to be sick, so I won’t. Period.”

  Her mother smiled, but there was worry in her eyes, too. “Does that mean you’re still going through with your plan?”

  Like any good mother, Yetta fretted when her child was in pain. Alex’s experience with recurrent ovarian cysts six years earlier had given them both a lot to worry about. Because the monthly agony had sent her to bed with strong drugs and a heating pad, Alex had gone along with her doctor’s suggestion that she have laparoscopic surgery to remove the seven-centimeter paratubal cyst that had been plaguing her.

  Unfortunately, the benign procedure had wound up costing Alex a small fortune when she’d developed a post-surgical infection. She’d been forced to return to the hospital for ten days of around-the-clock IV antibiotics, followed by several more weeks of out-patient treatment to pack and drain the inflamed incision. There had been talk of cosmetic surgery to fix the scar on her belly, but Alex had had enough of doctors and hospitals.

  Since that time, she’d been taking high-dosage birth-control pills to prevent ovulation. Current medical belief held that you could prevent the formation of cysts by keeping the ovaries from functioning. Only Yetta knew that Alex recently had stopped taking the pill.

  “Mom, we’ve been through this. I’ve weighed the benefits against the risks. I hate dumping all those hormones into my body every month. With luck, we’ll discover that my body is over that phase where it needed to grow annoying little cysts every month.”

  “I’m meddling, dear, aren’t I?” her mother asked. “I’m sorry. It’s the mother in me.”

  A twisting sensation in her pelvis—very close to her ovaries—made Alex wince. She hadn’t told anyone—even her mother—the other reason she’d stopped taking birth-control pills.

  Yetta opened the door and walked inside. “Did you have a particular story you wanted me to tell this morning?”

  Her mother occasionally filled in for Alex during the opening group session so Alex could catch up on paperwork. The children loved Yetta’s stories and songs. So had Alex as a child. Yetta was a wonderful mother. Alex hoped she’d be equally as good—sooner rather than later.

  The day disappeared in a blur. The usual runny noses and students who needed snuggling. One or two issues with glue during the construction paper–wreath art project. One bounced check and a tearfully contrite mom whose ex was late with child support. Not an uncommon story.

  Alex hadn’t given up on the idea of marriage and a two-parent family. Her sisters seemed to have found their ideal mates, but some days, after listening to three or four successive matrimonial horror stories, she couldn’t help but fear that her elusive Mr. Right was lost on some mysterious island.

  And she was tired of waiting. She’d stopped taking her prescribed birth-control pills not because of a fear of cancer, but because she wanted to have a baby.

  Liz and Paul were talking about adopting a child from India. It wouldn’t be long before Grace started nesting, and Kate’s new husband had openly expressed a desire to give Maya a baby brother or sister.

  With no potential mate on the horizon, Alex had decided she had to take matters into her own hands. Her doctor felt there was no reason why Alex’s one healthy ovary couldn’t provide a viable egg, which could be artificially inseminated.

  Now, it was just a matter of picking the right donor, she thought, studying the list of bios on her computer screen. She’d print a list of her top ten choices and try to make her final selection tonight.

  “Knock, knock,” a deep voice called from the doorway.

  Alex glanced up from her computer. The cheerful rainbow that framed the opening was a visual oxymoron to the pitch-black sky of late November that provided the backdrop for the man standing there. He was dressed all in black, too.

  “Come in,” she said, quickly exiting the Web site.

  She stood up and walked around her desk so she could see the youngster at his side.

  Practically swallowed up by a red down jacket, knitted cap and gloves, the boy seemed smaller than a seven-year-old. Like a toddler mannequin wearing big-kid clothes, she thought.

  His chin remained squished to his chest as she approached. “Welcome to the Dancing Hippo, Braden,” she said. “It’s nice and cozy in here. You can hang your coat on any of those pegs over there.” She pointed toward the small anteroom her students called Cubbyland.

  She waited to see if he would do as she requested or not. He didn’t budge until his father took his shoulders between his large hands and gently, but firmly, maneuvered Braden toward the cheerfully painted nook where each child had a wooden cubicle and hook. Above each box was a frame that held a sample of the student’s art.

  Braden stumbled slightly as he looked around. He removed his mittens and dropped them on the floor. His coat pooled at his feet, and he made no attempt to hang it up. He didn’t seem to notice that he still had his cap pulled low around his forehead, completely covering his hair and eyebrows.

  The red hat made his eyes stand out. Big and blue like his mother’s. The thick black lashes were Mark’s contribution, Alex guessed. At first glance, Braden didn’t look much like Mark, but she thought she detected certain similarities in his frame and the cast of his jaw.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Braden. My name is Miss Alex. Would you like to sit down or look around?”

  Two choices. Nice and simple.

  He looked at his father for guidance.

  “Let’s sit a minute, bud. I don’t know about you, but I’m pooped.”

  She pointed to the center of the sunshine-yellow rug that served as the meeting circle for group activities. Alex took her usual place atop a purple hippopotamus-shaped pillow. Mark sat a few feet away at the three-o’clock position. Braden either didn’t see or didn’t care about the line. He sat down slightly in front of his father.

  Alex folded her hands in her lap. “So, Braden, how old are you?”

  He didn’t acknowledge the question.

  “You know how old you are, Bray. Tell her.”

  Braden kept his focus on his shoes, but Alex had a feeling he was also looking at her. She found this encouraging and smiled at Mark.“Maybe Braden would like to do one of my
puzzles.” She stood up. “I have a really cool one at the table over by my desk. Will you come with me, Braden?”

  She squatted beside him and offered her hand. The little boy took it without looking up. She led him to the table and set him up with a large, bright barnyard-animal puzzle. The corresponding animal made a sound when the correct piece was placed in position.

  An overly simple puzzle for a seven-year-old, but Braden didn’t make any attempt to solve it. In fact, he jumped slightly when Alex put in a piece and the donkey brayed.

  Yep, his hearing works fine, she thought.

  “Is he taking any medication?” she asked Mark, who had followed them to the table but hadn’t sat down.

  “Not at the moment.”

  Alex leaned over and picked up the piece shaped like a cow. “What animal is this, Braden? Is it a horse?”

  His lips twitched slightly. Maya would have rolled her eyes and said, “You’re silly, Auntie Alex. That’s a cow.”

  Braden didn’t speak, but he did look at Alex for the first time. “What sound does a cow make, Braden? Does it moo? I bet you knew that.”

  His blue eyes fairly twinkled until his father sat down across from them. Even though Mark looked sort of silly with his knees pushed almost to his chest, Braden didn’t smile.

  “His speech therapist gives him flash cards to practice at night, but we aren’t having much luck with them, are we, Bray?”

  “Ask his teacher to make sure they’re in his backpack when he leaves school. If I have time, I’d be happy to try them.”

  Mark had been hoping she’d say that. He was certain he didn’t have the patience or skills to help his son. Hell, his bumbling attempts to coax his son into speaking might even have made the boy’s stutter worse.

  “This is a nice place, Alex. Looks a lot different than I remember from when…” He stopped. She probably didn’t need to be reminded that they’d first made an offer on this house as a couple. An engaged couple.

  She was patiently waiting for Braden to show some interest in the puzzle. The silence between them made him say, “We should probably get all the old sh—stuff between us cleared up, shouldn’t we?”

  She glanced up at him. “No. I don’t think so. You’re here for your son, and I’d never let my personal feelings get in the way of how I care for a child.”

  He knew that. But he needed to make her understand how sorry he was for what had happened between them. “I just figured if we set the record straight we wouldn’t keep bumping into the elephant.”

  The elephant. Alex was shocked that he remembered.

  When they’d first got engaged, Alex had been attending a church that required couples to participate in weekly counseling groups before they could set the date for their vows. The facilitator, a reformed alcoholic, had structured the meeting after the twelve-step model and had often likened unaddressed problems to an elephant in the living room—a giant beast that took up a great deal of space and could easily squash the best of intentions.

  She cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. “There are no elephants here, Mark. Are there, Braden?” she asked the little boy who was staring at her.

  Their gazes met. And Alex felt a connection. Just for a second, but in that tiny space of time, she felt the little boy’s turmoil and fear. He was terrified by demons, real and imagined.

  He might not speak, but his eyes said something Alex couldn’t ignore. “Help me.”

  “He can start here tomorrow, if you want,” she heard herself tell Braden’s father.

  A silent thump echoed between them.

  Yeah, so she’d lied about the elephant. There was a big one sitting right there on the middle of the sunshine rug, but what kind of mother would turn her back on a child in need?

  She would do her best for Braden. Braden’s dad, though, was on his own.

  Chapter Three

  “What did you say?” Mark asked, afraid he might not have heard her right.

  She gently touched Braden’s cheek and when he lifted his chin, she said to him, “Braden, I’d like very much for you to come to school here. There will be children who are younger than you. Some are much younger, but they will be doing different activities most of the time. You will be in my after-school program.”

  Mark’s heart lightened with relief. “That’s great news, isn’t it, Braden?” He didn’t wait for an answer that he knew wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  He helped his son get to his feet. “No more babysitters for you, Bray. You’re too big for that. Now, you’ll ride the bus here after school. I’ll go to your school and make sure it’s all set up tomorrow.”

  Braden seemed to be listening, but he didn’t give any outward sign that he cared one way or the other. Mark was used to that lack of response. He continued to talk as if his son had answered positively, “Cool, Dad. I can’t wait.”

  He led Braden into the coatroom. “I have a good feeling about this, Bray. I think you’re going to like it here.”

  Alex, Mark noted, was standing to one side, a concerned look on her face. Sympathy, he figured. Maybe a tiny bit of regret or fear about what she’d opened herself up to, but when they returned to the main room, she handed him a folder, already labeled Braden Gaylord.

  “Paperwork. Fee chart. Emergency contact numbers. Medical information that I might need in case something happens. Standard stuff.”

  When he took it from her, their fingers touched. Briefly. Maybe more of a ghost touch, but one he felt all the way through his bones. God, he’d missed her.

  “Ready, buddy?” Mark asked as Alex dropped to one knee to help Braden put on his stocking cap. She tucked his hair, which Mark could have sworn they’d just got cut, out of his eyes. There was something inherently motherly in the gesture.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said when she returned to her feet. “You’re sure?”

  Her lips pressed together in a way he knew meant she was irked. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think Braden and I were going to get along just fine.”

  “Do you think…?” He stopped. Partly because he knew it was too soon to hope; partly because he didn’t want to hear that she was just being sympathetic to a motherless little boy. Alex was kind. And generous. And Mark had no business wishing the things he did.

  “Okay, then, we’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Miss Alex goodbye, Braden.”

  His son wiped his mitten across his nose and looked at the floor.

  Alex smiled and patted Braden’s shoulder in a supportive way. “Have a good night. I’ll be on the corner waiting for you when you get off the bus. I promise.” She made a cross-your-heart motion that made Braden look up. “Don’t forget your flash cards tomorrow. We’ll play a game with them.”

  Mark could tell that Alex was tired and anxious for them to leave, but he wasn’t looking forward to the night ahead. A silent dinner. An evening of one-sided conversation with a little boy he loved more than life. A little boy he couldn’t reach.

  But he was an adult. This was his problem, not Alex’s. “I’ll fill out these papers and put the file in his backpack,” he told her. “But I’ll pay you when I come to pick him up, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. There really wasn’t anything else to say.

  She opened the door. “Have a good night.”

  Her tone was distant. Professional.

  “You, too. Thanks.”

  He and Braden walked down the ramp and passed through the squeaky gate. The brisk night air helped him retrieve some control over his emotions.

  This was a job to her. Braden was her student. And Mark was a bad memory. That she could put their history behind her and act in Braden’s best interest further proved what Mark had always known—Alex was a much better person than he was.

  Besides, he told himself as he buckled his son into his seat belt, Braden is my chief priority at the moment. My only priority.

  As he pulled away from the curb, his cell phone rang. Traffic was light, but he di
dn’t like talking on the phone while driving, so he pulled over and put his Ford Focus into Park. “This will just take a minute, son. Then we’ll stop at McDonald’s for dinner, okay?”

  Braden was staring out the window, his chin turned so he could see the Christmas lights that adorned the Dancing Hippo sign. Maybe Bray would enjoy driving around at night during the holiday season to see the Christmas displays, Mark thought, making a mental reminder.

  He opened his phone. “Gaylord.”

  “We have a situation.”

  Mark recognized the voice. His old friend and mentor, Zeke Martini. Zeke had been instrumental in Mark’s move to Vegas nearly ten years ago. He’d helped Mark find his place in Metro and even supported Mark’s move to the fire department. Mark was pretty sure it was Zeke’s recommendation that had got Mark into the arson division. “What kind of situation?”

  “Ritter in Vice just called. Said two of his deep cover officers busted a mid-level porn distributor and came across a good-sized stash of drugs. Locally manufactured meth. Some cocaine and some bootlegged prescription drugs. The guy is looking at his third strike and would sell out his mother if it got him some concessions.”

  “So?”

  “He said he could prove that a former cop killed his wife by blowing up her dealer’s lab…with her in it.”

  A cold chill passed down Mark’s spine. He glanced in the backseat at his son. Braden’s eyes were closed and he seemed to have nodded off, with his head resting against the cold glass.

  “And…”

  “He named names. Tracey. And you.”

  Mark squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the swear-word that automatically came to his lips. Screwed again. Even from the grave his ex-wife seemed bound and determined to make him pay for the crime of not loving her.

  ALEX PUT AWAY THE PUZZLE and pushed in the chairs Mark and Braden had been using. Before turning off the lights in the preschool—the area of the house that would have served as the dining and living rooms if this were a conventional home, she paused to take a deep breath.

  Mark. She could still smell him. Nothing as obtuse as cologne, although he’d been known to splash on a little Calvin Klein when they’d been dating, but a scent uniquely him. She once jokingly called it his policeman smell. He’d been offended until she’d assured him the pheromones turned her on.