The Children of Main Street

by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  She shut down and tracked herself back to before she’d mentioned her dad. “You said you can’t help him or me.” She pressed both hands palms down indenting the sofa cushions. She turned her right cheek toward me as if trying to hear me better.

  “No, I said that helping you and helping Billy is not necessarily the same thing.” I didn’t move. “Yes, I can help him. I want to test him, check out hand-to-eye coordination, watch him play with puzzle pieces and multiple other tasks. I want to be certain before I diagnose or rule out any diagnosis. But, Cindy, Billy is four years old. He’s in a new place. Not once has he run down the hallway, screaming your name.”

  Cindy repositioned herself on the sofa, this time turning her left cheek toward me.

  “Your son hasn’t pounded on the door. Nor has he turned over his chair,” I said. “Billy hasn’t even opened the toy box or pulled games from the shelf. There are four plastic chairs in that room that can be overturned with one flick of Billy’s wrist. They are still right where he found them.” An ache in my neck moved in and started setting up house. “Book another session for Billy on your way out while I chat with him for a few minutes.”

  Cindy gathered her cumbersome items and then clamored through the hallway. God love her. She bumped into absolutely everything. And she had way more baggage to carry than I’d first realized.

  I hoped I wasn’t gazing at the backside of a major portion of Billy’s problem as she lumbered down the narrow aisle before re-entering the playroom. “So Billy, I’m very glad you came to see me today.”

  He didn’t look up. Fragrant peppermint mingled with the smell of unwashed-boy. A handful of crinkled wrappers lay at his feet.

  I sighed. I’d never seen a more beautiful boy.

  I tried to merge the two pictures of Billy—the boy his mother described and the one in front of me. I could not. Oh, he had issues for sure. He’d screamed in my face. But then he’d numerous caretakers, and unfortunately, his mother allowed every last one of them to hit him. And here I stood as the one who had to intervene without becoming another person he feared. I stopped the video and turned off the television. “Your mom is going to—”

  “Hey, what you doin?” He glared at me. “What’d you did?”

  “I spent our time chatting with your mom, but she’ll bring you back next week. I’m looking forward to being your friend. We’ll do lots of fun stuff together.”

  “I watching that. Put it back and move.”

  “No, not today. It’s time for you to go home now, but you may come back to see me.”

  He stiffened his back, and his jaws puffed and colored. Pure fury washed one small boy. He jumped to his feet and bolted toward the television, pushing every button.

  I silenced the television again and reached for his jacket. “Okay, Bubba, let me help you with your jacket. Give me a hug, and I’ll see you again soon.”

  “No jacket. Not leavin’. Not goin.” Billy shook the television. “Make it work.”

  “Billy, slip your arm into your jacket.” I opened his coat to help ease him into it. “Billy, don’t shake the television.”

  “No jacket. Not goin’.”

  I smiled. “I’m so glad you like it here, but I have rules, and you’ll learn them quickly. The first one is when time is up, time is up.”

  “Time’s not up.” He shook the television again. “I not goin’. Please go away. Goodbye.”

  I leaned down to his level, his jacket still in my hand, and turned him toward me to cajole him into wearing his coat and leaving, assuring him he would be back later. How many hundreds of times had I taught parents to position themselves at their child’s level when they need their child’s attention?

  I also recognized that Billy wanted to stay for multiple reasons that he could not articulate. He had videos at home. But here he sensed something beyond a video. Here he could sit for an hour among clean and ordered things—toys, books, and stuffed animals with Mickey Mouse looking over him as he watched an uninterrupted movie with his own peppermints.

  Four-year-old Billy felt the peace and grace—and God’s presence—nestled inside my office. I had heard it all before. Countless adults slipped onto the sofa in my office, breathed deeply, and muttered versions of, “Oh, this is a safe place.” Numerous teenagers expressed, “I felt so nervous about coming here, but this is okay. I’m okay.”

  But Billy said nothing. Instead, he slapped me so hard across my face I almost toppled.

  I gasped, frozen to the spot. Just as easily as he’d thrown his first punch, his other palm hurled toward my face. Intending for it to be his last, I moved into a Krav Maga position, dodging his second slap. With one quick move, I clamped his arms to his body and lifted him. His boot soles were loose, but the sharp metal tips were intact. He kicked me with the rapidity of an automatic weapon up the full length of my ankles, shins, and knees.

  I bolted from the playroom, tore down the hallway—him body-clamped to me—and out the back door, across the porch and into the backyard. I gained control of all his limbs. By using my legs to help hold him, I broke a long Azalea limb. Like Rambo, I stripped every leaf with my teeth. With the stick, the kid, a stinging face, and bloody shins I retraced my steps and headed back inside.

  We were a spectacle. Every person in the clinic—whether employee, or waiting clients—stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

  I made a wrong move. Still underestimating the kid, I plopped his bum onto the sign-in counter in the center of the open sign-in window. “Cindy …”

  Being on the sign-in counter granted Billy face-to-face access again. The second his arms were loosed he pummeled me with both fists like a sawed-off prizefighter. Grabbing my earrings and jerking, Billy tore the flesh on my earlobes, releasing the jewelry to fly across the foyer.

  A stunned silence from everyone except Cindy, who yelped ineffectively, “You’re hitting my teacher!”

  Alicia, having never seen me lose control of a child found her brain before I found mine. Jumping to her feet behind him, she jerked the back of Billy’s shirt, pulling him backward into the window just far enough to leave him thrashing and punching at empty air like a windup-boxing toy.

  Surveying the damage, Cindy said without conviction, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Watching Billy air thrash, I placed my hands on my face, finding it sticky with peppermint candy. Ouch. My brain wanted never to see the little beast again. But my heart knew sending him away would be throwing him away.

  Alicia’s arms had closed in around Billy, immobilizing his limbs.

  Taking him legs first, I body locked Billy one more time. “Cindy, open your van door. I will load Billy.”

  After a loud screech of chair leg across tile floor, Cindy laid one earring on the counter. “Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to help me; I’ll put him in.”

  “That wasn’t a request. I said open your van door.” My face threatened to burst into flames. “I will load him and buckle him in.”

  We headed outside. When Cindy opened her van door, the odor assaulted me. How could people live like this? Old McDonald’s bags carpeted the floor. Every seat littered with withered fries—that I bet the kids would still eat. Small and large handprints smudged every window. How did Cindy see through the windshield to drive?

  When I had Billy seat-belted and secured, I backed out of her van. I caught a glimpse in her rearview mirror—I looked beaten and left for dead.

  But Cindy’s eyes sported a glimmer of satisfaction—not that she wanted him to hit me—but now—her expression told me—she believed I would medicate him. She felt desperate; I could guess. And now I’d become aware of her own abuse.

  She stood casually beside her van, still sipping my coffee from her cup. “Now you see. He is attention deficit. I told you. I tried to tell you.”

  “No, Cindy.” I sounded like I had been to the dentist. “He is not attention deficit. Billy is a little boundary-less boy, and I’m going to do everything I can to help.”

/>   His mother whimpered. “Well, can he come back?”

  I looked into the open side of her van. Billy fumbled with the wrapper from his last peppermint. The child was desperate to have a stable adult in his life. Sara Beth was seat belted in that same awful carrier. Did that kid have any use of her legs? What my brain had first encoded as “fat baby” was on closer inspection a toddler strapped into immobility in what the manufacturer clearly labeled an infant carrier.

  “Cindy, Billy can come back one … more … time. But if he ever strikes me again, ever, it will be his last visit.”

  “Well, he probably will.”

  “No, he most likely won’t.”

  “Catherine?”

  “Yes?” I breathed too hard. In … out … count to five. Better.

  “If Billy is not attention deficit …”

  I touched my lip. “What?”

  “Why does he always lose control?”

  “It’s a learned response.”

  “Who did he learn it from?”

  “Most little ones pick up behaviors from their caregivers. He could’ve learned that it granted him what he wanted. Kids can be quite resourceful when they want undivided attention.”

  “I know that for sure.”

  “Call the office when you get home and make him another appointment. And please make one for yourself.”

  “Okay. I’m glad you take Medicaid.”

  “Me too.”

  I sailed past clients waiting in the reception area, then past Alicia, heading to the bathroom. I closed the door behind me, then stared into the mirror. The damage was extensive. Worse than I’d imagined it could be, especially from a four-year-old.

  I backed up until I pressed against the wall, then slid down it as the door eased open and Alicia peeked in. “Oh, no …” she said.

  I looked up at her. “Why do I care so much, Alicia?”

  She stepped in, jerked a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and began to run water over them. “Because you do,” she said.

  “Most therapists won’t take kids younger than seven or eight,” I told her, as though she didn’t know.

  She bent down, pressed the wet towels into my hand as I stretched my legs out, exposing the injuries there. “Some see no one under ten,” I continued, unable to move.

  “I know.”

  “Billy is a little boy living beneath his destiny.” I looked toward the ceiling. “God, I know you have a purpose for every child.” I’d felt His call on my life while still a student. Well … really … way before that. So many neglected children showed up at my father’s small country church in Alabama. I knew as a child that I’d grow up to work with neglected little ones. I just had to grow up and earn my credentials.

  “Yes, He does,” Alicia said, pulling me back to the cold bathroom floor and the increasing pain radiating throughout my body.

  “Even Billy …”

  Chapter 4

  At 3:00 a.m. on that same night, I sat on my patio swing and gently rocked. I had limped away from our bed in the wee hours of the morning. Snuggled against Jordan, I’d tried without success to fall asleep. My earlobes throbbed where they’d been torn almost through. My knees had puffed up, and open wounds seeped blood from my shins. If the swelling didn’t go down in a day or two, I’d have to see a doctor. I didn’t believe anything was broken, but a definite probability of infection existed.

  But I didn’t blame Billy; he was just a baby. If anyone could be blamed, it rested at the feet of parents who give birth, pay almost no attention to their children until they act out, then knock them around for the sin of being children. Parents who want to medicate kids for being kids. And how many generations of “Billys” had there been?

  Disillusionment hovered over me. Dark shadows crept close again.

  How was it decided anyway, who could and could not bear children? It couldn’t be based on who would and wouldn’t take good care of them. I wanted a child so badly my breath stuck to the sides of my throat. I could see it. A kid with my height and Jordan’s curly hair. I thought by now we would be a family of three … or four … or five.

  Jordan was such a kind and loving man; he’d make an incredible father.

  Why couldn’t this happen … if for no one else, for him?

  I pulled my bruised legs into the swing so I could apply the ice packs I’d pulled from the freezer. I’d also grabbed a huge dose of guilt from somewhere. Had I judged Cindy too harshly? I understood that God’s calling meant He also held me to a higher standard. And I’d been trained to create a nonjudgmental atmosphere, a place for clients to talk in a safe place without fear of recrimination. Her father had abused her. A first-year therapist could see that.

  But I also knew that until Cindy realized she had been made in the likeness of God and not her dad, well then maybe she couldn’t do the parenting thing any better.

  My heart hurt.

  The home Jordan and I shared edged along a golf course, and we owned the only swing in our neighborhood. He loved that our house backed up to the seventeenth hole, even though he didn’t golf. He hated trees but loved running five miles every morning on the golf-cart path.

  It wasn’t the actual trees he disliked so much as the work it took to keep them groomed and the expense and hassle involved in repairing the roof because of tree-limb damage every time a hurricane passed through Port Arthur.

  Lots of hurricanes pass through Port Arthur, Texas.

  Swinging flowed as deep in my blood as southern gospel roots, a love of trees and a yearning to help people, especially children. The best swings on earth hung from towering trees. I can’t remember a time when swinging—whether my legs stuck straight out in front of me, tucked crossed under my lap, or pulled onto the swing beside me—hadn’t helped me feel a little better about whatever I happened to be “chewing on.” Right then, I chewed hard on the disappointing and painful fact that a four-year-old boy slapped me. The sting of Billy’s hands on my face had gotten worse as the swelling deepened, especially around my eyes. And the emotional suffering took deeper root. Oh, how my face burned. My legs and knees screamed for relief.

  But my heart ached more than all of it combined.

  What had I intended to create on Main Street? Did I walk in my divine purpose? Or did I take abuse for money?

  I’d been counseling for twenty years. I’d begun by renting offices. Then, five years ago, I bought the house and property that became my clinic. A place I fell in love with, mainly because I arrived every day to more trees than I could count. When limbs fell on the roof, Alicia called the tree man, and the damaged limbs were hauled away. When the roof showed damage, she called the roof repairman.

  Rebuilding an old house into a clinic fulfilled a passionate dream. I knew even when I’d been in school that my workplace had to be a house, not a sterile office-looking building. People were, by nature, nervous enough going to a therapist for the first time. I wanted to create the feel of dropping by for a visit. Thus, the comfortable furniture and the coffee bar.

  I would have paid the realtor’s asking price for the Main Street property, for the front and back porches, the cast iron columns, the endless windows and towering trees alone. In my mind, the seller threw in the old house—that needed much attention—for free. I hung swings, set up rocking chairs, hauled truckloads of concrete planters and wheeled in flatbeds of blooming plants, while the poor contractors tore off the damaged roof and kicked down inside walls.

  Main Street and I were a perfect match. When I stood on the finished property for the first time, I felt more humbled than proud. I quoted aloud: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” Then I prayed silently, “God bless me inside this clinic that you have provided. Guard my mouth. Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight.”

  Prepared with my credentials and dreams, I was ready. I hoped.

  While in graduate school, I imagined owning a practice where I could
provide counsel and hope—a safe place for people seeking emotional healing. Sure enough, hurting people came and—I loved them all. But, my heart belonged to the children. Then, just as I thought I’d fulfilled my divine purpose—and God must be feeling pretty proud of me—Billy knocked my block off.

  My father pastored small churches. My mother prayed passionate prayers with unlimited faith. I became a therapist. I carried all our missions inside. I’d been trained from a child to seek God in all I do.

  I placed trembling hands on my flaming cheeks once again, then startled when the back door opened. I smiled at Jordan, my husband, and endless love. “Hello, Dr. Collier.”

  “There is only one reason you’d be sitting on your swing in the middle of the night.” He sat in his rocker facing me. His shoulders slumped—very unlike him—his face a bit drawn.

  I shrugged and smiled at him.

  “You’re praying for one of your kids.”

  “Busted.”

  His rocker squeaked. “The earring twister?”

  “Yeah.” Thank God Jordan taught psychology classes, climbed the academic ranks, and served as associate vice president of the university. I couldn’t tell him everything, but I explained why I came home from work looking like a participant in a barroom brawl.

  I smiled sadly. “You know what gets me the most?”

  He leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “That he’s a really great kid just trying to get his parents’ attention.”

  “That’s very kind coming from my wife with still-swollen lips and bloody shins.” He blinked. “I couldn’t sleep either, Katie. I saw how you limped across the bedroom floor a little while ago. It’s worse than when you first came home. I have a difficult time watching you suffer trying to affect change in the kids you see.” He laid his face in his hands. He almost groaned as he shook his head. “If today were my birthday, I would make my wish aloud.” His voice began slow and deliberate. It’s the voice he summoned when he said something deceptively light that portended something heavy.