The Children of Main Street

by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  “Oh, Katie.”

  “Jordan, what?”

  But as I struggled for solid footing in the sand, I saw what he did. Not only had I tried to swim toward Jordan with Bailey on my back, there were others. She slipped from my back and looked up at Jordan. Then Billy crawled off my back and pulled my hand. Before I could respond to him, another and another crawled off my back, turned, and walked down the beach.

  Disappointment blazed across his handsome face. He shook water from his hair and slicked it back with his hand. “I can’t save everybody Katie, and neither can you.”

  I felt myself being pulled back into the water as waves sucked me under again. Jordan seemed propelled in the other direction, moving farther down the beach.

  “Jordan,” I screamed, but my head forced under murky water, and I couldn’t see him anymore. I would die and hadn’t worked out anything with my husband.

  Never had I been so glad to awaken and shake off a dream.

  I walked to the kitchen for water and chugged it. I knew what the dream meant—at least in part. I’d married Jordan with the promise to love and cherish, vowed to put him before anyone, had lived within the warmth of his love, and it’d been enough … more than enough. I’d loved him always. He’d been my life. Jordan and God were all I needed to be happy. I’d felt fulfilled in my career, but coming home had fueled me for the next day’s work. Until. We didn’t have a baby. Then, stupidly, I’d let him go.

  Bailey and the other kids had been on my back during my dream because I had gathered them closer around me than I’d gathered Jordan. At least in recent years. What had I done? I loved these kids, but I loved Jordan more. But he didn’t know that. I’d not treated him as though I loved him more. I’d failed to make him feel cherished.

  I would make this right. Alicia had said the perfect words. I would fix this.

  The clock read 4:00 a.m. Should I call him now? I would ask … no beg him to come home. But what would I do about Bailey? I didn’t know, but I would do something. I could call Thomas and remind him Bailey was his responsibility, and he needed to take her home or make other arrangements. The thought wrenched my heart, but I had to make things right with Jordan. If he couldn’t accept her being here, then Thomas had to step up.

  Trying to make her Jordan’s responsibility had been a mistake. But what should I have done? I loved this child more than anyone on earth besides my husband. Still, he was my husband.

  I determined to save my marriage.

  I showered and changed into dry pajamas. I walked down the hallway to check on Bailey. I kissed her cheek—a Judas’ kiss. She looked so beautiful, curled on her side, with her ballerina bunny clasped in her right hand and tucked beneath her chin. She didn’t stir. I lingered watching her sweet face. An angel. What would she do without me? What would I do without her? She’d become my little girl. I kissed her again, slipped from the room, and closed the door. But my legs threatened to dump me in the hallway. Wasn’t this another abandonment? I felt torn clear through. But I had a husband. But I had a child. But I had a husband.

  But … God give me grace.

  My hand shook, and I reached for the phone. I had to hear Jordan’s voice. Surely he’d be glad to hear from me. He would be up for his morning run within the next hour. I wanted Jordan home quick. Maybe if I told him I’d find a way to transition Bailey over to Thomas, he’d come home. Jordan … we had the rest of our lives to be together. I cherished him and intended to show it.

  A shrill scream from Bailey’s room breached the silence. Not just one scream. A series of gut-wrenching, soul-curdling screams. I threw down the phone and scrambled.

  Bailey barreled down the hall and straight into me. “Josiah shot my mommy. She’s bleeding. There’s a hole in her face.” She climbed me like a backyard tree.

  “Bailey, wake up. Sweetie, please wake up.”

  I wrapped both arms around her. “I’ve got you, baby.”

  “Help me,” she screamed. “He’s going to kill me too. Miss Katie. He’s got a gun.”

  She kicked both legs. “There’s blood on my feet. He’s coming after me.”

  I wrapped my arms even tighter around her and squeezed. “I’ve got you. No one is coming.” Her chest heaved against mine. “I’ve got you.”

  “He’s in my room and has a gun.”

  “He’s not, sweetheart. Hang on to me.”

  “Mommy is dead. I touched her, and she’s dead. Help my mama.” She clawed the air. “Miss Katie please get the blood off me. I’m scared of blood.” Her body convulsed in my arms. I flipped on lights trying to dispel images from her dreams. She trembled worse than the day I first met her, and sweat streamed down her body. I moved with her in my arms toward Jordan’s chair, flipping every light switch. I rocked and rubbed her back and shoulders.

  “Mommy, don’t be dead,” she begged. “Josiah, don’t kill my mommy.”

  “Bailey, it’s Miss Katie. Josiah’s not here. You had a terrible dream,” I soothed with her limbs snaking me. Her face reddened, and her body sopped all over. I stood again, dashed with her into the kitchen, slapped the sink faucet, wet a dishcloth, then set her on the counter, and wiped her face and legs.

  “Bailey,” I pleaded. “Open your eyes. You’re safe here.”

  “Help me, Mommy.”

  “Bailey, I’m Ms. Katie.

  “Help me, Mommy,” she said again.

  “Baby girl, I’m trying to help you. Please hang on. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not now. Not ever. I love you, Bailey.”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  Bailey latched onto me, her sobs replaced by sup-sups.

  I held my breath as a shudder shot down my spine. No one on earth had ever called me Mommy. Until then.

  After lifting her again, I walked back to the chair and rocked her until she seemed less upset; she relaxed against my chest, and her breathing fell into a sweet rhythm. “You’re okay, Bailey. You had a very bad dream, but I promise you’re okay.”

  “I want Mr. Jordan to come here with us.”

  “I want him here too, sweetheart.”

  “Can you come back to bed with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you stay all night?”

  “I will.”

  “Can you go first and see if Josiah’s in there?”

  “I will go first, but, Josiah isn’t in there. Remember we went to his grave.”

  She looked up through red, puffy eyes. “Oh yeah, we spit and stomped him. And we made sure they buried him deep enough.”

  “Yes, we did.” I hugged her. “Bailey, before we go back to your room, let’s say a prayer.”

  “Okay. Now I lay me?”

  “No, tonight just let me pray for us.”

  She sup-supped one last time. “Okay.”

  We stood, then dropped to our knees before Jordan’s chair. “Lord, I thank You that Bailey feels better. I thank You that she is safe here with me. I thank You for her gentle spirit and the love she has brought into my life. I thank You that she will grow into a fine servant for You. And as she goes back to sleep, she will have sweet dreams.”

  Bailey peered at me, seeming better. “Miss Katie, I’m not afraid anymore. We can walk in my room together.”

  We re-entered her room where she crawled back into bed. I tucked her in and then walked around to the other side and climbed in.

  “Mo—Miss Katie, will you always keep me safe?”

  I held my breath.

  “Miss Katie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I always stay with you?”

  God help me. “Yes, Bailey.”

  I didn’t call Jordan.

  “I hope I never dream about Josiah again.” She yawned wearily.

  “I hope you don’t either, sweetheart. Every night before bedtime we’ll pray for sweet dreams before you sleep.” I didn’t say much else. My own weariness plagued me. I missed Jordan so much I felt as if someone had died. I still dealt with my own bad dream.

  I str
uggled, knowing I had been seconds from calling Jordan and hadn’t. Not after Bailey’s nightmare. What on earth was I supposed to do? At least Jordan could care for himself. Bailey was only a little girl, totally dependent on me.

  And she had called me Mommy.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Katie? I was talking to you, and you didn’t hear me.”

  “Sorry. I should’ve been listening.” I reached for her hand and squeezed. “Please tell me again what you said.” I smiled. “You have my undivided attention.” Exhaustion crept over me. If I could get Bailey back to sleep, I could possibly squeeze another hour in for myself.

  “I said I wish Mr. Jordan would come over and sing again.”

  An elephant walked around in my stomach. “Me too, girlie.”

  I’d come within seconds of calling. Would he have come? Surely. But that would have cost me my child. I understood King Solomon’s decision to offer to cut a baby in half to determine the real mother. Only different because I was the one being cut in half—one half for Bailey and one for my husband.

  “I sure wish he would come too.”

  She laid her hand on my shoulder. “I love you so big.”

  Alicia handed me the hospital chart of a new client.

  “Why did he come from the hospital?” I asked.

  “You have another wrist cutter. The cuts aren’t all deep. Just a few stitches.” The furrow between her brows deepened. “The only reason the doc didn’t lock him in the behavioral unit is because his parents promised to bring him here.” Alicia always looked as if she carried a portion of the client’s pain when she delivered news of a troubled kid. She pressed her fingertips into her temples.

  “His mom wants to talk to you first, but the kid won’t have it.”

  “While I catch my breath, put …” I looked at the chart. “Robert … looks like he goes by Bubba … in my treatment room. Put his mom … oh …” I looked again. “Is his mom Tabitha Phillips?” I squinted at the page.

  “Well, I only read the insurance information, but she’s with him in the waiting room looking sleep deprived and stressed. And, she is the primary insured.”

  “I’m going to step outside for thirty seconds to smell my gardenias and take a long deep breath while you put the boy in my treatment room. Put his mother in the conference room, and tell her she can have two minutes with me.”

  “You okay?” She touched my right arm.

  “Yeah, just need my gardenias.”

  “I know your I-need-my-flowers look.” Her brows furrowed deeper.

  I squeezed her hand and walked out the back door, down the steps, and across the concrete porch to sit on the swing. I read somewhere that flowers are God’s gift to the middle-aged. I wasn’t middle-aged yet, but still …

  I reached for a white blossom—growing right beside the swing—that had turned golden yellow. The color change meant it was ready to fall off, so I plucked it myself. I squeezed it in my palm, releasing yet more of its fragrance. I held it to my nose and breathed the sweet fragrance. Though I had absolutely no time for that quick moment outside, I sat there anyway. I closed my eyes and inhaled.

  Moments later, I pulled myself up, then rushed down the hallway toward a mom I already knew would be crying and wringing her hands.

  Tabbi had been my client for years.

  We’d talked at length about her blended family. She’d married a man named Bo who loved her, her children … and alcohol. Maybe not in that order. Her children’s last name was Grey. The Greys and Phillipses were a complex family. I knew about Bubba but hadn’t met him.

  Tabbi stared out the window with her back toward me. When I entered the room, she whirled around.

  “Catherine.” Tabbi—a small dark-haired woman with chocolate eyes—took two steps and fell into my arms. Usually a looker—she could’ve been a true beauty if not for her twenty-year, two-pack-per-day penchant for cigarettes—she looked like death.

  “Tabbi, tell me quickly what you need to say. You can come back later, but I need to get to Bubba.”

  “I found him in his room this morning, blood everywhere, his sheets a mangled mess.” Tabbi pounded her forehead with her right fist. “He cut both wrists and made slash marks all the way up both arms. A razor blade still clutched in each fist as if one wasn’t enough. I don’t get it. He knows I love him, but he won’t talk to me.” Tabbi buried her left hand deep into the front of her thick dark hair. A blue vein bulged in the center of her forehead.

  “Has he cut himself before?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he give any indication last night that he was in distress?”

  She stood in the middle of the room and stared as if I accused her. Her hair was a mess—something I had never seen before—and her clothes rumpled.

  I could’ve cried for her.

  “No more than usual,” she said. “Bubba has always pulled away from everyone. He’s a loner.”

  “Tabbi, I’ll do what I can.” I held her in my arms for a minute, but her son needed me more. So, I walked away from his mom then down the hall toward Robert Grey, Jr.

  Chapter 15

  The heaviness of Bubba’s spirit hung inside the room as if a death had occurred there. He didn’t move at all when I walked in.

  “Hello.”

  The boy remained silent. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved black tee, and boots. A black ball cap pulled down over his head. He gripped the arm of the sofa and looked out the window.

  One reason I loved my treatment room is the banks of windows covering two walls. No matter how emotionally locked in I or a client may feel, we could always look out and see the calm reality of trees, flowers, and sky.

  I slid into my chair. “Do I call you Robert or Bubba?”

  He kept staring outside. “Bubba.”

  “Bubba, I flipped through your chart. You are seventeen, you cut your wrists this morning or during the night, and you’ve been to the hospital on two other occasions because of overdoses of Xanax and alcohol. I need you to tell me why you persist in these behaviors.”

  “Why not?” No rise nor fall to his voice.

  “That’s not an answer,” I said. “That’s just anger. Do your wrists hurt?” I watched his lids fold in profile as he closed his eyes, then opened them.

  “Do you want to talk or go back to the hospital? There’s a bed and a Thorazine drip with your name on it, Bubba.”

  I wanted to know what he thought, this boy who wouldn’t look at me. This teenager obsessed with looking out the window.

  “I want to go home,” he stated.

  “Home,” I said. “The safe place we go at day’s end, to relax comfortably and feel accepted.” I peered into his eyes. “Home. A man’s castle. Where you feel safe enough to drug yourself into oblivion and carve your flesh with razor blades. Excuse my cynicism, Bubba, but the charm of your notion of home is lost on me.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to decide that. But, if you’re comparing me to a bottle of Xanax and a fifth of Jack Daniels, you’ll forgive me if my feelings aren’t hurt.”

  Finally, he looked at me. A strikingly thin face perched beneath a baseball cap. Bubba was good-looking but didn’t look healthy. I could see Tabbi’s slightness in his frame, and her dark eyes pierced his face, but his facial hair suggested a much lighter color than his mom’s. What a beautiful child. What a sad child. “I think I can like you,” I offered.

  “You’re getting paid to say that.”

  He either intended to frustrate me or couldn’t imagine anyone liking him.

  “Let’s cover this upfront,” I said. “If I were in this room solely for money, ten-thousand dollars an hour wouldn’t be enough. My fee is considerably less.” I peered at Bubba again. He needed a friend.

  “Why are you in this room then?” He challenged me with his eyes, but his voice remained inflectionless.

  “Because kids with everything to offer and so much to gain, lose focus, walk around depress
ed, shut people out and even cut themselves with razor blades. And sometimes, just sometimes, I can do or say something that will help them. Some of those kids end up happy and peaceful.”

  He didn’t respond; I hadn’t expected him to.

  I could guess from his demeanor that he couldn’t imagine feeling any better than he did at that moment. Defeat painted his entire body.

  “Bubba, were you doing substances last night when you cut yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  Turning back toward me he smirked. “And you believe me?”

  “Yes. Did I make a mistake?” I searched his face.

  “Adults don’t believe me.” He shrugged.

  “You got the wrong adult.” I took a sip from my water bottle. “So, since you weren’t doing any kind of substance, why did you cut yourself? Most cutters get themselves into an altered state first.”

  “I wanted to feel it.”

  “Why? You look too depressed to be masochistic.”

  “To make sure I could still feel something … anything.” He looked at me through wistful puppy-dog eyes.

  “How long have you been cutting yourself?”

  “Since I started hating myself.”

  I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t push at critical moments. This one I would wait out.

  “Isn’t it your turn to speak?” Bubba asked.

  I gazed at him with compassion and without demands.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ve hated myself since I can remember. I wish I’d never been born. I have been with girls since I was eleven and can honestly tell you they can’t make me feel anything anymore. Unless disgust counts. I feel revulsion every time I’m finished with some hood rat.” He shook his head, blinking. “I love my mom, but she’s the one who hooked up with Robert Grey, got married, and laid down with that low-life scum. He’s my bio-dad, but he’s not my father.” He gazed at me as if pondering something. “You like to talk to crazy people?” He made a small sound that was supposed to be a laugh. “Well, get that sucker in here, and you’ll want to cut your wrists with razor blades.”

  I continued to watch his face. Waiting …