“You can take your glasses off now,” said Dr. Croft. “That vase used to be very different than what you see now. It was a gift. A professor in grad school gave me and every other student in his class one. The class was on treating PTSD. When they were given to us, the vase was crafted with multiple layers of color, set like layers of a cake. Our professor, he had a flair for the dramatic. He brought each student into his office, where he promptly gave us safety glasses, not unlike the ones I gave you, and smashed the vase onto the floor. After each student’s shock wore off, he said that any student who could repair the vase would get an automatic ‘A’ and a glowing recommendation for our doctoral programs.”
Derek remained puzzled. Tina alternated between listening and staring back at the rainbow shards lying in the dustpan. Dr. Croft leaned forward and snapped her fingers like the crack of a whip. Tina jolted back to attention. Satisfied, Dr. Croft sat back to resume telling her story.
“A third of my class did not bother trying. Others tried various gluing tactics, all of which failed. The attempts looked cracked, chipped, or crooked. Then the real point dawned on me: When traumatic events occur—in this case the vase being thrown to the ground—they can destroy something beyond anyone’s ability to repair it. You cannot reset things back to their original state. The rainbow cake, as I liked to call it, could not be put back in its original form. The same holds true for people. Traumatic events shatter some and break others, while only cracking a few. But no one is left as they were before the event. You can’t get back to what you were. What you can do, however, is take the pieces, add material that wasn’t there before, and forge something new. So, I”—she gestured toward the broken pieces of glass on the ground—“took the shards to a glassmaker and added new glass and other materials to make a new and different vase—the one I just destroyed.”
Dr. Croft leaned in now that her point was becoming clear. “Madelynne is never going to be normal. That ship left the building in that theater. You cannot fix her. I cannot fix her. What you can do, must do, is help her forge a new Madelynne. Make no mistake, Tina, she is doing that herself right this minute. It includes a self that will not put up with others she considers innocent being harmed. Understand clearly, Derek, this is not normal teenage behavior, as much as you would like it to be. And it can—no will—get worse if you both do not come to terms with this and provide pathways where she can become and accomplish what she wants without giving into the wellspring of righteous anger inside her. And make no mistake, Madelynne is a very angry girl.”
“I don’t accept that,” said Tina.
Irritation frosted across Dr. Croft’s face. She thrust her feet against the floor, pushing her wheeled office chair backward against her desk. Then she grabbed the dustpan. “Tina, this glass represents your daughter. Put it back together.”
“Our daughter is not a piece of glass,” said Derek.
“That’s correct. She is not. Glass is easily controlled. It can be formed into whatever shape we want. Humans, especially teenagers, cannot be controlled. They can be punished into short-term compliance. You can cajole them or force them into submission temporarily. But they cannot be controlled. Tina, let me ask you something. Your daughter nearly died. In response to that, you whisked the family out of the country for several years. You traveled to different parts of the world to get away from the attention. You even changed your names to evade the media.”
“I did what I thought was best to keep her safe. I won’t apologize for protecting my child.”
“No one’s asking you to. But just what part of that scenario do you think creates a normal Growing Pains type of daughter?”
Tina had no answer to that and so just gazed toward the wall. Seeing no answer forthcoming from Tina, Dr. Croft turned her attention to Derek, who also sat speechless. She let the moment linger a full minute before clapping her hands to startle the parents back to attention.
“You both have to come to grips with reality. Tina, I repeat, Madelynne will not be the normal little girl you want. Derek, she is not doing typical teenage things. The sooner you both understand those two things, the sooner you can parent her in a more . . . strategic way.”
“So, what are we supposed to do? Nothing?”
“Good God no. You do what you have been doing. The punishments you have doled out are appropriate; you just need to understand and not react to her not being ‘typical.’ Don’t try to adjust her sense of right and wrong. Steer her toward learning how to appropriately act on what she finds to be right and wrong.
“Right now, she is flying blind and making it up herself as she goes along and be damned with what adults think. That’s a very dangerous place for any child to be in.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Several times over the last two hours, Aden had wondered what game his dad was playing. He had expected another lecture. God knows he had received plenty in the last three weeks. Daddy Dearest, though, had not uttered a word since they left the school. He remained silent, driving the two of them to and fro, leaving Aden in the car as he attended to what seemed like random errands.
Aden was cool with his dad giving him the silent treatment. He was content to sit and not discuss why he was being punished for nothing. His dad had told him not to get into another fight with Madison or be caught bullying. He had done neither.
As his dad rounded a corner, a loud buzzing sounded off inside his suit jacket. Mr. Kent reached in, glanced at his phone, and grimaced. “Dammit,” he spat.
“He speaks,” said Aden.
The snarky comment went unanswered. “I knew I was going to forget the cupcakes,” muttered his father.
Cupcakes?
Mr. Kent looked back and forth along the street but gave no clue about what he was searching for. Aden watched in silence until his dad pulled over to the curb with a jerk of the steering wheel.
“Aden, you see that bakery shop?”
Aden looked in the direction his father was pointing. He could see the word “Sweetcakes” beaming in neon lights. It was just down an alley on a street opposite from them. “Yeah, I see it.”
His dad pulled out a crisp twenty from his wallet. “I need you to run over there and get six vanilla butterscotch cupcakes.”
“Can’t we just get them from the grocery store near our house?”
“She only likes cupcakes from Sweetcakes.”
She? Did he just get a booty call?
Aden sighed in annoyance. “Fine, if they have to be sweetcakes, then we’ll just have to get what she wants. Drive over, and I’ll get them.”
“This is downtown. The streets are only one way. It will take longer to drive over than for you to run over.” He reached past Aden and opened the door.
Aden didn’t receive a cuff in the head for his remark—a sure sign something was up. But he was too annoyed to notice. Huffing, he snatched the money from his dad’s hand and got out of the car.
Aden jogged to the bakery and ran inside. Other than himself, the only other person was a diminutive man Aden assumed was the owner. Less than two minutes later, he had the cupcakes and was heading back to the car. He was halfway through the alley when someone stepped from behind a dumpster.
“Where are you going, kid?”
Aden stopped in his tracks and gave the person blocking his path a once-over. He was tall, perhaps six feet, but skinny. His clothes looked grimy and well worn. Aden did not get a homeless vibe from him. He also was not scared. Aden was a large boy. People did not scare him.
Aden stepped closer and got a better look at the guy’s face. Aden snorted. The dude was calling him “kid” when he could not be more than seventeen or eighteen himself.
“Something funny?”
“Nah, bro. Nothing at all, but I’m not going anywhere, so please get out my way.”
“If you ain’t going anywhere, smartass, then it won’t matter if you’re late.”
The voice came from behind him and from someone much bigger than he was. The m
an was also not alone. A black male stood by his side.
Aden turned his head back toward the first guy. He had been joined by a partner as well. Aden’s eyes darted back and forth. One person was one thing. Four was something else. He leaned to the side to look behind the two in his way. He did not see his dad’s car. Dammit, I thought he wasn’t going to drive around.
“This numbnut thinks I’m his bro. Who even talks like that? Where we at, Venice Beach?”
The first guy stepped over to Aden. He swatted his hand at Aden’s bag and knocked it to the ground. In response, Aden pushed him.
“Hey, asshole.”
“Who you calling an asshole, punk?” said the new arrival. He returned the favor, pushing Aden hard against one of the alley walls.
Aden did not hesitate. He swung a punch that connected with the guy’s face. In return, his partner struck Aden twice in the stomach. Aden doubled over in pain as the black guy came up behind him and sent him to the ground with a heave of his foot.
“These suburban douchebags, they all think they’re so fucking tough. See if he has any money, and then let’s go. I’m bored already.”
Aden struggled to breathe. He’d been punched right in his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. He also wanted to vomit. A distant part of his mind wondered where the hell his father was. It could not take that long to drive around the block to the bakery.
Aden knew he could not fight four people. The knowledge did not keep him from striking out when he felt hands grabbing at his back pocket. The swing connected but without the desired force behind it. Still, it gave him enough breathing room to get to his feet.
He lowered his shoulder and tried to push through the two men in front of him. The move had a less than desirable effect. They only moved back a couple of steps before delivering a loud slap to the side of his head. The blow against his ear set his head ringing. Losing his balance, he spread out his arms to regain it. The move was a mistake, leaving him wide open.
He felt another strike in the gut. Another one took him in the side. A kick on the opposite side sent him back to the ground. More blows rained down, and all he could do was roll into a ball to protect himself.
A break in the action allowed him to see his dad walking toward the group. “Dad!” he yelled in desperation.
But his father just leaned against the dumpster. “Continue,” he said.
The assault resumed with hit after hit coming from all sides. Aden lost track of the number of blows. He just knew they hurt and he could not get away. Plus, he could not understand what was happening. Why is Dad just standing there?
The question brought startling clarity. He knew why. He screamed.
“OK! OK! I get it. Tell them to stop, Dad. Tell them to stop!” Aden croaked from his raw throat.
“That’s enough.”
The punches and kicks stopped cold. Aden could not tell if his attackers had stepped away or were standing over him. Tears and snot flowed from his eyes and nose.
His father let him cry for a few moments before walking over to him. He knelt and helped his son sit up. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Aden’s face several times before finishing with a wet napkin he pulled from his other pocket. Satisfied, he reached out to grasp Aden’s chin. He turned his son’s face toward him so that he could see him directly.
His father’s eyes glittered like hard blue crystal in the night, but then softened. “Just so you understand, Aden, these men are trainees at my . . . security job. They’re young but skilled. You were never in danger of getting hurt. None of their hits were to your face or any area that could injure you. Did it feel like you were safe?”
Aden shook his head. “No. No, it hurt.”
“It was supposed to. I needed you to feel a little pain. How did it feel to be ganged up on?”
“Not good,” Aden squeaked.
“What have I told you about speaking under your breath?”
“It didn’t feel good,” he repeated, this time with volume.
“How did it feel to know there was someone there who could help but did not?”
Aden looked away. An unaccustomed emotion flooded his gut: shame. “I felt helpless . . . desperate. It didn’t feel good.” He was repeating himself but did not know what else to say.
“No, it does not.” His father stood, then helped Aden to his feet. “Listen to me, Aden. Remember what I told you my first day here: True strength is standing up for those who cannot. As my son, I expect you to do the right thing—always! But do not—do not!—ever just stand there. Right side or wrong side, pick a side. Standing by idly is the height of cowardice. You didn’t help your fellow teammates. You did not help Madison. That is no way to live. Do not ever do that again.”
“Yes, Father.”
His dad grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug. Aden tensed up, but in response, his father held him tighter. After a moment, Aden hugged him back. A long-buried emotion broke free, and tears flowed from Aden’s eyes. They stood there, each ignoring the embarrassed faces of the trainees, who were witnessing a profound father-son moment.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
His father hesitated before placing his hands on Aden’s shoulders. “Sure, son. Go ahead.”
“The phone call in the car?”
“That was the trainees texting me to let me know they were in place.”
“So . . . you’re not really buying sweetcakes for a booty call?”
The question left his father speechless with rapid blinking eyes. But the four trainees burst into laughter.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Maddie stared at her almost empty bookshelf with disgust. Her parents had sent her to her room, then showed up there thirty minutes later with cardboard boxes. Her mother had commanded the removal of every text with a hint of violence in it. Her tone and the force of the slammed bedroom door had left zero doubt in Maddie’s mind that arguing would be useless. Now every military, martial art, firearm, and terrorist political thriller book she owned were stacked into the boxes.
Maddie feared they would end up at a Goodwill store or turned into library donations. She was tempted to ask her parents what they intended to do with them, but she did not want to give them any ideas. The fiction novels were expendable, but Zavier’s books were not.
As she looked around her room, she toyed with the idea of hiding a few, but the notion evaporated. The few hiding spots she had were already filled. She could not risk those caches being found. If her mother ever did, her current circumstance would seem like a picnic in comparison.
She turned her eyes to the myriad pictures of herself and Uncle Z that dominated the smaller bookcase next to her bed. What would Uncle Z think? She had asked that question hundreds of times for dozens of reasons. Sometimes no answer came to her. Other times her brain could conjure a few possibilities. For all the time they had spent together, most of that time had been playtime. She had lost Uncle Z before reaching the age of life’s big lessons. Still, she did have enough time to reason out a strong answer: He may have been fine with the reasons for the fights; he would have been disappointed with her ignoring her parents.
That thought moved her to muse about a more tangible person in her life: Dr. Croft. She had geared herself up for a long session, but when her mother had called Dr. Croft in the car earlier today, Maddie overheard the counselor say not to bother. The notion that Dr. Croft did not want to see Maddie any longer made Maddie’s stomach roil.
Her parents had dropped her off at the dance studio before heading to see Dr. Croft. Vaska had taken one look at her new bruises and frowned. Before Tina could get back to the car, he had pulled her aside to confer with her. Maddie could not overhear the conversation, but the dour glances he had shot in her direction told her that her mother was explaining her latest exploits.
Vaska proved his displeasure by making her training so intense she was left grasping for air. Then Vaska had dropped the bomb. He had warned her not to use anything h
e was teaching her in school. She had not listened. Now she would learn dance and nothing else for the time being. The last part of the sentence was all that had kept her from crying.
Maddie sighed, gathered the first box of books, and headed downstairs. Her parents were waiting for her. When Maddie saw the items gathered around them, she dropped the box to the floor. Her stomach turned topsy-turvy. Tears gathered at the edges of her eyes.
Derek and Tina were sitting on the couch. In front of them, on the floor, was every bit of hunting equipment she owed. Her guns, bows, knives, fishing poles—everything—were gathered in a haphazard pile. She knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway. “Mom, Dad, what is going on?”
“Pattern breaking,” said Tina. “A new path for you is starting right now.”
Panic lit up Maddie’s eyes as she turned to her dad. His eyes were empty of help.
“Effective immediately,” he began, voice firm, “hunting season is canceled. We won’t be going out this year . . . maybe not next year either.” He paused to let it sink in and continued. “Three-gun competitions are over. That’s a lot of money to lose in nonrefundable fees. We. Do. Not. Care. Things are getting out of control.”
Derek looked like he was going to say more, but he stopped. He turned his head away from Maddie, but the look on his face scared her. He did not want to see what happened next.
“All of this,” her mother said as she pointed to the pile on the floor, “is going to the local sports shop and pawn shops to be sold.”
“No!” Maddie croaked. “Mom, none of this has anything to do with school. You can’t sell them. That’s my stuff. That’s my life!”
“You’re fourteen!” her mom screamed. “You don’t have a life, except the one we give you. The one we allow you.” Tina stopped and gathered herself before she continued. “This . . . stuff . . . is a life we don’t want you to have. So, we’re ending it. It’s getting sold, and the money is going toward that boy’s hospital bill.”
The Madison Jennings Series Box Set Page 20