I take one last stab at saving the hearing. “Your honor, sir, I haven't finished.”
In slow motion, Crane turns his jaw to face me. “This is my courtroom. I'm finished. And that's all that matters. You, sir, are dismissed.”
His gavel bangs.
TUESDAY, APRIL 6
Case file in hand, heels clicking, I blow into the courthouse conference room like a gale-force wind. It's best to assert control upfront, grab attention. Everyone in the room straightens in unison, an orchestra ready to perform.
My mountain of black curls is tamed into a twist behind my head, red glasses on, and I'm wearing a respectable Tahari suit. I'm in charge today, and I'm going to make sure they know it.
I offer a curt nod. “Everyone ready?”
Mitchell Carson, the plaintiff, beams with confidence. He nods, smooths his perfect tie, glances at his Cartier watch. Ava, his wife, sits on the other side of the table next to her attorney, Graham Thomas. She's delicate and small-boned, with bright, clear eyes and long lashes. The room, with its tall white walls, imposing table, and hard-backed wooden chairs almost seems to envelop her tiny frame.
She meets my gaze, though, unwavering. Shoulders back, attention focused on me, hands folded in her lap.
“Let me get one thing straight,” I dictate. “I am here for the children and the children only. Not for the adults.” I continue with as much intimidation as I can muster. “I expect full cooperation. If we
make an appointment, be on time. If there's an issue or a question, I need to hear about it from the attorneys. Understood?”
The group nods in unison.
“I need a minimum of four meetings at my office with the children. These can precede the one-hour supervised visitation with Mrs. Carson.”
Silence. More affirmative head shaking.
“I'd like to complete a home visit with each parent. This will be done with the children at each parent's place of residence. My plan is to submit an initial report to Judge Crane in thirty days. His honor will decide then if more visits are needed. Any questions?”
“No, thank you,” Mitchell says through a tight-lipped smile. “You've been quite clear with your expectations. We'll cooperate fully, of course. I'm sure your expertise will prove invaluable to our case.”
Ava turns a shade of algae-green, fighting to maintain her composure. I look away, down at my case file.
“After I check my calendar, I'll be in touch to set up the visits.”
“Thank you so much.” Mitchell leaps up, presses a palm into mine, and saunters out the door, his attorney in tow.
Graham pushes himself out of his chair, conferring in hushed tones with Ava as I gather my belongings. With my back to the both of them, I take a quick hit off my inhaler, feeling an almost instant easing in the tightness of my chest. Darn the dust in this old courthouse.
I run a finger along the sharp plastic container, my lifeline, and drop it into my briefcase.
In my twenties, I resented the dependency on it. A few times I tried leaving it behind, with disastrous results. Exertion, dust, and pollen all trigger an attack. Much like a diabetic without insulin and a needle, my body stops functioning when my airways close up.
“Dr. Bennett?”
I turn and hoist my bag over one shoulder
Graham Thomas limps toward me, pausing to shake my hand. “Thank you.”
I glance down at his leg. “Recent injury, counselor?” I ask.
He lights up, the smile breaking over his face with boyish enthusiasm. “Karate tournament. I'm a lethal weapon on the mat.”
I grin back.
You'd better be in court, too.
THURSDAY, APRIL 8
As if he can sense the storm of worry raging in my belly, Graham cracks open an ice-cold can of ginger ale and pushes it across the desk. I take it gratefully, and sip, letting the spicy sweet carbonation roll down my tongue.
“How do you think it went?”
We're back in Graham's office, and I'm grateful to be among the comfortable clutter and the smell of law books and stale coffee. I sink onto the sofa and let my head fall back.
“Dr. Bennett was fine,” I say. “Very direct. I hope she's good with the children. She was pretty standoffish today.”
Graham sits down at his desk and unwraps a stick of gum, releasing a pungent peppermint scent into the air. He crinkles up the paper into a tight, shiny ball and tosses it. It arcs and falls, the impact making a tinny ping against the metal wastebasket.
“She has to be a hard-ass. She's sizing you both up, getting a feel for the situation. You didn't expect her to ask you to make a lunch date, did you?”
This makes me laugh, the first time in days. “No, not really.” I like Graham, genuinely like him as a person, and feel so lucky to have found an attorney so kind, caring, and adorably funny.
“A smile,” he says and winks at me. “That's what I like to see.”
I feel a blush creeping over my cheeks. “Thanks. I don't think I've even smiled since the day this all happened.”
Graham grins back and looks down at his desk. When he glances back up, his face is sober and serious. “Ava, I know this is rough. But you have to keep the faith. Dr. Bennett, by the way, is the real deal. I've checked her background, looked over her résumé. She's got the chops.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Graham presses his fingertips together and swivels in his chair. “Bennett's the key to getting your kids back. If she can see through Mitchell's charade.”
“We might need a miracle.”
The corner of Graham's mouth twitches in mild amusement. “Listen, what we really need is more time. There's a ninety-day waiting period for divorce with minor children involved. Mitchell's lawyer is going to push hard to get a court date by then. We can slow them down a little with interrogatories, a few motions, but that's not a fail-safe. We should request mediation. It's a long shot but worth a try. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
He takes a huge breath. “In the meantime, you need to play detective.”
I cock my head to one side. “Um, okay?”
Graham cracks his gum and swivels in his chair. “Mitchell's playing hardball. We need ammunition. How much do you know about your husband, really?” Graham asks. “Friends? Enemies? How does he spend free time? What about his mother and father?”
“Whoa,” I say, lifting both hands into the air. “I'm not sure I like where this is going. This man is my husband.”
“Like it or not, Ava, he's turned on you.” Graham exhales and rubs his temples. “Listen. You are a good, sweet person; but this is
war. Either play Dorothy on the yellow brick road and ignore that this man is going to tear apart your life . . .” He lowers his voice a few octaves. “Or trade in your ruby slippers for some steel-toed work boots and let's kick some ass. All right?”
Jagged worry pierces my belly. I blink up at Graham. He's not lying. No amount of hoping, smoothing things over, or wishing this away will solve the problem.
We both stand. He walks me toward the tiny waiting room, where he lifts a wooden windowsill. A moist breeze straight from Mobile Bay blows in from the street, rustling papers. I still haven't answered. The sky's darkened considerably. At that moment, the clouds open, releasing a torrent of raindrops. I stare out the front windows as water pelts the slanted sidewalks, and a nearby tin roof sounds like a snare drum. Steam clouds rise from the asphalt.
“We have to fight hard. I need you on board.” Graham says.
I realize this now. Nice has gotten me nowhere. Appeasing Mitchell doesn't work, no matter how hard I try. My boys need me. And I need them.
“I'm a little scared,” I admit, raising my eyes to his. I try to make the corners of my mouth turn up. I can't.
He nods. “Of course you are.”
Graham stops and looks me straight in the face, more determined than I've ever seen him. He reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze, then lets go. “You're tougher than you think.”
I close my eyes and think of my children. Jack. Sam. The sound of their voices, the way their laughter scented the air with happiness, the feeling of arms around my neck, cheek pressed on mine. How can I not be strong for my children? I will wear their love like armor.
“I'll look around. There are files at the house. And there's always the Internet.”
Graham grins. “Good.”
I smile back, and it's real this time.
“We'll do this thing together, right?” Graham slaps his hands together and rubs them in anticipation.
A tiny surge of confidence slips into my heart and I hear myself answer.
“Right.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 9
I hang back in my office doorway, absorbing the fantastical stories Jack Carson spins for his brother.
“Hey, Sam, did you know that if we had Green Lantern power rings, we could time travel and shoot plasma beams?” His voice lilts and bends, punctuating the words.
“Puh-yu, puh-yu, puh-yu.” Jack makes sound effects and I peek around the corner, into the playroom, just in time to see him pretending to shoot laser beams from his closed fist.
I grin as Sam mimics the sounds, watching his brother, a stern look affixed on his baby face. “Puh, puh, puh.”
“Green Lantern's ring is one of the most awesome weapons in the universe,” Jack continues, his eyebrows furrowed. “It can do almost anything. We could hypnotize someone or throw up a force field.” His arms spread wide, as if summoning a glittering orb, brighter than the sun at noon.
Sam listens closely and repeats. “Puh, puh, puh.”
I press my lips together, hating to interrupt, but lift my arm anyway. My knuckles touch the door, rapping twice. Both boys look up, startled, though my assistant let them know I was coming. Heather
nods at me, stepping through the jumble of toys. When the door closes behind her with a click, I introduce myself.
“Hi, Jack. I'm Lucy.” I say, keeping my voice soft and low. “Hi, Sam.” I cup my hand close to my cheek and wiggle my fingers.
Sam darts behind Jack's back and ducks his head to hide. He's unsteady and wobbles for a moment, one hand gripping his brother's dark blue T-shirt. In front of him, Jack eyeballs me with trepidation. His dark hair, on the long side, falls over his forehead, hiding the fringe of his lashes.
“Hey,” he says, then glances back and whispers to Sam. He scoots around and sits the baby on the floor, pulling blocks over to keep him distracted and entertained.
Keeping my distance, I kneel on the tight loops of carpet, putting myself eye-level with my new client. Jack raises his chin.
“I hear you just had some stitches out?” I ask.
He nods.
Despite my broad smile, I see his shoulders tense. I wouldn't expect anything else.
I've painted the walls soothing colors, lined picture books on the shelves, and added Legos to my burgeoning collection. But it's never enough to erase the small sign outside my office: Lucy Bennett, Psychologist. Or the pervasive feeling that a person's about to be examined like a fossil unearthed from the banks of Mobile Bay.
Eight-year-olds should be outside. On the waterfront. In backyards. Running. Jumping. Battling imaginary dragons. Smelling like the wind, dirt, and fresh-cut grass. Not sitting, enclosed by four walls, with a stranger. Warmth spreads across my chest, deep into my bones. It's my jobâmy missionâto get him back out there. To his childhood. To his friends. Or, at the very least, back to the best sense of normalcy life can offer.
“Are you a doctor?” Jack asks, breaking the silence. His knees are
squeezed up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his shins. Behind him, Sam turns his head and looks at me expectantly.
I smile at the baby, who immediately hides his face again. Instinctively, Jack pats his small, curved back.
“Yes,” I answer, “but not the medical kind.” I sink to the floor, cross my legs, and rest my hands in my lap. I've made sure to dress casually. My curly black hair is clipped into a loose chignon. I'm wearing my signature red glasses, little makeup, and flat shoes.
Jack tilts his head. “What other kind is there?”
“The thinking, talking kind,” I reply with a small smile.
He absorbs this and then wrinkles his nose. “But . . . other doctors think and talk,” he says.
Touché
. I grin. “You're right, Jack. The difference is that medical doctors deal with physical things. Like when you're sick, you break your leg, you have an earache, those kinds of things. I deal with emotional thingsâfeelings.”
“So people who are sad or unhappy?” Jack fixes his round, dark eyes on mine.
“A lot of the time,” I agree, leaning closer, meeting his gaze. “Sometimes a parent dies, or there are problems at a school, orâ”
“Someone gets divorced,” he answers flatly, pinning his eyes to a spot on his jeans.
“Exactly.” I take a breath. I don't believe in sugarcoating the truth. “It's why we're here. To talk about things. Work out who should take care of you.”
He swallows hard and doesn't reply.
Sam, who's grown tired of his new surroundings, toddles over and crawls in Jack's lap, pulling at his collar and buttons with busy fingers.
I continue, sitting up tall to peek over the baby's head. “So, over the next few weeks, you'll be here a lot, with Sam and your father.” I soften my voice to a whisper. “But right now, I'm going to let your
mom in. And I'll be in my office.” I look at the mirror on the wall. “Behind there.”
Jack follows my gaze and nods. “You'll be able to see us, right?”
“I will,” I reply. “Or I can stay in the room, which might make everyone feel weird.”