“Now you sound like my mother,” she snapped. “Look, I know it’s not a big deal to you, but Jack is my child and I’m his only advocate, okay? I know there’s something wrong. I just know it. If you had children of your own, you’d understand.”
Zoe had been looking forward to her chocolate chip scone. Now she found herself unable to take a bite.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I only meant to help.”
“You didn’t.”
She waited, wondering if Jen was going to apologize for her snipey remarks, but her friend only continued to glare at her.
“Then I should go,” Zoe said quietly. She rose and started for the door.
Jen followed her. Before Zoe walked out of the house, Jen touched her arm.
“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to hear that Jack’s okay from one more person. He’s not and I seem to be the only one who sees that. I’m drowning and no one sees it. Please understand.”
“I’m trying,” Zoe told her. “Do you want me to come back next week?”
“What?” Jen’s eyes filled with tears again. “No, don’t say that. You’re my best friend. I need you. Please come back. We’ll do better next time. It’ll be great. Promise?”
Zoe nodded slowly. The words were there, but they weren’t best friends anymore. They hadn’t been in a while.
“I’ll see you then,” she said and made her way to her car. When she was driving away she realized that she’d never had the chance to tell Jen about what had happened to her in the attic or anything else that was going on.
Everything was different now, she thought. There was no Chad. Jen was slipping away. Zoe felt as if she was living in total isolation. If she didn’t want to die alone, then she was going to have to make some changes in her life. Step one, she told herself, find a handyman to fix her attic stairs. Step two, get her butt out of the house and make new friends.
* * *
Jennifer Beldon knew that every mother thought her child was special, but in her case, it was genuinely true. John Beldon, who was named after his late grandfather and who went by Jack, was handsome, happy and oh, so bright. At eighteen months old he could walk and run, albeit unsteadily. He could stack large blocks, understand words like up or down or hot. He could laugh, point to objects she named, recognize the sound of his father’s car pulling in the drive and kick a ball with surprising accuracy. He was careful with his grandmother’s very odd and delicate little dog and even washed his hands himself—sort of—before meals.
What he didn’t, couldn’t or wouldn’t do was talk.
Jen sat on the family room floor with Jack across from her. Classical music played in the background. The rug was organic cotton and plush enough to provide a little protection when there was a tumble. Sunlight streamed through steam-cleaned windows. As far as the eye could see, the nose could smell and the lungs could breathe, there were no chemicals of any kind.
She held up a simple drawing of a spider. Jack clapped and pointed. The second drawing had all the spider parts, but they were put together incorrectly, creating more of a random pattern than an insect. Jack frowned and shook his head, as if he knew something wasn’t right. She showed the spider drawing a second time and got a happy grin.
“You are a smart boy,” she said cheerfully. “Yes, that’s a spider. Good for you.”
Jack nodded, then patted his mouth with his palm. She immediately recognized the signal, then glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eleven-thirty.
“Are you hungry?” As she asked the question, her stomach growled. “Me, too. I’m going to make lunch. Want to watch?”
Jack laughed and crawled the short distance between them. Once he reached her, he stood and held out his arms for a hug.
She pulled him close and let the warmth of his little body comfort her. He was such a good boy, she thought, her heart overflowing with gratitude. Smart, loving, sweet. If only...
She pushed that thought away. The day was going well. She would focus on that and deal with the rest of it later.
She rose and together they headed for the kitchen. Jack made a beeline for the small activity table set up in the corner by the pantry. There were all kinds of things to keep him busy while she cooked. A giant pad of paper and chubby, nontoxic crayons, a blue-and-green “lunch box” that played music and talked about the various items he loaded in it. She’d wanted to put in a small play kitchen, but Kirk had objected. When she’d pointed out that it was perfectly fine for boys to cook, he’d insisted on equal time, with a play workbench, and even though their kitchen was large, it couldn’t hold both toys and still leave room for her.
She carefully pulled the gate closed behind her, so Jack couldn’t go exploring without her, then plugged her phone into the small speaker docking station. After starting Pandora, she scrolled to one of their favorite stations.
“In the mood for disco?” she asked with a smile.
Jack looked at her and grinned.
The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing” started. She moved her hips. Jack did the same—kind of—he was a little awkward, but still pretty coordinated for his age. She began stepping from side to side, moving backward toward the sink. Jack laughed and clapped his hands. She spun twice and he did the same.
Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting down to their meal. She’d pulled Jack’s high chair close. Disco music still played from the overhead speakers.
His lunch was a small portion of tender chicken and a cauliflower-potato fritter modified from a recipe she’d found online. She used an air fryer to make sure it wasn’t greasy, with eggs and a bit of organic cheddar acting as a binder. She made them smaller than the recipe called for so they were the perfect size for him to pick up. While Jack was pretty good with a spoon, she found that the meal went better when he could simply pick up everything on his plate.
She had leftover salmon from the night before and a couple of crackers. She probably should have made herself a salad, but it was so much effort. Kirk would tell her to buy one of those premade bags, which probably made sense, but seemed a little wasteful to her.
“Today is Wednesday,” she said between bites. “It’s nice that it’s so sunny outside. We can go for a walk later and see the ocean.”
Everything she’d read said to be sure to talk to Jack as if he were capable of understanding. Just because he wasn’t talking didn’t mean he wasn’t hearing. She was careful to always use complete sentences and plenty of specific nouns. Lulu, her mom’s pet, wasn’t just a dog. She was a Chinese crested. Food was specific, too. Bread, apple, rice cereal. The same with his toys.
Every second he was awake, she knew where he was and what he was doing. She was always looking for opportunities to stimulate his brain, to help him grow. She knew all the warning signs of autism and except for his inability to speak, Jack didn’t have any of them. But there was a reason he didn’t talk and a thousand things that could still go wrong. That reality kept her up at night.
After lunch, Jack carefully carried his plate back to the kitchen. She took it from him and put it on the counter, next to hers. She drew the gate shut again and turned off the music. Because a child had to get used to quiet, as well.
She plugged in her earbuds and, as she did every day after lunch, tuned into the police scanner app. It was the usual barrage of chatter. Two officers being sent to investigate possible domestic abuse. Someone checking in with dispatch to see if they wanted breadsticks with marinara. She glanced at the counter to make sure she’d put all the food away. Seconds later, her entire body went cold.
The words came too fast for her to follow what was happening, but enough of them got through. Two detectives. Shooter.