Page 6 of Drive To Survive

EVERLY

“Rhett, over here, honey.” I crouched and held out my arms. Instead of running toward me, my six-year-old son trudged over, his satchel dragging along the floor beside him. As he got closer, I noticed a tiny rip in his school shirt. “What happened, little man?”

He shook his head, his teeth biting his bottom lip almost as if he wanted to stop the words spilling out, and a flush spread across his cheeks as he lowered his eyes to the ground.

A lump of lead settled in my stomach, my nerve endings on high alert. I rose to my feet in time to see Miss Carmichael making her way over, her expression stern and somber.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Not again.

“Mrs. Lawson,” Rhett’s kindergarten teacher said. “Do you have a moment?”

I sighed heavily, then smiled a despondent apology and nodded. “Rhett, why don’t you go wait in the truck for me?”

His shoulders dropped, and he plodded the few feet to where I’d parked my battered old pickup in front of the school gates. Most other parents had already collected their kids, with Rhett being one of the last to appear. Now I knew why.

Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I turned to Miss Carmichael. “Fighting again?” I asked, resignation taking root in my chest.

She nodded. “There was a minor scuffle with one of his classmates who teased him about not having a dad. I’ve reprimanded the other student, but Rhett’s response to the teasing was disproportionate, Mrs. Lawson. Believe me, I’m not unsympathetic to how difficult it is for Rhett. But if his behavior doesn’t improve, I’ll have to report it to the principal, and then it will be up to her to decide on the next steps.”

Next steps. I knew what that meant. Possible expulsion. This was the third occasion in as many weeks where Rhett had gotten into a fight at school.

“I’ll talk to him,” I stated, leaving out the word again. “He just misses his dad a whole lot.”

Miss Carmichael’s face softened. “I’m sorry, but I have an entire class of students to consider. Have you thought about therapy?”

I almost snorted out loud. I couldn’t afford regular medical insurance, let alone expensive mental health coverage. Last time Rhett freaked out at home, his frustration spilling out of his little body with such anger that he’d somehow managed to upend a bookcase, I’d taken him to a doctor. His suggestion? Anti-anxiety drugs. Drugs! For a six-year-old whose pain was steeped in his father’s abandonment. He didn’t need medication. He needed counseling. He needed someone qualified to help him understand that his dad’s leaving had nothing to do with him, that he wasn’t bad or unlovable, just unlucky in who’d fathered him.

Not for the first time, I cursed Paul for walking out on us. Two years later and I still didn’t know what had happened to him. Nor did I care. Not anymore. Lesson well and truly learned. These days, I relied on one person. Me. To protect my son. To protect my heart.

To protect us both.

My pregnancy hadn’t been planned, and Paul’s fury when I’d told him the news still haunted me. I’d thought he might ask me to marry him after Rhett was born, but Paul had been hell-bent on avoiding the discussion. The only reason I used his surname was to make things easier for Rhett. I didn’t want the cruel name-calling hurled at my son. You’d think in these modern times, it wouldn’t matter, but in some communities, it still did.

Even now, alarm clogged my throat when I thought back to the day Paul disappeared. He got up as normal, ate breakfast, went to work, and never returned. During those first few weeks, I’d convinced myself something truly awful had happened, and every knock on the door had given rise to a cold fear that I’d open it and discover a police officer standing on the other side with sympathy painted all over his or her face. But after an extensive police search failed to locate him, I’d come to realize he’d left me but had been too cowardly to tell me. Or he’d wanted to avoid paying child support. Possibly both.

The bastard.

Rhett had just turned four when Paul walked out. Back then, he’d been a happy, well-adjusted, bright little boy. After he lost his father, he morphed into a sullen and withdrawn child prone to bouts of rage that I didn’t have the skills to help him understand. In the absence of the right kind of medical attention, I feared for my son’s future.

And now this.

More fighting at school.

“I’ll look into it,” I mumbled.

Miss Carmichael nodded. “I think that’s best.”

Returning to my truck, I fixed Rhett’s child restraint belt and stroked a hand over his silky hair. He refused to look at me. With a sigh, I climbed into the driver’s side and we moved off.

The second we got home, Rhett ran to his room and slammed the door. I unpacked his satchel and threw away the empty candy wrapper I found at the bottom, along with a half-eaten banana.

After I’d put the potatoes on to boil, I traipsed over to his room and tapped on the door, then entered. Rhett had his back to me, his skinny little body curled into the fetal position, his shoulders shaking.

“Honey.” I sat on the edge of his bed and pulled him into my arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

More lies.

I didn’t know that at all. I wished for a magic wand that I could wave and make all his pain and anger and confusion disappear.

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