Page 4 of The Girl He Loves

Chapter 2

Friday

I leaveJamison's office disheartened and frustrated. And, honestly, scared. I don’t want to be the sort of person who gets caught up in a freak-out, stuck in a negative cycle, but I was seconds from needing to breathe into a brown paper bag to calm myself down.

I think of those movies where the person losing their mind gets slapped. I need a slap, only slapping myself wouldn’t be effective. It wouldn’t pack the right heat. Instead, I do what might be the equivalent of a slap. I call my mom.

Wrapping my mind around this is hard. I need to focus on the big picture. Like: if I change degree tracks, how much more time in school would be required, and how much more in student loans would I have to take out? I was focused solely on getting what I wanted. My teaching degree.

I wish I could be blasé about debt. I have plenty of it. School loans, medical debt, and the standard mortgage. But I’m treading water here, barely keeping myself afloat. Sitting in my minivan, which I also owe money on, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes while the phone rings, waiting for my mom to answer.

“Hello, sweetheart,” my mom says. She does this sing-song voice when she’s in a good mood. “How’d it go at school?”

I skim over the topic. “Fine. How are things there? How’s Tyler?” Thankfully, she’s a free and willing babysitter, which comes in handy on days Tyler’s school is out, like today. And, when she watches Tyler at my house, she cleans. Win-win. Guess that’s one silver lining today.

“Oh, it's all going beautifully.” The swish-swish of a squirt bottle sounds through the phone.

“Really?” I say. My son, almost eight, can be a bit of a…pistol. And he knows Mimi loves to spoil him, so he really works her to get what he wants.

“He's out in the backyard playing flag football with Uncle Doug. He’s burning energy and having a ball.”

“Why’s Doug there? Doesn’t he have a job?” Not that I don't love my brother, but when he stops by uninvited, it's usually to deliver a talking down or a handout or something else demoralizing. “And why is Tyler playing flag football? You know I don't like him playing contact sports. I don't think it's a good idea. What if he has a seizure?”

“Oh, Heather, let him be a child. He could have one while watching TV, and you let him do that.”

Easy for her to say. She’s never seen him have a seizure. “He’s sitting in a chair when he watches TV, not in motion like playing football. He's running down the backyard waiting to be tackled.” I glance at the smartwatch I wear, provided to me as part of an epilepsy study Tyler and I are doing. The watch's purpose is to alert me when Tyler's having a seizure. I tap the face, but it stays green, the color that means everything's good, and the only thing displayed on the face is the time.

“Nobody tackles anyone in flag football. They just pull a flag off the strap on your waist and they're laughing and having fun. This is what children are supposed to do.” She reminds me.

Yes, I agree. Children are supposed to laugh and be carefree. Children aren't supposed to have epilepsy. Children aren’t supposed to have autism or cancer or anything else that hijacks their childhood. But children do. And then they have parents who just want to make sure they’re safe and grow up healthy. But I don't say this to my mom because it's an old argument.

“Why did Doug come by?”

“Oh, your dishwasher was acting up, so I had him pop over to take a look.”

I groan. “Mom, did you not see the note I left? The dishwasher's been acting up for a while. I hope you didn't run it?” I left a bolded large-print note taped to the dishwasher with the warning.

“I did, but don’t worry, I mopped up after it flooded the kitchen.”

I slap my palm against my head.

“I was going to mop anyway. At least it’s done,” she says.

See? Silver lining. My floor is now clean.

This time she switches the subject. “Tell me what the counselor said. Did you get a placement at Tyler’s school?”

Funny how my biggest concern this morning was where I’d do my student teaching. I wanted it to be in Tyler’s school, worried that if it wasn’t I’d have to juggle both Tyler and our differing schedules. Naive, when will I ever learn?

“I’ll know more Tuesday,” I say to deflect. “There are some things that need to be resolved on their end before more placements can be finalized.”

“But you told them you wanted Tyler’s school?”

“They know that.”

“You should have reiterated it.”

“Quick question. Who’s that lawyer Dad plays golf with?” Because I want to make sure I don't call him when I seek services.

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