Page 2 of Dying to Meet You

“Are you…are—” I stop in my tracks, turning to face my colleague and mentor as he tucks his hands deep in his pockets. He looks over my head at the trees surrounding the parking lot. He won’t make eye contact. Dammit. If he can’t make headway, our road to healing them is longer than I ever realized. “I won’t ask you to violate Zin’s privacy, but you don’t think it’s helping having her and Zach in therapy twice a week?”

His eyes are shining with unshed tears when he meets my gaze. “No, Eden. Zachariah will adjust eventually. But Zinnea, she’s…” Biting his lip and adjusting his stance, he says with a frown, “She’s presenting with multiple disorders. I’m never one to suggest separating siblings, but she could use some intensive therapy. Away from your household.”

In. Out. Count to five. Search for the right words to say to the man who helped me when my life imploded, who I was convinced could do the same for Zinnea and her brothers. Each expansion of my ribcage reminds me of Weston’s laughter this morning at our pygmy goat Petunia’s bleats making his little legs kick in delight.

Well, look at that.

All I need to do is think of one of my children. My every fiber centers when I focus on them. “You know I’m not taking Zinnea from our home. Do you have any recommendations for a psychologist who can work with her?”

He pats the breast pocket of his shirt before taking a pen out. Grabbing one of his business cards from his wallet, he scratches out a name and number. “I just met her at the conference Dr. Xiong and I attended last month. She specializes in childhood trauma.”What a bleak career path, I think before correcting myself. One of my husbands chose that vocation before settling on being a high school guidance counselor at an alternative learning center.

“Dr. Constance Almari?” One of her journal articles came across my desk recently. Specifically, her theorizing about the Camp Carroll Massacre. Immediately, I discount her as a source of help. She was scathing with her take on the FBI’s involvement, and even more so about our building on their former land. Horizon Wellness Center relocated from Illinois to its current location in New York after a scandal forced its closing. Its new incarnation happens to rest on a location with a grisly and horrific past, the site of a mass murder.

The minutes it takes to reach my vehicle are silent. Dr. Wallen appears deflated as I fight for the right words. I’m not disappointed in his decision. I’m terrified he picked up on things I’ve missed with Zin. “You can call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk. You…Your whole family took on a massive undertaking with this adoption. That can cause stress fractures in any family. In your case-”

I cut him off. “In my case, we have enough to deal with?” The wry smile dies on my face. He’s not wrong.

My drive home takes forty-five minutes, time I normally use to decompress, listen to case notes from other doctors, or simply crank the music to stop intrusive thoughts. By the time I see the large white farmhouse with a wrap-around porch we call home, my earlier worries about the note are pushed from my mind. It could be a poorly worded message or even a prank in bad taste.

Rolling up the driveway to our home, I notice the gate to the pasture where the rescue goats, donkeys, and horses are let out in the afternoons has clearly been left open.Oh, Weston. We try repeatedly to remind him it needs to be closed. Sure enough Petunia is eating what’s left of the hanging flowers on the porch, and Clyde, our one-eyed dufus of an elderly horse, is standing with one leg stuck in a bucket near the porch steps.

Ditching my purse and messenger bag inside the car, I clap my hands loudly, calling, “Weston? Weston?!” Comically the animals only lazily glance at me before going about their business. Rounding up the ragtag bunch and securing the gate takes a few minutes. I’m wiping the dirt from animals waddling up against me off my slacks when Keir’s SUV turns off the road.

Even after close to seven years, my heart still picks up pace at the sight of him. If life hadn’t dealt him the ugly cards it had, he could’ve walked a runway. A stunning face, hazel eyes and a lean toned body that moves with a gait I can’t tear my eyes from make him irresistible. I never miss the second and third looks and attention he gets from men and women alike when we’re out. He’s striking. Even better, there is no one else with such a warrior’s heart. He’s saved my life in big and small ways since I met him.

Clad in his well-fitted gray suit, he gets out of the blacked-out Suburban, pulling his service weapon out to lock in a box mounted in his FBI-issued unmarked car. With a chuckle he yells, “I’m guessing Weston strikes again?”

The little monster comes ambling from the barn with a dripping ice cream cone, wearing oversized galoshes and a Rangers hockey jersey he’s drowning in. The sight of him causes me to choke down laughter. I can’t stay irritated with him long. “Weston, what have your daddies and I said about leaving the gate open?”

Wide-eyed he licks his ice cream before saying, “To not to.”

Keir walks our way. “Is that the autographed hockey jersey that was hanging in the barn office? Where are your clothes, buddy?”

Ugh. He’s right. The galoshes are an old spare pair that sit in the tack room. “Weston, what happened?”

“Um, I was hiding from a ninja. Then…soshite nanika warui koto ga okimashita. That means something bad happened in Japanese. I fell into the horse water.” The water trough sitting beside the barn in the animal enclosure is surrounded by a moat of water from having a six-year-old splashing in it. He blinks a few times at us before continuing to make a mess of his treat.

“Where did your ice cream come from?”

He points west of us. “Farmer Toad.”

The sigh I let loose is from the very core of me. Our neighbor has been an ongoing issue for the past couple of months. He has been dubbed “Toad” by Zach because he is unfortunate-looking with a wide face and double chin. I’d attempt to reign in the use of the nickname more, but the man has made several unwanted criticisms of our family. He’s been flat-out horrendous.

Keir quickly snags a clean towel hanging on a hook inside the barn and scoops the globby cone away. “Hey, Wes, we’ve talked about this before.” He shakes his head as he continues, “No talking to any adults without Mommy or one of your Daddies around and absolutely do not accept any food or drinks from them. Right?” Squatting eye level with Weston, he wipes his face clean.

My hand smooths through Keir’s hair, coming to rest on his neck. He wasn’t much older than Weston is now when his family fell into a cult’s clutches. His parents lost their lives eventually, while Keir was sex trafficked-abuse he suffered until he escaped as a teenager. His protective stance over our kids is only amplified by what he suffered through.

“Daddy K?” Weston rests his head on Keir’s shoulder. “Farmer Toad is bad? He gave me ice cream for pulling weeds in his garden.”

Keir clears his throat. “Wes, you aren’t supposed to leave this yard if we’re not with you. Not to Farmer…not to Todd’s house, not the vet clinic across the road where Daddy C is, not to your friends Hunter’s or Delilah’s houses.”

“Where’s Zach at?” Since coming to live with us, he follows either Wes or Zinnea around. Since Zin and Waverly are dropped off close to five, I would expect him to be on Weston’s heels.

With a shrug of his little shoulders, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “He’s scared of the ninjas.”

Weston’s imagination is unparalleled. It doesn’t help that Daddy H tells him stories about ninjas, while teaching him Japanese. Hutton has been doing work with a tech company located in Japan and overhearing him talk to his contact fascinated Weston. Immediately he wanted to know more. He's a sponge, picking up everything Hutton teaches him. With Caleb he learns about animals and plants. With Matt, he’s getting life lessons. Keir is trying desperately to instill street smarts, and Blaine…well, he’s the wild playmate. Blaine stokes his imagination and revs up the hijinks. I just hold on for dear life, knowing we only have so much time before he’ll be an adult, no longer needing us this way.

Keir kisses his head. “Go find the clothes you took off.” We watch him happily skip back to the soaked pile in the middle of the tack room, while I wrap my arms around Keir’s waist.

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