to Betty, who passed her a second packet of tissues. “No offense, Betty.”
“None taken,” my boss assured her, taking her hand when she reached for her.
“But instead of sitting him down and talking to him like every other counselor tried to do, Jeremiah took him outside and had him help clean the rain gutters.”
“They needed cleaning,” I stated flatly.
“They did,” Betty agreed.
“I was there, watching, and they didn’t say one word to each other, and yet…when we got home, for the first time in ten months. Ten,” she repeated for emphasis, “Creese told his father that they should clean the rain gutters.”
“I nearly passed out,” Mr. Robinson told the ADA. “But it took another month for him to speak to his mother. I watched him and Jeremiah move a beehive from a tree in our backyard. Jeremiah touched Creese that day, and for the first time, my son didn’t flinch away.” He took a deep breath. “To you, these are unimportant milestones, but for us, this…” he rasped, gesturing at Creese and Fiona, now standing together, Creese with his arm around his sister, listening to her and nodding. “We are completely and utterly…thankful.”
We were quiet then, and Fiona came back with slate-blue house paint in the tips of her hair, on the right side, and that fantastic blue streak down her leg.
“We’re gonna play Minecraft when we get home,” she announced with a squeal, her big brown eyes welling with tears. “He said I could go in his room and play like I used to. And he said if the controllers had to charge, we could watch videos until they’re ready.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded, and Fiona turned and slammed into me hard, arms wrapped around my waist as she pressed her face into my chest.
Would I have paint on my T-shirt? Of course. Was it more important than comforting a thirteen-year-old girl who was overwhelmed that the brother she adored had finally spoken to her after a year of silence? Absolutely not.
“Oh man,” I griped at her. “You know your hair’s still wet.”
Her giggling was muffled, since she was still using my chest like a pillow.
“How did I get stuck doing this by myself?” Creese whined from across the room.
“I’m coming,” I yelled back, and Fiona let me go and crashed into her father next. He got extra squeezing, and paint and snot on his sweater, along with tears.
“I’ll see you guys in an hour,” I told the Robinsons. “If you need me before our regular Monday session, you have my number.”
Mrs. Robinson had to hug me, I got a handshake from Mr. Robinson, and then I bolted back over to Creese and his dog, Riley, who was, as far as I could tell, the sweetest Doberman pinscher on the planet. Though, if someone she didn’t know came into the room, that person would see a different side of the ninety-pound good girl.
I got right back to work with the long-handled roller, the twin of the one he was using.
After a few minutes of us working in companiable silence, he turned to look at me. “Will you come see me get my brown belt?”
One of the things I had suggested was some form of self-defense to help him feel not so vulnerable out in the world. I was a Tae Kwon Do guy myself, but he had taken to karate. Robert Shimizu, who owned the dojo in town, had first given him private lessons and then insisted that he join in with others. Once Creese realized no one was watching him, all the students much too focused on their sensei, he relaxed, and his progress increased as rapidly as his confidence.
“Of course,” I assured him. “Tell me when.”
“Okay,” he affirmed, but it was soft, and I could barely hear him.
“What?” I prodded, because he had to use his voice. When he was with Barnum, he and Kurt were forced to be quiet at all times. I made him speak up now, and I had watched him find his own volume again, especially in karate class.
“I said okay,” he repeated, his voice strong, not faltering, which was a huge difference from just three short weeks ago.
“God, don’t yell at me,” I complained with a wink to let him know I was being a wiseass. “And get outta my way.” I shoulder-checked him gently away from the paint tray.
He made a noise of disgust. “You’re too slow, old man.”