A Family for Jason Read online

  “Let’s not talk about this now, Em. Not any of it.” Unable to resist, she added, “I promise we can examine all my questionable choices another time.”

  Emma nodded. “Okay, but consider this—nothing is as you left it. Sadly, this town not only isn’t growing, it’s shrinking. Our population is barely seven thousand. It was nearly ten thousand when we were kids.” Emma grimaced. “When we go down to River Street, you’ll see all the boarded-up businesses. And since Mike’s dad gave up the resort buildings and land at Hidden Lake, we attract fewer and fewer tourists.”

  The immediate jolt in Ruby’s body threw her off balance. All it had taken was the out-of-the-blue mention of Mike. She managed a response. “At least a bird sanctuary is an actual Abbot family legacy.” When she’d looked him up online a couple of years ago, Ruby learned Mike worked for a law firm in Cincinnati. Apparently, his dad had followed him there and had since died. That was the extent of her knowledge of what had happened to Mike Abbot in the last two decades.

  “Before long only a few people will even remember the town once had a resort on the lake,” Emma mused. “No member of the Abbot family has any ties to Bluestone River.”

  Like me and my family. But she’d long wondered if Mike’s grown-up life had come close to matching their old high-school dreams. Hers sure hadn’t measured up, but maybe Mike had made better choices.

  “At least you don’t have to worry about running into Mike,” Emma said. “Although wouldn’t it be good to finally...”

  Ruby raised her hand. “Stop. I don’t want to talk about Mike. Let’s just stay out of the past, at least for now.” Ruby paused. “I just got here.”

  Emma raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, if you say so.”

  Yes, I say so. Ruby turned away and busied her hands pouring their coffee.

  * * *

  EVERY TIME MIKE ABBOT walked inside the Bluestone River Elementary School he was yanked back into his childhood with rocket speed. Maybe it was the familiar smells of paint and clay from the art room, or the aroma of butter cookies floating in the air through the halls that caused the memories to come rushing back. Even the buzz of little kids talking and laughing as they scurried out of their classrooms hadn’t changed. Only the sleek laptops replacing clunky monitors on the teachers’ desks marked the passage of time. When Mike learned one of his favorite teachers, Elaine Cermak, would be his son’s teacher now, the school seemed to fling open its doors to welcome him home.

  He stood a few feet from the classroom door and watched the kids head down the hall, their minibackpacks bouncing. He spotted Jason holding a picture as he came through the door, the last child out.

  “Hey, buddy,” Mike said, crouching down and ruffling his son’s curly brown hair, exactly like his own. “Can I see what you made?”

  Jason responded with a solemn nod. The same way he responded to most questions, except when the answer was no and he shook his head.

  Mike took the picture from Jason’s outstretched hand and smiled at the dots and slashes of orange and yellow on the trees and the ground. It looked like fall in the drawing and matched what Jason saw outside. He’d made small figures with round heads and curved lines. Geese flying across the sky, Mike thought, just like the birds that flew over the lake at their house. “Lots of geese, huh? And I like your leaves.”

  As Mrs. Cermak approached him, she said, “Your boy is quite the artist, Mr. Abbot.”

  Mike didn’t even try to muffle his self-conscious laugh. “Please, call me Mike.”

  “I’m not supposed to.” Mrs. Cermak spoke with a conspiratorial lilt in her voice. “But I carry around a distinct memory of you sitting in the front row of my classroom for both second and third grades. You’ll always be just Mike to me.”

  Shifting her gaze to Jason, she rested her hand lightly on his shoulder and led him back into the classroom. “Jason, why don’t you choose a book from the shelf and sit on the pillows with it for a few minutes. I need to talk with your dad. We won’t be long.”

  Jason looked up at him as if questioning if that was okay. “Go ahead, Jason, I’ll be right here.” Mike watched his son obediently go to the bookshelf near the teacher’s desk and plop down on the cushion in front of the books.

  “Has there been any change?” Mike asked when Jason was out of earshot. He stiffened his shoulders to brace himself for the answer. This was only the middle of Jason’s fourth week in school, after all. Change this soon was almost too much to hope for.

  His former teacher offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Mike, but no. I wish I had a better report. But he’s still completely silent.”

  Mike looked at the drawing he held. “But he’s doing first-grade work. Right?”

  “Absolutely. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.” Mrs. Cermak tapped her temple. “Your boy is smart, really sharp. When he’s ready to speak again, I’m sure he’ll easily transition into a regular classroom. He doesn’t need to be in a special-ed class because of any learning disability.” She tilted her head and smiled. “But you already knew that.”

  True enough. But his six-year-old, a boy Mike had taken custody of only a few months ago, was held back in any classroom by what two different child psychologists in Cincinnati called mutism. His inability—more accurately, unwillingness—to talk was Jason’s response to the trauma of not only losing his mother, but also seeing her die in the same fire that left burns on his lower arms. Mike knew that kind of horrific, sudden loss too well. But he’d been eighteen, not six, when his mother had been killed in a car accident. It was hard for Mike to put into words, but he understood his son’s need to stay silent. At that same time, every morning Mike climbed out of bed hoping this would be the day he’d hear Jason’s voice again. He went to sleep at night with the words maybe tomorrow looping through his head.

  Mike had attacked Jason’s problems head-on, first learning all he could about post-traumatic stress disorder. Fortunately, Jason’s situation wasn’t all bad news. Regular play therapy and the stability of living with Mike had dramatically eased some of the signs of Jason’s chronic anxiety, even with the move from Ohio to Illinois. Jason’s second move in less than six months. Still, the conclusion was the same: the six-year-old would eventually speak, but on his own schedule, and only when he decided it was time.

  Mike nodded toward Jason, who was in his line of vision. He’d set aside his book and now stood at the nature table arranging wooden farm animals in a straight line. “At home, he’s been spending a lot of time outdoors, exploring, collecting leaves and sorting them into separate piles by color and size. Very orderly,” Mike said, smiling. He knew exactly where that trait had come from. “Living at the lake has been a novelty for him. I’ve told him we’re here to stay, but he probably doesn’t understand what that really means.”

  “No, likely not, but keep talking to him, reading stories,” Mrs. Cermak said, “and let him draw all he wants.” She leaned in closer. “One piece of advice, Mike. Why don’t you start waiting for Jason outside the school? You don’t need to hover. He’s been here nearly four weeks now and Jason can make it to the front of the building on his own.”

  Mike knew that...sort of. But his worries were stronger than the facts. “It’s just I’m afraid kids will make fun of the scars on his arms.” Fortunately, they’d faded and weren’t quite so obvious now. “I know they’ll heal more. But what about his silence? Even friendlier, outgoing children won’t get why he doesn’t talk—or laugh. Why would they? I’m afraid that someday, some little kid, even a well-meaning one, will try to goad him into speaking. Or a mean child will harass him.”

  Mrs. Cermak stared at Jason, who was still playing at the nature table, before turning to Mike. “I’ll be honest. Every school has a few students who are mean to other kids, but it doesn’t go on in my classroom. You can probably guess that my students are particularly vulnerable. So I keep an eye out for any nam
e calling or jeering, and protect the kids as best I can,” Mrs. Cermak said, gesturing around her. “Our teacher aides stand outside and watch for the first sign of trouble.”

  Maybe because he’d grown up in the school himself, it bothered Mike to hear about any bullying problem. Nevertheless, he tried to find Elaine Cermak’s words reassuring.

  The teacher formed a circle with her arms in front of her. “I keep my kids in a close-knit group as much as possible. Remember, these eighteen children all have some issues or they wouldn’t be in my classroom in the first place.”

  Mike nodded, admitting to himself his first instinct was to be overprotective. He almost laughed out loud. That was a huge understatement.

  “How’s it going with you, Mike?” Mrs. Cermak asked. “Have you found office space yet?”

  Glad for the quick change of topic, Mike offered an update. “It took a long time to get my big old barn of a home aired out and cleaned after so many years of being shuttered like an old haunted house. I just started looking for a space on River Street. I’m working with a Realtor and finding I have lots of choices.” He shook his head. “Many more than I expected.”

  Mike told Mrs. Cermak about hiring Heather Stevens, a woman who offered after-school day care for about half a dozen kids, including his Realtor’s little girl. “I need Jason to get used to being with a sitter. Better he adjust now than wait until my law practice gets going.” He snickered. “Assuming it ever does.”

  “It will, Mike.” Mrs. Cermak tightened her mouth. “It hurts to say this, but you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a good deal on an office.”

  “So I’ve seen.” At the beginning of the most beautiful season in north central Illinois, Bluestone River looked neglected. Forgotten. “It was kind of a shock to see so many empty storefronts.”

  Mrs. Cermak agreed and then called to Jason to tell him his dad was ready to take him home. Always looking for positive signs, Mike was pleased with the shy smile Jason gave his teacher when she said she’d see him tomorrow. Mike held out his hand and Jason immediately took it. Even with all the challenges confronting him, Mike paid attention to how much he enjoyed the feel of Jason’s small, warm hand in his.

  After the short—and silent—ride home, they split a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, something Mike enjoyed as much as Jason. Then Mike led the way down the front yard to the lake and pushed the rowboat across the short sandy beach to the water’s edge. He buckled Jason into his life jacket and lifted him onto the seat in the bow. “Whaddya say we go all the way around today?” he asked as he pushed off and climbed in himself.

  Jason nodded. Enthusiastically, as Mike expected. From his first trip out on the lake, Jason seemed content to watch the ducks in the water and listen to the geese honking when they took flight from their nesting places in the marsh grasses. Mike wished a pair of swans would visit and nest, like they had done when he was a kid. So far, though, only ducks and geese hung around.

  Mike stayed close to the shore and rowed at a leisurely pace. He had no place else to be. Since he’d been back in the house he grew up in, Mike had taken Jason out on the lake almost every day. He reminded himself of his own dad, who’d died a few years ago. When Mike was a little boy like Jason, he’d spent a lot of time on the lake with his father learning how to row and handle a boat. Mike planned to pass on those same skills to his son.

  Today, though, Mike’s routine followed the guidelines that Gloria Vance, Jason’s therapist, and Mrs. Cermak encouraged in order to provide the stability and safety that would lead to Jason’s recovery. That need for consistency led him back to his home on the peaceful lake. From the minute he got the call telling him Zoe had died, it seemed inevitable that Mike would bring his son to a new life in Bluestone River.

  He’d have to find a different routine when rainy fall days became days so cold the lake froze over. Soon enough he’d have to drag the boat into the storage building, a seasonal chore he grew up with. Mike spent his childhood on this small lake, swimming its length and hanging out on the raft that was tethered in the center. The resort had once been filled with guests and Mike and his gaggle of friends. Mike had spent many hours rowing around the egg-shaped lake as a teenager with Ruby by his side.

  He was silent as he maneuvered toward the goose beach, as he’d started calling it for Jason’s sake, pausing only to wave at Millie Kress, the retired science teacher who ran the bird sanctuary now. The place drew a number of tourists in the summer and fall. Well, sort of. Since he’d been back, he’d never seen more than a couple of cars in the parking lot he passed before turning down the road to the house. Most days Millie’s SUV was the only vehicle parked there.

  When his dad closed the resort over ten years ago, Bluestone River lost a major tourist hook. Deeding the land to the bird sanctuary was supposed to draw in different kinds of visitors. Even Mike thought it would attract the twentysomething crowd concerned about wildlife, or long-time residents who wanted to preserve several hundred acres of land. From what he could see, the sanctuary lacked any kind of PR program and only a few grade-school classes arranged visits.

  “It’s just us and the birds, huh, Jason?” The birds mostly had the whole place to themselves. Mike suspected Millie liked it that way, but it didn’t bode well for the sanctuary’s future. He didn’t even know who paid Millie’s salary, supposedly more token than real. A gloomy thought.

  Mike pulled himself back to the present and grinned at Jason. “When I was your age, Bluestone River was a much busier place. So was this lake.” He waved in the direction of the shore, where some boarded-up housekeeping cabins were barely visible through the trees. “My mom hired high-school kids to clean cabins on Saturday morning to get them ready for new people coming in that afternoon. I worked here, too, just like a regular employee.”

  Mike had probably never worked harder than he had cleaning those cabins until everything looked fresh and they smelled like disinfectant and furniture polish. Reassuring smells in the not-so-fancy resort business, at least that’s what his mother liked to claim.

  “Lots of my friends had summer jobs here—we liked working the snack bar best.”

  Just talking about the past to Jason opened a floodgate of memories, especially of his mom hiring Ruby. She handled customer service, an overblown title for delivering extra towels and glasses to guests or rolling a crib into a cabin. “But we all got our turn to scoop ice cream.” Mike laughed. “I made hundreds of ice-cream cones every summer. Just like the kind I make you—sometimes two big scoops.”

  Jason had been paying attention all along, but his eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream.

  Mike often thought about how much fun he and Ruby had working the evening shift. She’d pile her long, dark red hair under the white baseball-style caps his mom made them wear. Then, when it was nearing dark, they’d check off every box in the closing-up routine and finally shutter the serving window. Ruby would wait until she was outside again to take off her cap and let her wavy hair tumble down her back.

  Sometimes they rode their bikes out to the covered bridge to hang out with their friends. Other nights, especially when the sky was clear and the moon cast its light on the lake, they’d put one of the resort’s boats in the water and row out to the tiny cove, the same place he was taking Jason now. The first Abbot owners named it Hidden Lake because it was surrounded by woods and off an old farm road on the edge of town. He and Rubes had a running joke about wishing his great-grandparents had bought a lake with more protected coves or curves or trees on the shore to give them places to hide. As it was, no matter where they went, Mike’s mom and dad could always keep an eye on them.

  His chest tightening at the emotion of each image, Mike pulled the oars inside the boat and let it drift in the light breeze while he turned his attention back to his son. “It’s quiet here, isn’t it? No motorboats allowed because it’s only forty-five acres. We used to have kayaks and a co
uple of little sailboats, though.”

  With that, Mike ran out of things to say. He couldn’t talk to anyone about what really weighed on his mind. Ruby—not only his first love, but, as it turned out, also his only love. He’d never tried to describe to anyone what he’d felt for Ruby or the tragedy that separated them. Teenage love or puppy love, even first love, were all the wrong words when it came to labeling how he felt about Ruby. Not even close.

  Distracting himself, Mike reached out and patted Jason’s knee. “I’m glad you like it here. We’ve got more places to explore along Bluestone River.” So far, he’d avoided the covered bridge, another place he’d hung out growing up. There was plenty of time for that. He studied his son’s face, a combination of himself and Zoe. Her dark blue-gray eyes, his curly brown hair. Mike could even identify the straight nose that reminded him of his mother.

  Jason was five years old when Mike first heard his name. He hadn’t known Zoe was pregnant when she left Cincinnati to take a new position in a law firm closer to her hometown in Pennsylvania. Later, he overheard a couple of women at the firm talking about Zoe having a baby boy, and given the suspicious timing, Mike contacted her to find out if there was any possibility the baby was his. Their fling had been brief. And stupid for two lawyers in the same firm to think they could date without anyone noticing. Mike had regrets over that show of bad judgment, but that was nothing compared to his raw nerves when he called Zoe, knowing he had to find out if he had a child.

  When Zoe assured him he wasn’t Jason’s dad, Mike had forgotten all about it. A late-night call a year or so ago changed everything. It turned out Jason’s presumed father began to have doubts and suddenly demanded a DNA test. When it ruled him out, that left Mike. Zoe delivered the news in stark terms, and more or less told him he didn’t have to get involved. She was fine with raising Jason alone.