How To Rescue A Family. Teri Wilson

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       Chapter Two

      “Mr. Carter, I’m glad you stopped by. My teaching assistant is helping the kids pack up for the day, so we can chat for a few minutes until the bell rings.” Patty Matthews, Dillon’s teacher, shut the door of her classroom behind her and smiled up at Ryan as she stepped into the hallway.

      Over her shoulder, he could see inside the room through the door’s long, slender window. The space was an explosion of color, from the brightly hued mats covering the floor to the cheery alphabet signs on the wall—A is for aardvark, B is for baboon, C is for camel and so on. The cartoon animals reminded Ryan of all the times he’d promised to take Dillon to the Smithsonian Zoo when they’d lived in Washington, DC.

      Promises he’d broken.

      He swallowed and forced his gaze back to his son’s teacher. “I got your message. Is something wrong?”

      The teacher’s smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t necessarily say anything is wrong. Dillon is a sweet boy—very well behaved—and his mathematics level is advanced for his age, so I’m not at all concerned with his progress in that regard.”

      Ryan nodded, sensing the but that was sure to come.

      “But...” And there it was. “This afternoon in reading circle, he refused to read aloud when it was his turn. Did Dillon experience trouble reading at his previous school?”

      Ryan’s gaze flitted to the classroom window again, where he could see Dillon sitting quietly as his desk, holding his favorite plastic dinosaur toy, while the students around him chatted and wiggled their backpacks onto their shoulders.

      “As I explained when I met with the principal and registered Dillon for school, he’s had a difficult time since his mother’s death last year. He’s quiet.” Ryan cleared his throat. “Very quiet.”

      “Yes, Principal Martin passed that information along to me. But I’m not sure we realized the extent of Dillon’s shyness. Exactly how quiet are we talking about?” Mrs. Matthews tilted her head and waited for Ryan to explain.

      He probably should have made things clearer when Dillon started school at Spring Forest Elementary. Scratch that—he definitely should have done so. But he’d stopped short of telling the whole truth because he hadn’t wanted his boy to start off in a brand-new school with a label hanging over his head.

      It had been the wrong call, obviously. Ryan should have seen this awkward conversation coming. He was a journalist, for God’s sake. Anticipating conflicts was part of what made him good at his job.

      “Dillon won’t read aloud,” he finally said.

      “Mr. Carter.” Mrs. Matthews lifted a brow. “Does Dillon speak at all?”

      A heaviness came over Ryan all of a sudden, as if the simple act of standing required more energy than he could muster. “No, he doesn’t.”

      The problem wasn’t physical. According to his pediatrician back in DC, it was just a temporary manifestation of grief. It wasn’t permanent.

      It couldn’t be permanent.

      “I see.” The teacher’s voice grew soft. Soothing. “It’s important for me to know exactly what’s going on so I can figure out how to best help your son.”

      “Right. I’m sorry. I’d just hoped...” He’d hoped once Dillon was in a new place, with new people, he’d be ready to open up and start over. He’d hoped leaving behind the only home his son had ever known and bringing him to Spring Forest had been the right call. Most of all, he’d hoped that it wasn’t too late to be the kind of father Dillon needed.

      The kind he deserved.

      “I guess I thought he’d be happy here.” Even just a little bit.

      “We’ll do our best to make sure he is,” she said, sounding far more certain than Ryan felt.

      He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the window one last time, only instead of catching another glimpse of the inside of the classroom, his gaze snagged on his own reflection in the polished glass. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. He looked every bit as tired as he felt.

      He also looked like a pompous jerk standing in the school hallway dressed in his overly formal bespoke suit and Hermès tie—a pompous jerk who had no idea how to help his own kid.

      “I took him to see a therapist a few times before we moved here, and she said the most important thing we can give Dillon is patience. At home, I’ve removed all pressure for him to speak. As soon as he says a word, even if it’s just a whisper, I’m to offer him gentle encouragement. Other than that, I’m just supposed to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. That’s the only concrete advice she could give me.”

      Mrs. Matthews gave him a curt nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do here at school as well. From now on, I won’t call on him to read aloud. During reading circle, I can send him to the library where he can read quietly on his own so he won’t feel pressured in any way. And if I notice him whispering or speaking in class, I’ll be sure and reward him—nothing too over the top, so he won’t be singled out from the other kids. Maybe a sticker or a baseball card? Does this plan work for you?”

      Ryan nodded. “It does. Thank you for your help. It means a lot.”

      Dillon’s school in DC hadn’t been so accommodating. Ryan had considered homeschooling, but there was no way he could juggle that with his workload at the Post. Their only option had been a completely new start.

      New town, new school, new life.

      “Of course. If you wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve come to take him home. The bell will be ringing in just a few minutes.” The teacher turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “And Mr. Carter, try not to worry. We all want what’s best for Dillon. He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.”

      Ryan nodded his thanks as a dullness spread throughout his chest, blossoming into a familiar regret.

       He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.

      If only that were true.

      * * *

      As soon as Amanda turned her red 1967 Chevy pickup onto Little Creek Road, dread tangled into a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. A third of the large oak trees along the old country road were down and the ones left standing had been stripped bare of their leaves. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie had come along and taken a machete to the forest, severing the top right off every white oak in sight.

      Something horrific had come to their town, of course. The tornado that ravaged Spring Forest had СКАЧАТЬ