The Better Man. Amy Vastine

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       CHAPTER ONE

      A CONSISTENT MORNING routine was the key to a successful day. Toast popped up and the tea kettle whistled. Kendall Montgomery carefully ripped open the instant oatmeal pouch and dumped the contents into a bowl before adding the hot water. Brown-sugar-and-maple was Simon’s favorite. The time Kendall bought strawberries-and-cream had been a disaster. It was a mistake she would not repeat.

      “You want to stir this time?” She offered the spoon to her sleepy-eyed six-year-old. He nodded and took it from her as she turned her attention to buttering the toast. They had fifteen minutes to spare before they needed to leave for school. If they weren’t the first ones there, Simon wouldn’t go in. Kendall had a busy day ahead of her; she needed him to go to school today.

      “What two things are you worried about today?” she asked, taking the seat next to him and pushing the plate of toast his way. It was the same question she asked every school day.

      Her son’s frail shoulders, which always carried more weight than necessary, lifted and fell. Nothing was said. The only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator. It was the single most irritating sound in the world some mornings.

      Kendall didn’t fill the silence, even though she wanted to do nothing else. Experience had taught her that if she waited him out, he would answer. If she spoke first, he’d hold it all in.

      “Calendar and free time.” The whispered words were spoken to the bowl of oatmeal in front of him but were spoken nonetheless.

      “Calendar and free time,” she repeated. These were typical, easy ones. Thank God. “Let’s remember Mrs. Taylor promised that she wouldn’t call on you during calendar unless you raise your hand, right?” Simon nodded, spooning in another mouthful of oatmeal. “And free time is free time. You get to choose your activity. If you want to listen to a book with the headphones, you can do that. Or maybe you’ll want to play with the blocks today. Remember when you made that tower almost as tall as you last week?”

      Simon’s slate-blue eyes met hers and stared. They were the same color as his father’s and always caused that familiar ache in her chest to flare up. Simon nodded again. No protest was a good sign. His shaggy brown hair covered his eyes as he glanced back down at his breakfast.

      “Two things you’re looking forward to today,” she prompted. It was Psychologist #4 who helped her realize that if she could get him to focus on the positives, even if it was going home at the end of the day, he would have a better shot at making it through the day.

      “When Nana comes to get me.” These words were a tiny bit louder than the last. Kendall smiled at both his volume and the choice. Her mother had a way with Simon, brought out the spirit that sometimes dwelled too deep.

      “I bet Nana is looking forward to that part of the day, too. She told me last night that you guys get to take Zoe for a haircut.” Zoe was Nana and Papa’s dog, a feisty Bichon with a gentle heart and an endless need for affection. Simon loved the dog almost as much as he loved his grandparents.

      The little boy perked up significantly. He snatched a slice of toast from the plate and began tearing off the crust. Kendall resisted the urge to remind him how wasteful it was to not eat the whole piece.

      “Zoe gets haircuts? Like me?”

      Taking the crust for herself, Kendall nodded. “Just like me and you, but she has to go to a special place for dogs. She can’t go to Supercuts like you.”

      “Number two is seeing Zoe get a haircut.” Simon was bouncing in his seat, making his mother happier than she expected this Monday morning. She kissed him on the head as she got up to get her coffee. Today had potential. Great potential.

      Hand in hand, they walked along the shaded sidewalk. Simon’s green camouflage backpack gently bounced up and down in time with their steps. Fall was quickly making its move on summer’s final days. It wouldn’t be long before Kendall would have to drive the three blocks to Wilder Elementary. Chicago was just too cold in the winter for walking.

      The closer they got to school, the more Simon reverted into his shell. The term selective mutism was so deceiving. Silence was not something he selected, but rather was what held him prisoner. His hand tightened around his mother’s, squeezed it like it was a lifeline. It broke her already battered heart.

      “It’s СКАЧАТЬ