Antonia's Choice (22 page)

You're in worse denial than I am,
I thought. I felt myself sinking. I'd been prepared for him to blow up. I hadn't expected him to blow me off. I wanted to smack him, but I wasn't sure whether it was out of anger or the need to wake him up.

“I know you don't want to believe it,” I said, with all the control I could muster. “I didn't either at first. But we can't afford to be in denial, not if we're going to help Ben.” I groped back through my memory of my meeting with Dominica. “We can't let him go through this alone.”

“What kind of help are you talking about?”

“He needs professional help, or this could really mess him up. He's already—”

“He's not messed up.”

“Chris, for crying out loud! He screams over nothing, he's afraid of the dark, he wets his bed, he doesn't want me out of his sight and when I'm there he hates the sight
of
me.”

“He's behaving that way because he isn't with both of his parents in his own home.”

“He wasn't with both of his parents when he
was
in his own home. You were never there—I was never there.” I closed my eyes. As hard as it was to stop, I couldn't go down this path, not right now. “It isn't about that. He's responding to abuse. He was molested, Chris.”

“You don't know that.”

“If he was photographed by Sidney, he was molested, whether he touched him or not—and there's a good chance he did. This doesn't make you want to rip Sid's scalp off?
And
Bobbi's?”

“Let's say he did…touch Ben.”

I took a long, controlled breath. “Okay.”

“How much can that affect him? He's five years old. He'll forget about it in six months.”

“You're not listening to me! He needs us to help him!”

“Then let's help him. You and me. You come up here, and we'll sit down with him and we'll talk about it.”

“You don't think I've tried that?” I was talking between clenched teeth. “We don't know how to help him, Chris.”

“Why not? We're his parents. Let's handle this thing within the family. We can protect him.”

“Oh, yeah. Let's circle up the wagons—now that the damage is already done!”

“If he was photographed and if he was touched, whatever, he's too young to know what that means. He just needs time, and he needs us—together.”

“How dare you?” I said.

“What?”

“How dare you use this to try to manipulate me!”

“You think that's what I'm doing?”

“If I came up there with Ben, would you agree to let him see a therapist? Would you work with the person? Would you take your turn making sure he gets there? Would you cut down your work hours so you could spend time with him when he needs you?”

“You're making it sound like this is suddenly going to run our lives.”

“It's already running mine. And unless you're willing to do this
with
me, I'm staying right here—where I have some support.”

He let only a crack of silence split the conversation.

“If you're going to go ahead and get professional therapy for Ben, why do you need my approval?” he said.

“I don't need your ‘approval.' I just wanted you to know. I
thought you'd want him to have the best help possible.”

“How much is this going to cost?”

“I don't know. Insurance will cover some of it, I'm sure. Does it matter?”

“No, of course it doesn't matter. You're making it sound like I'm some kind of cold fish. Just the fact that you're so worked up has got to be affecting him.”

“I did not do this to him, Chris. And if you want to hear me get worked up, say something like that to me again.”

“All right—all right—look, just do what you have to do, but don't make a bigger thing out of it than it really is.”

“How much bigger does it have to get?”

I was close to tears, and I wasn't doing much to hide them. I didn't care what Chris thought.

“You crying?” His voice went soft. “Toni Wells doesn't cry.”

“She does now. She also screams obscenities at clients, so watch it.”

“This woman—this shrink—”

“Dominica. She's a Christian therapist.”

“She's got you thinking the worst. Why don't we just see what the psychologist says about Ben before you jump to any more conclusions? I'd like a second opinion.”

“If I can get a meeting with him in the next few days, is that too short notice for you to get down here?”

Another silence—a longer one.

“You think I need to be there?” he said.

I didn't answer him.

“Let's do this,” he said. “You see what he has to say and then we'll decide if I really need to make a trip to Nashville. Fair enough?”

I waited for another surge of rage to come up and rip a string of profanities out of my mouth, but it didn't materialize. Instead, I sat there, stunned, because what I heard in my husband's voice was fear—pure fear.

When we hung up, I looked up Dr. Parkins's number and dialed it.

M
Y TALK WITH
D
R
. M
ICHAEL
P
ARKINS
was brief. After I told him about Ben's situation, he said we needed to talk right away and would tomorrow afternoon be too soon? Was he kidding? I was ready to go over to his office right then.

But I still asked Reggie to check into his background for me, find out if he had a specialization in sexual abuse and post-traumatic stress syndrome, which she said she'd do first thing in the morning. Then I steeled myself for going into the office and facing Jeffrey.

It wasn't what I wanted to do, but once I got somewhat calmed down—which I had to for Wyndham and Ben—I realized that no matter how much of a jerk Charles R. Marshall was, I'd still been irrational with him. I did have to face the music on that, and find out if I still had a job. At the rate I was hiring therapists, I was going to need the money.

The next morning, once I'd promised to have lunch with Wyndham and had dropped Ben off at school—with the promise that I personally would pick him up for soccer—I made my way reluctantly into the office and went straight to Jeffrey. Ginny was just coming out his door when I got there, hair now a raven black, pulled up tightly into a bun. Was it my imagination or was she going for a more professional look? Oddly, I was more amused than threatened.

“Do you have a minute?” I said to Jeffrey from the doorway. Light glinting off of his bald head, Jeffrey nodded to a chair. I shut the door soundlessly behind me and all but tiptoed into place.

“I want to apologize for my outburst yesterday,” I said. “Did you lose Mr. Marshall's account?”

Jeffrey shook his head, the pistol-fingers rubbing the end of his nose

“I would be happy to write him a letter,” I said. “Unless you think that would make things worse.”

“The man is not a stone wall, Toni, and neither am I. Why didn't you tell me what you and your son were going through?”

It took me a minute to remember that I had spewed the news about Ben's molestation in Marshall's face with Jeffrey right there on the scene. I was sure the people back in the mailroom had heard it. It was probably all over Westend by this time.

“Do you think I'm an ogre?” Jeffrey said.

“No, of course not. I just try to keep my business and personal lives separate.”

“But you haven't been able to pull that off, have you?”

I bit back a retort and merely looked at him.

“You aren't here half the time you need to be, and when you are here, you aren't really here, not completely. Ginny has had to take up your slack—”

“Which I'm sure she is more than happy to do. Look, Jeffrey, could we just cut to the chase? If you're letting me go and replacing me with Ginny, please just say it.”

Jeffrey's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That's a little blunt.”

“It's honest. I don't think either one of us has time to beat around the bush.”

“All right.” Jeffrey leaned forward, hands folded neatly on the desk. “I suggest you take the rest of the week off and get your life in order. Then come back Monday, ready to go back to full-time here at the office.”

I expected a rush of relief. All I felt was panic. I could barely get done what I had to with Ben and Wyndham on half-time. Full-time was out of the question. But how was I going to maintain without the salary I was making? There were more stocks I could sell, an IRA I could get into, but how long was that going to last—especially if Chris was going to keep his head in the sand and not help pay for Ben's therapy?

“You have to think about it?” Jeffrey actually looked insulted.

“No—sorry,” I said. “I'm just…trying to sort.”

“That's why I'm giving you the rest of the week off. Get your
head clear, get your life back on track, come back ready to do what I know you can do.”

He smiled, though no mirth reached his eyes. I didn't smile back, nor did I say what I wanted to. But I thought it, bitterly, as I left his office.
Thanks for the generosity, Jeffrey
—
but I think it's going to take longer than a weekend to get my life back on track. If I ever do.

Ginny had some papers I needed to sign ready for me when I stopped by my office. I didn't give her any instructions. I barely gave her the time of day.

“Will I see you Monday?” she said as I was leaving.

There were a number of things I wanted to say to her, not the least of which was,
You're really enjoying all of this, aren't you?
But suddenly I just didn't have the steam. All I could tell her was the truth.

“I don't know. I guess you'll see me if you see me.”

I then went to Reggie's office where she was just getting off the phone. She lowered her voice as I scooted a chair close to her desk.

“Dr. Michael Parkins checks out great,” she half-whispered. “Not only is treatment for sexual abuse and PTSD his specialty, but he teaches workshops all over the country for
other
child therapists,
and
he has a book coming out at the end of this year.”

“Great,” I said. “At last—a lucky break.”

Reggie gnawed at her lip, chewing away a strip of Luscious Rose lipstick that matched her nails.

“What?” I said.

“Well, honey, I don't want to sound—oh, whatever, I don't care how I sound. If you're gonna be doin this the Christian way, you can't be chalkin' this stuff up to luck.”

“I don't get it.”

“You're putting Wyndham in a Christian facility, you're taking Ben to a Christian therapist. You don't think maybe God has a little bit to do with all this? You don't think this is Jesus' healing at work?”

“This psychologist is a Christian?”

“Is that some kinda big surprise?”

“Not when I think about it. Yancy's the one who recommended him to me, so it makes sense.”

“The point is, a man who knows the Lord is the very best person
to be working with Angel Boy, now don't you think?”

“Yeah—especially since I'm not sure I know Him. I never even thought about it that way, to tell you the truth. I guess I'm completely disconnected.”

Reggie waved me off with her hand. “Get on outa here, honey. You don't feel connected? You've got Hale—Dominique—”

“Dominica.”

“Yancy, me, the whole Trinity House, for heaven's sake. Sounds like you're pretty well networked to me.” Reggie leaned in conspiratorially. “You think that's an accident?”

“Maybe not. But it's like I keep telling Hale, I'm not consciously asking God for all this stuff.”

“It's not all about you, sugar. The rest of us are askin our little heads off.”

“And I appreciate it. I really do.” I shrugged. “What the heck—it's working.”

“You just keep jumpin' into what God's givin' you and you're gonna be fine, darlin.”

“I never heard that in church.”

Reggie sniffed. “I guess you just went to the wrong church.”

“I probably just wasn't listening.”

“Then maybe you better start.”

I had lunch with Wyndham at the house that day—a rather chilly affair over chicken salad and croissants from Provence, what I considered to be the only decent place to get bread in Tennessee. She didn't appear to be impressed. She was polite but removed, and I didn't seriously blame her. I felt like Benedict Arnold by the time I got ready to leave her with Bunny so I could go see Dr. Parkins.

“I'm sending you to Trinity House because I love you and I want you to have a happy life,” I said to her back as she went up the stairs. I was standing at the bottom, car keys in hand.

She stopped midway to the top and turned to me. “Why does everybody think I need to be shipped off to be fixed before I can be happy? You're just like her.”

“Bobbi-her or my mother-her?”

“Bobbi. I told her once that I wanted to kill myself, and you know what she did?”

I shook my head.

“She sent me to the school counselor.”

I fumbled so as not to drop my keys. “You told your counselor you were suicidal and she didn't—”

“I didn't tell her. I got in there and I couldn't say anything.” Wyndham's voice broke. “All I wanted was for my mother to care about me for ten seconds.”

“But I'm not like her!” I said. “I'm not sending you off for somebody else to fix you. I'm going to be involved. You're going to see me once, maybe twice a week, and we can talk every day. I'm going to give you everything I can.”

Wyndham gave an unconvincing nod and went on upstairs, where Bunny was waiting. I was once again riddled with doubt.

But I had to focus on Ben, which wasn't hard to do once I reached Dr. Parkins's office in the 100 Oaks section of Nashville. His office was in a renovated house, vintage 1935, with a white picket fence and a backyard full of playground equipment. I read the sign out front twice to make sure I hadn't pulled up at a preschool. The play yard at Hillsboro didn't look this inviting.