A Kid to the Rescue Page 4

  Ryan reached out, tracing more shapes, then wiping the “slate” smooth, he did it again.

  Greg, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, began to sketch funny faces in the pudding. After a few more minutes—this was the warm-up activity, not the main event—he announced, “Okay, sport, it’s time to clean up. I’ve got some other stuff I want to do with you today. We can do this again another time, okay?”

  Ryan nodded. Together they proceeded to scrape the pudding off with paper towels, then sprayed the table down with blue fluid. Once everything was clean, he spread out an assortment of paper, colored pencils and a new sixty-four-count box of crayons. “I’m going to make a picture of my family,” he told the child. “My family is really big, so I’m going to use a big piece of paper. What paper would you use to draw your family?”

  The kid leaned back in his chair, turning away from the table.

  “Okay, you think about it. No rush.”

  Greg’s pencil began to flash across the paper. While he sketched, Ryan pulled a brick-red crayon from the box, holding one end in each hand. With a twist of his wrists, he snapped the crayon in half.

  Greg ignored it, and kept drawing even as Ryan broke a few more crayons. Eventually, getting no response, he picked up another and began to actually work on a picture.

  Great. Now the silent boy was communicating with him, which, in his case, was the major point of art therapy.

  Minutes crept by. Greg tossed out occasional words of praise and encouragement, but mostly the only sounds in the room came from the scratch of his pencil on the paper, the soft taps of the crayons touching the page or being dropped on the table. Greg kept moving after his piece was finished until the boy pushed his paper forward and set down his final crayon.

  “Are you done?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Me, too.” Greg lifted his paper. “See all the people in my family? This is my mom and dad, and these are all my brothers and sisters. This is Alan, Bethany, Cathy, Derek, Elke, Finn, me, Hayden, Judy, and Kyle and Kara. These last two are twins. That means they were born together on the same day. This isn’t even my whole family, if you can believe it. Some of my brothers and sisters are married and have children of their own. And I had another brother, Ian, but he’s in heaven now.” Greg laid his drawing down as Ryan grew somber. The child pointed to something in his own drawing. Someone up in the right corner, near the sun and clouds.

  A female, judging by the long yellow hair. “Is that your mom?”

  Ryan nodded.

  Greg scanned the rest of the picture. On the left side was another figure—basically a head with arms and legs sticking out of it—with lines drawn across it. Bars. Easy enough to guess who that was. Near his jail-celled father were two other people holding hands.

  In the middle of the page, the boy had drawn himself, contained inside a lopsided circle.

  And way off in the bottom corner, a final figure had brown hair and, sprouting from its arm, a tiny triangle with green specks. Greg pointed to it. “Is this Aunt Shannon?”

  Another nod.

  A wave of sorrow for the child flooded Greg as the symbolism sank in. Still, he forced a chuckle. “This is the artichoke pizza from the other day, isn’t it?”

  The edges of the boy’s mouth pulled up slightly.

  “That’s funny. This is a terrific drawing, Ryan. You did a great job. So great that I’d like you to work on another picture for me, okay? And while you do, I’m going to take this and have a chat with Aunt Shannon, okay? I know she’s going to love this. Why don’t you draw something cool for Aunt Shannon’s refrigerator?”

  At Ryan’s gesture of consent, Greg headed out the door and barreled into the observation room.

  Shannon turned from the window. So far, she was impressed with the man’s results. “You got him to crack. That’s the first time he’s almost smiled since he’s come to live with me.” She paused. “I’m really sorry about the broken crayons. He’s not usually destructive.”

  “I’m not worried about a couple of broken crayons. The kid has emotions that are stuck inside him. Breaking the crayons said he’s mad. He didn’t want to draw his family. But he did. And I am way more concerned about this—” he thrust the drawing at her “—than I am about broken crayons.”

  She took it, turning the paper around to examine it. The hard edge to his voice surprised her. He’d been nothing but soft-spoken with Ryan.

  The art therapist reached over the paper, pointing. “This is his mother, in heaven. Notice that she’s the only person on this paper who’s smiling. This is his father, in jail. That’s positive. Shows that Ryan understands where his father is, and hopefully isn’t afraid that his father is going to come after him next.”

  “We’ve talked about that. Well, I have. I’ve tried to assure him that he’s safe.”

  “Who are these two people, holding hands outside the jail?”

  “Ryan’s paternal grandparents. Patty and Lloyd.”

  “Interesting how he kept them close to his father.” Greg pointed again. “This figure in the middle, this is Ryan. Notice that he’s inside a circle? Isolated?” He reached farther over. “See this, way down here? That’s you, Aunt Shannon. Far away from this little boy who feels like he’s all alone in the world. The kid just narced on you. He’s complaining. You’re not bonding with him, and I’d like to know why not.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ve taken him into my home. I’ve spent the last three months with him damn near Velcroed to my side. I’ve damn near lost my job because of missing work to take care of him. Of course I’m bonding with him.”

  “That’s not what Ryan says in this picture.”

  “I read to him every night. We watch TV together.” Shannon’s stomach felt heavy, as though she’d eaten a fast-food meal instead of something decent. “How is that not enough?”

  “Well, despite all that, he’s not getting the message that you want him.” Greg narrowed his eyes. “You do want him, right?”

  “Of—of course I want him. What kind of question is that?”

  “Ryan’s not feeling it.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?” Shannon turned back toward the window, watching Ryan work. Her nose started to tingle, and she fought against the tears welling in her eyes. Basically, she sucked as a guardian. That’s what the art therapist was saying. Ryan wasn’t progressing because of her.

  Maybe he would be better off with Lloyd and Patty. Maybe his time with her was already over, and she should just let him go with his grandparents.

  “Yes. I suggest we move our sessions to your home, where I can observe Ryan in his own setting.”

  “Okay. We can do that. Just let me know what supplies I should have on hand.”

  “Don’t worry about supplies. However, I have one more request.” The man moved to stand beside her.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. That you draw right alongside him.”

  “But—”

  He held up his hand. “No buts. It will let him know you value this therapy, and him. Look, Ms. Vanderhoff—”

  “I thought we’d gotten to first names? I mean, if you’re telling a woman she sucks as the caregiver to a six-year-old, I think you can at least call her by her first name.”

  The lines in his face softened, and he lowered his hand. “Shannon. I’m not saying you suck as Ryan’s caregiver. I’m saying for whatever reason, this child feels like he’s all alone in the world. We have to fix that. If he can’t bond with you, who can he? He needs you. He won’t start talking again if he feels isolated. Getting him back in school next year won’t happen, at least not in regular classes. And I don’t think you want that for him, do you?”

  “No.” She sighed. “All right. If it’s that important, I’ll sit and I’ll draw. But I’m not drawing any superheroes.”

  Greg’s dimples appeared with his smile. “No superheroes. I think I can live with that. Let’s compare calendars and see when we can start at your house.”

  OUTSIDE THE ROW of garden-apartment buildings, Greg pulled his Tracker into one of the spots labeled Visitor Parking Only. “Elke,” he said into his Bluetooth earpiece, “I’m here. I have to go. Tails, no tails, whatever you decide, really, it will be fine. Just make sure I have something to cover my ass—uh—assets, and I’ll be happy. Really. You’re making yourself crazy for nothing.”

  “Denise said the same thing,” Elke murmured.

  Greg groaned. “Elke, come on. You promised me when I started dating her that if it crashed and burned, you’d be okay with it. Actually, I think you said you’d support me. I’m not seeing that support when you bring up her name every time we talk and drag her along for wedding stuff when she shouldn’t be there.”

  “I know, but she’s been so sad since you guys broke up. She’s my best friend, and I’m the one who’s had to pick up the pieces.”

  “That’s usually how it works when a couple breaks up, Elke. The woman’s best friend has to pick up the pieces.”

  “And the guy sails off, trauma free. End of story.”

  Trauma free? No, not completely. One more attempt at love that fizzled. It had been a loss for him. And if there was one thing Greg hated, it was losing. Anything. “Gotta go, sis. Love ya.” Greg pressed the button on the earpiece, effectively cutting off the conversation, then he removed it, leaving it next to the empty Baby Ruth wrapper in the cup holder. From the backseat, he gathered up his supplies.

  At apartment 7A’s front stoop, he used his elbow to stab the doorbell. He heard footsteps on stairs inside, then the lock was released.

  “Mr.—Greg,” Shannon said as she opened the door. “You’re very prompt. Thank you. Come in.”

  There was a short corridor, a private foyer, inside the doorway. Several coats
hung on a rack on the wall, with two pairs of sneakers on a rug below them. Greg toed out of his mocs, set the supplies down and tossed his jean jacket—demanded by the unseasonably cool early-May weather—on one of the hooks. Then he followed Shannon up the stairs to her second-floor apartment.

  Ryan already waited at the table in the dining area. He offered Greg a half smile in greeting.

  “Hey, sport. How you doing today? You ready to draw some more with me?”

  The child nodded.

  “Did you hear Aunt Shannon’s going to draw with us this time?”

  Affirmation.

  “Can I get you something to drink before we start?” Shannon asked.

  “No, thanks. I never drink and draw.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched together.

  Greg laughed. “I don’t like to risk spilling on the work. I learned that lesson early on the hard way. I was inking my third issue, and spilled some juice. Bad news. At least now if I do it, I’m the illustrator, too, but back then, it was someone else’s hard work on the panels I’d wrecked. That nearly cost me my career in comics.” As he spoke, Greg spread the supplies across the oval tabletop. “So grab a seat, Shannon, and let’s get busy.”

  As they settled in, Greg checked out the apartment’s partially open-floor layout. The living room, which flowed into the dining area, contained a black sofa and one slightly battered black recliner. A low table against the wall supported a nineteen-inch television. Aside from a clock, the walls were bare.

  She made the Amish look materialistic.

  The kitchen counters were likewise pristine, except for a hand-grinder salt-and-pepper shaker next to the stove and a silver toaster that seemed like something his parents might have received for a wedding gift—forty-six years ago.

  The disconnect came from the set of gleaming copper pans that dangled from a rack over the breakfast bar, a set like Finn owned. Made some sense. A woman who enjoyed artichoke pizza would probably enjoy other foods that required more serious cookware than a paper plate in the microwave. Maybe he should introduce her to his brother.

  A quiet tingle—a Spidey sense—told him maybe not. Actually, it screamed no damn way.

  Kind of weird to feel that possessive of a woman he barely knew. But then, there was something intriguing about her. Too intriguing to consider introducing her to Finn.

  The drawing Ryan had made at their last session was held up on the pale green refrigerator by a magnet.

  “Okay, Shannon, since you didn’t draw last time, I’d like you to do a family picture for me.”

  “Fine.” She took a sheet of paper and a pencil.

  Greg inched his chair closer to the boy’s. “Ryan, today you and I are going to have some real fun. We’re going to draw superheroes.”

  Shannon made a small noise, a cross between a growl and a groan, in the back of her throat. Then, catching his raised eyebrows, she studiously bent over her picture, flicking away nonexistent bits of dust from the surface.

  “I love superheroes. They’re so much fun. Do you have a favorite superhero?”

  Eyes wide, Ryan nodded slowly.

  “Great. Why don’t you draw him for me.” Greg flipped to a blank page in his sketchbook. “And while you do that, I’m going to draw some pictures of my favorites, too.” While they worked, Greg kept up a running monologue, chattering away about superheroes, drawing techniques, whatever came to mind.

  “I’m done,” Shannon announced a short time later. “Here’s my family picture.” She held it out to him.

  For a quick pencil sketch, she’d actually done a hell of a job. Ryan’s face, right down to the smattering of freckles across the lower bridge of his nose, filled the right side of the paper, and on the other side, cheek almost pressed to the boy’s, was a fairly accurate self-likeness of Shannon, including her perky nose.

  “This is well done.” He showed it to Ryan. “Check this out. Isn’t this great?”

  The boy flicked a quick thumbs-up to his aunt.

  “You’ve got some talent there you didn’t tell me about.”

  The woman shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “But, this is just you and Ryan. I wanted you to draw your whole family.”

  Pain flickered in her eyes, today more the color of dark chocolate. Then she blinked and it was gone. “That is my whole family now.”

  Ouch. Okay, that could be why she was keeping the boy at such an emotional distance. “Sorry. My bad. My family is so ginormous, it’s hard for me to even imagine a family of only two people.”

  “Yes, how many brothers and sisters did you name last time? You mentioned a pair of twins, too?”

  “I’m one of an even-dozen kids. The last two are a set of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl.”

  “Wow. Your mother must be either a saint or insane.”

  “Just a woman who loves kids and considers each one a blessing.” Greg shoved another piece of paper at her. “All right, while we finish up our stuff, I’d like to see a picture of your family from when you were Ryan’s age. Not just faces this time. Whole bodies. And draw your people doing something. Something your family liked to do together back when you were six.”

  For several minutes she just let the pencil tip hover over the paper. Then, she leaned over, forearm shielding her work like an elementary-school kid afraid her neighbor was going to copy her spelling test.

  Shannon didn’t want him to see what she was up to. She might have agreed to draw with Ryan, but she’d never agreed to actually let the man inside her head through her artwork.

  Meticulous gray shapes took form on the paper. Precise. She used the eraser to fix any errors. Once she had the people complete, all she had to figure out was the setting. What innocuous activity could she have her “family” doing?

  The image of the old beige car, Betsy, flashed into her mind, and just as quickly Shannon dismissed it. That was hardly an innocuous memory, and she didn’t feel like explaining the night when her seven-year-old self had wept for hours after her father had given away their car to “someone who needed it more.”

  That had always been Daddy’s response. Someone else always needed it worse than they did.

  Clothes, food, dolls, even pets, it didn’t matter what it was. The only thing that mattered was that Daddy placated his demons by giving it away.

  There’d been moments as a child when she’d wondered if he’d go so far as to give her or her older sister, Willow, away. But she’d been equally certain that her mother, who always supported Dad in his donations, would have drawn the line there. Shannon had only been eight when that certainty had died with her mother.

  So Shannon sketched in a lake behind her people, and a few trees, some clouds. Made it into an idyllic summer day.

  They’d never gone to a lake.

  Adding a few details here and there, she watched the man at her table, working with her nephew. His pencil flew across the page with an ease she both envied and despised. A flying superhero was taking shape, rescuing a cat from a tree. Superguy’s cape flapped in the breeze, and a crowd of people stared adoringly at the kitty’s savior.

  Uh-huh. Why not just draw a fireman with a ladder? A real hero who might actually rescue a stranded pet?

  Still, at least the guy wasn’t bashing anyone. There were no kerpows or whammos.

  It was some time later when she realized Greg was talking to her, holding up Ryan’s picture. The entire top part of the paper featured Ryan’s version of a flying superhero—a roundish head with long legs that grew from it, with an almost-triangle sticking out from the back of the skull—the cape, obviously. Straight stick arms poked out in the front of the hero’s head.

  And down in the corner, waving its arms, was another figure, this one tiny.

  “It’s—it’s terrific, Ryan. I love the blue cape. Good job.”

  Greg beamed at her. “See, we agree on the color. Excellent choice, sport. Now, Aunt Shannon, let’s see yours. You’ve been acting like it’s a national-security secret over there. We want to see. Right, Ryan?”

  The boy nodded emphatically, his hair askew.

  “Well, all right. Ta-da!” Shannon held up her drawing. Ryan clapped his hands.

  The art therapist studied it carefully, but joined in the applause. “Very nice. The scenery is an especially nice touch.” Greg picked up Ryan’s drawing, then hers, tucking them into his sketchbook. “Let’s get cleaned up, then Aunt Shannon can walk me to my car.”