like now, when Charlotte had smelled liquor on her breath, a definite no-no for someone with her mental problems, and to Charlotte’s way of thinking, a definite no-no for anyone at eight o’clock in the morning.
Marian pulled a tissue from her housecoat pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m at the end of my rope with that boy.”
“Now, now,” Charlotte soothed. “You’re upset right now, and when we’re upset, things sometimes seem a lot worse than they really are, especially when it concerns our children.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I—I just don’t know.” Marian shook her head. “You raised a son. Are they all so—so—” Marian threw up her hands.
“Unpredictable?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows as she filled in the blank. With a chuckle, she gave an exaggerated nod. “At times they are, along with aggravating, messy, loud, and just plain ornery, not to mention that they’ll eat you out of house and home. All boys go through a rebellious stage when they hit fifteen. And girls too.” Charlotte smiled, hoping to reassure the distraught woman. “Being rebellious is part of the requirement for being a teenager.”
“Even Hank?”
Charlotte nodded. “Even Dr. Hank LaRue, the great surgeon.” She grinned. “But don’t tell him I said so. He hates it when I remind him that he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.”
A tiny smile pulled at Marian’s lips, just the reaction Charlotte had hoped for. Though it was true that Hank had rebelled in his own way during his teenage years, it was also true that he’d never truly caused her the kind of heartache that Marian seemed to be experiencing with B.J.
Charlotte had always considered herself fortunate. Raising a child as a single parent wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination even under the best of circumstances. But unlike B.J., who’d at least had the benefit of having a father for the first fifteen years of his life, her Hank had never known his father.
Hank’s father…Don’t even go there, she told herself as she immediately slammed the mental door on the precious memories of her son’s father. Opening that door only made her sad, and she was depressed enough.
“And B.J.’s no different, just a typical teenage boy,” she continued. “It’s just his way of coping with changing hormones.” But even as Charlotte tried to reassure Marian, she was beginning to have her doubts.
“I don’t remember having all this trouble before Bill—before he—” Marian swallowed hard and pressed her lips into a tight line.
Charlotte patted her on the arm. “I’m sure that’s part of it. B.J. misses his father too. And I’m equally sure that some of his behavior is due to coping with his loss, but he’s a good boy and he’s going to be okay.”
“I wish I could believe that, but—” Marian shook her head. “I just can’t, not when things seem to be going from bad to worse. He’s failing in school, and just last week he got suspended for smoking. And now—now this!”
“This?”
Marian nodded. “He sneaked out again last night after curfew.”
“Again?”
Marian waved her hand. “I caught him sneaking out once before, but this time it was the police who caught him. Did you know the police have a Curfew Center on Rampart?” Without waiting for an answer, Marian shook her head. “Well, I didn’t, but I do now. I had to drag poor Aaron out of bed at midnight and go all the way over to Rampart to pick up B.J.—and that’s another thing. I’m going to have to cancel and reschedule an important appointment with a new client this morning because Aaron is—”
“Mom! Hurry!”
At the sound of the plaintive cry from Marian’s eight-year-old, she groaned, “Oh no, not again.” Giving Charlotte a harried look, she rushed down the hallway toward the boy’s bedroom. “Some kind of stomach virus,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s been throwing up off and on all night.”
Just seconds after Marian disappeared into the boy’s bedroom, Charlotte heard an awful retching sound. Poor little guy, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen. She’d have to remember to use gloves when she stripped Aaron’s bed and make sure she used disinfectant when she cleaned his bathroom. The last thing she needed or wanted was to catch a stomach virus.
The moment Charlotte stepped into the kitchen, she froze. From the looks of the room, it was hard to believe that she’d left it spotless on Wednesday, just two days ago. The entire kitchen was a disaster area. The stovetop was splattered with what appeared to be spaghetti sauce and grease, and there were dirty dishes everywhere…on the table, strewn along the countertops, piled haphazardly in the sink.
Charlotte frowned. How on earth could just three people use so many dishes? she wondered. Then she glanced at the floor and her frown deepened. She’d swept and mopped on Wednesday and had left it shiny clean. Now the light gray ceramic tile was marred with splotches of some unidentifiable dark liquid that had been spilled in front of the refrigerator, then again near the table. No one had bothered to wipe it up, and the stuff had congealed into a gooey glob.
Only one explanation for the mess made any sense, she decided. In spite of all the medications Marian was taking, her condition was getting worse. And that, along with B.J.’s escalating behavior problems, spelled real trouble.
Wondering how Marian would feel if she suggested that they might all benefit from some family counseling, Charlotte set down her supply carrier, then shoved up her sleeves.
It took almost an hour before Charlotte finally had the kitchen back in order. Giving the room a final inspection and a nod of approval, she turned her attention to the connecting family room.
Separated from the kitchen by a row of cabinets and an island, the large room was messy but not really dirty the way the kitchen had been. After she’d straightened and dusted the room, she made a quick trip to her van to bring in her vacuum cleaner. Years of experience had taught her to use her own equipment, equipment she knew she could rely on to do the job right.
She had just shut off the vacuum cleaner when Aaron wandered in.
“Mom said if it was okay with you, I could watch Cartoon Network.”
“That’s fine, hon,” she told him, unplugging the vacuum. “I’m finished in here anyway.”
With his blond hair and blue eyes, the boy reminded her a lot of her nephew, Daniel, when he was Aaron’s age. Though not as mischievous as Daniel had been, Aaron was usually rosy-cheeked, full of life, and extremely talkative. Today, though, the eight-year-old was pale and listless as he wandered over to the sofa.
“How are you feeling?”
The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug then mumbled something that sounded like, “Okay.”
“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
He shook his head. “Mom said I couldn’t have anything for a while. She’s afraid I’ll throw up again.” From the sofa table, he picked up the TV clicker and pointed it at the television set. Sounds of Tweety Bird and Sylvester soon filled the room.
Deciding that now was as good a time as ever to clean Aaron’s room, Charlotte unplugged the vacuum. Retrieving her supply carrier and dragging
