wasn’t telling her no.
If there weren’t any problems, if Ted was a good, loving husband, he’d understand if his wife needed a little time away to get herself emotionally stable, wouldn’t he? That was all this would be, then. Nora getting help.
Having a preemie was difficult for anyone, let alone for a child barely out of high school. But being disowned by those who should have been looking out for her?
Whatever the reason, Nora looked like a woman who was running out of hope.
“You can stay at the...place...until you have a job. A home. They help women in your position find jobs. There are full-time counselors on staff. Means to get training. Toys for Henry. Other women for you to be friends with. You’d have your own suite with Henry. A crib. Clothes. The cottages all have self-contained kitchens...”
“I...” Nora was crying now. Looking from Henry back to Ella.
“There’s a pool. And a day care. It’s a very unique shelter for battered women, Nora, and you’re one of them, aren’t you?”
A sob escaped Nora, though Ella mostly noticed it from the way the other woman’s chest shook. They were in a busy pod with patients and hospital professionals moving around them—and they were all alone, too. Emotional scenes with parents in the NICU were, unfortunately, not uncommon.
“Ted... He wouldn’t let me... He said his boy has a mouth and he could learn to eat...”
Henry had had so many tubes in his mouth during the first weeks of his life that he’d developed an oral aversion. The hope was that as he got a little older, and with proper care and developmental therapy, he’d be able to chew and swallow without activating his gag reflex.
“He’d force food down his throat and then when Henry threw it back up, he’d refuse to give him more until the next mealtime. He said when he got hungry enough, he’d eat.”
“There’s red tape we’ll have to go through,” Ella said, scared and determined and wishing she knew far more than she did. “But the people at the shelter will help you with that. There’s a lawyer who donates her services to the residents who can’t afford to pay for them...”
Ted Burbank had the right to full access to his son. Something would have to be done to revoke that.
If...
“Tell me, Nora...has Ted ever hit you? Or threatened you in any way?” Had the man threatened to kill her? From what she’d read for her High Risk team training, death threats were taken very seriously by law enforcement and the courts.
But she couldn’t lead Nora to such a confession.
Nora stood, carefully and capably settling her son back in his crib without disturbing the monitors on him. Without disturbing him.
Ella stood, too, ready to block the woman’s way long enough to try to convince her one more time to take advantage of the help being offered to her.
Instead, Nora turned, faced the wall and lifted her shirt. The bright red welts were clearly new. Ella could see the imprint of a belt buckle there. And Nora had been sitting back, rocking her son all morning.
Clearly the woman was used to pain.
“You need to get her looked at,” a resident who’d been at the crib next door leaned in to say to Ella as he passed. She nodded.
“Let me make the call,” Ella said to Nora as the woman pulled her shirt down and turned around.
“He’ll come here...”
“I’m going to call the police officer who visited you last night. There are professionals used to dealing with these situations, Nora. They’ll help you. And make certain that you and Henry never have to go back to Ted again.”
She believed what she was saying. And hoped to God that those trained professionals upon whom she was relying would come through.
Thinking of Lila McDaniels, she experienced a moment of calm as she left Nora with her son, giving word that if Ted Burbank showed up he was not to be allowed in the NICU and alerting security to the situation. Then she went into her office, closed the door and made a call to The Lemonade Stand.
BRETT’S PHONE SIGNALED five new voice mails when he took it out of airplane mode upon landing at LAX Friday afternoon. From his first-class seat, Brett pressed 1 to retrieve his messages. He’d be first to deplane, but the Jetway wasn’t even connected to the plane yet.
The first two messages were from members of the board of directors of Americans Against Prejudice. He’d been fielding calls from various AAP board members for two days. Some had been cajoling, others angry. All of them attempting either to manipulate or intimidate him. In two days, only one member of that board had called him out of shame. Probably fear-induced.
That had been the only call Brett had returned.
The Jetway moved toward the plane. He could see it through the window and stood, phone still to his ear, and with his free hand, retrieved his bags from the overhead bin and put them on the seat beside him.
Message three was from Detroit. A call he’d been expecting. A follow-up with a nonprofit museum he’d toured the morning before, confirming their desire to acquire his services and give him a seat on their board.
He didn’t really have time in his schedule, but the museum was a hands-on science, music and technology facility that could make a real difference with the next generation of Detroit leaders. And their meeting schedule mostly coincided with the Washington, DC, group so he could make both with one trip.
The fourth message came up as, with his one free hand, he slung his bags over his shoulders, and picked up his briefcase. A confirmation of a haircut appointment he had the next morning. He nodded at the captain and the flight attendant standing in the open doorway of the cockpit as he disembarked, and was almost to the gate and that much closer to his car when he heard the fifth message.
“A front-yard sprinkler head sprung. George fixed it.”
He didn’t wait for the click he knew would follow. His mother took good care of him. He’d come up with the plan shortly after he’d sold the dot-com and finalized details for The Lemonade Stand. His mother liked to take care of people. And he’d banked on the fact that if she thought he really needed her, she wouldn’t be able to say no. He couldn’t travel as much as he did, and focus on the job as he needed to do, without having someone to take care of his private business matters for him—including his charity work. And he valued his privacy—as she valued hers. She’d understand that he didn’t want a stranger managing his affairs.
His plan had worked. She’d agreed almost without hesitation. Through email. And the setup had backfired, too.
She took care of him. She just wouldn’t see him. Or have a back-and-forth, two-way conversation with him. She knew his schedule and tended to his home when he wasn’t there. And if she needed his input, or to relay information, she texted him. Or emailed. Or left the occasional voice message.
The
