child life specialist,” she said, as though he knew what that meant. “I have a small office at the clinic in town, as they pay the largest part of my salary and take up the brunt of my time, but I work out here at the day care and with some other private clients in the field, as well.”
“In the field?” He didn’t have time to be ignorant, either.
“Doctors’ offices outside of the clinic, the funeral home, schools. I go anyplace a child might need support getting through trauma.”
He nodded. And noticed that the entire time she’d been talking, she’d been softly rubbing the top of Abe’s hand.
“You ready to come with me and play for a while?” she asked the boy, switching her focus from father to son without missing a beat.
Prepared for the next onslaught, Jon tensed. And felt his son lean toward the arms outstretched in front of him. Without so much as a peep, the little boy made the switch from Jon’s arms to Lillie’s.
Acting as though he and Abraham had intercessions from heaven every day, Jon nodded and slid his free hands into the pockets of his jeans. Did he just leave now?
The woman, Lillie, was running a finger along Abe’s lower lip. “Let’s see if we can find you some juice, shall we?” she asked, and as the toddler nodded, she turned and headed through a door on the opposite side of the office leading into the day care. Just before the door closed behind her, she glanced over her shoulder at Jon, winked and was gone.
With no time left to spare, Jon hurried out to the front desk, confirmed that Lillie Henderson was permitted to have physical custody of his son and left.
But not before making one very clear determination.
He had to see her again.
* * *
LILLIE PULLED INTO the parking lot of the Shelter Valley Clinic a little past three on Thursday afternoon. She was early. Bailey Wright’s blood work wasn’t scheduled until four, but she wanted to make certain she was there to greet the six-year-old when her mother brought her in.
Bailey’s doctor suspected the little girl might be anemic and the six-year-old was deathly afraid of needles. Lillie’s job was to explain the blood draw procedure to the little girl in nonthreatening, nonfrightening terms―the pinch and pressure she would feel―and then to support her through the procedure, distracting her from anything and everything that upset her.
If Bailey tensed, the procedure would hurt. Lillie was there to see that the child stayed relaxed.
Her cell phone rang and she answered immediately, as always. “Lillie Henderson, can I help you?”
“Ms. Henderson, Bonnie Nielson gave me your number.” Bonnie, the owner of Little Spirits Day Care, had her permission to pass out all of her contact information. “This is Jon Swartz. You helped my son, Abraham, this morning.”
The gorgeous guy who’d had his ass whupped by a two-year-old.
“Yes, Mr. Swartz.” She and Bonnie had talked about Jon and Abe over lunch. Bonnie thought Lillie could help the single dad. Lillie wanted to try. For Abe’s sake. “Thanks for calling.”
“I owe you a huge thank-you,” the man said. “Abe’s going through a rough time with separation anxiety right now, but his pediatrician says it’s all part of the terrible twos. He assures me we’ll get through it.”
“Of course you will.” Grabbing her bag, she locked her car and, entrance card in hand and ready to swipe, headed toward the service door at the back of the clinic.
“I just didn’t want you to think he’s like that all the time.”
The man was on the defensive, she ascertained, distracted by the even timbre of his voice when she should have been 100 percent focused on his son’s issues.
“I’ve seen Abraham a couple of times over the past week,” she assured the harried father who, in all fairness, sounded completely calm. “He’s a very sweet, responsive boy,” she added, because it was true. “Except when he’s, as you say, exhibiting anxiety.”
“Usually he’s a prince,” Jon Swartz said as though they had all the time in the world, which she didn’t. Curiously, she didn’t tell him so. “He does whatever I ask of him.”
“He’s not a discipline problem at the day care, either, if that’s what’s concerning you. He does what he’s told, when he’s told. He doesn’t have altercations with the other children. But he has been experiencing seemingly inexplicable moments of extreme anxiety.”
Tantrums that in no way seemed to be a result of temper upsets. And because, a couple of times, they’d happened in the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure they were separation related, either.
“Mrs. Nielson suggested that I call you. She says that, as part of your work for her, she asked you to observe Abraham. She says you’re certified at what you do. And I need to know, do you think my son has a problem?”
“I think he’s struggling and I’d like to help, Mr. Swartz.” Holding her phone with one hand while she swiped her card and quickly pulled open the door with the other, Lillie lowered her voice in deference to the office suites opening up off both sides of the hallway.
From a therapeutic masseuse to an orthopedic surgeon, a dentist, several general practitioners, counseling services and three pediatricians, the Shelter Valley Clinic was home to more than forty health care professionals—including Lillie.
“I’d like a chance to speak with you. Is there a time we could meet?” she asked the father who’d been on her mind for much the day.
“With or without Abraham?”
“Without would be best, but either is fine. I understand that you don’t have a lot of free time. I will make myself available to fit your schedule. Early morning, late evening...”
She didn’t mind the long hours. She didn’t mind time off, either.
“I’m a little in the dark here about what we have to discuss.”
She’d reached the small room designated for Bailey’s procedure and had to go. Had to get the room ready for Bailey. She didn’t have time to explain what she, as a child life specialist, did.
“I’m trained to help little ones deal with anxiety—from trauma, separation or even just the stress inherent in learning to share. I’m at the day care a few hours every week, and Bonnie calls me in more when she thinks I can help. She’s noticed Abraham’s escalating stress in your absence and asked me to observe him. I have some ideas where he’s concerned,” she said, still on the phone when she shouldn’t be. Pulling stuffed animals out of her bag, she placed them around the room.
“You want to talk professionally?”
“Yes.” Her work was her life. Professional was pretty much all she was. The purple bear with the heart on his chest toppled over and she righted him.
“I can’t afford another bill right now. If he’s sick or exhibiting some symptoms that concern you, I’ll get him to his pediatrician immediately.”
“I
