might have clenched her fists. Or done something even worse, like start to cry.
In the olden days, back when she and Dillon had been so in love they’d been crazy with it, her tears had brought him to his knees. These days, they gave him strength.
“I’m not asking for a favor, Dillon,” she told him, remaining calm by thinking of her son, sitting at a table in his preschool class, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, his face just inches from the table, while he put pencil to paper. If they were lucky, he’d make a mark that was distinguishable. “Per our decree, you are responsible for half of Dawson’s medical bills.”
“Speech therapy isn’t medical.”
“The state disagrees with you.” She handed him the paperwork she’d brought, showing that medical insurance would pay for the therapy. They just had to come up with the co-pay. A measly 20 percent. And she had to have the time off work to see that he got there.
The extra hours, those in which she helped her son exercise muscles and do his therapy “homework,” she was already handling. Like every single time Dawson ate and they played the blowing-bubbles-in-your-cup-through-your-straw game. Or every time she asked him for a kiss and he licked her cheek before turning to kiss her. They were games his speech pathologist had helped her design to strengthen his low muscle tone.
“If so, then why are you only just now bringing it to me? Who’s been paying all along?” His tone, challenging as always, hurt. Still.
How could a man turn his back on his own son? Be embarrassed by him? How could Janie still hope that someday Dillon would realize how phenomenal, how perfect, their son really was?
“The state paid, Dillon. Through age three. Dawson just turned four. Now insurance pays, but not the co-pay part.”
Because Dillon provided the cheapest insurance he could get for his son.
“You’re just doing this to get back at me, aren’t you?” Wiping his greasy hands on a red towel he grabbed from his rolling toolbox, he walked toward his office. When they were both inside he shut his door.
The smell of grease and gas emanating from his overalls was one thing she did not miss. Dillon had been in college when they’d met—studying business. He’d had big plans. And then they’d gotten married and his father’d had a heart attack and he’d taken over the garage. She’d supported him on all of it. Had loved him even more for it. She just had never gotten used to the smell of grease that permeated him at the dinner table. Even after he’d showered...
You’re just doing this to get back at me. His words were no less grinding even after taking a second to step away from them.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, not ready for another one of their asinine confrontations. The kind where he hurled ludicrous accusations like they were truth and she walled herself against them.
But she’d known when she’d gotten up that morning that the moment was coming. She’d been happy the night before when she’d received confirmation in writing that Dillon had to help with the co-pay. She’d given herself the night to enjoy the small victory. The small feeling of relief.
And she’d arisen that day with the knowledge that if she did not hand deliver the paperwork to her ex-husband, in front of others, he’d spend months requesting it. Over and over again. Denying, each time, that he’d received it. And if she sent it certified post, he’d refuse to sign.
She could take him back to court.
If she had the money.
“You can’t possibly think that I purposely had a child with Down syndrome so that I could somehow get back at you?”
“I’m not an idiot, Jane. Of course you wouldn’t do that.” He sat, pulling at his mustache as he looked up at her standing by the closed door.
Did he know she kept the handle within reach on purpose? Because it was the only way she could make herself confront him? Knowing that she could choose to escape at any point.
“I need money, Dillon. I’ve covered the past two months of co-pays. I need you to give me this month’s.”
Until last night’s letter had come, she’d been afraid she would have to borrow the money again.
At some point, her friends were going to run in the opposite direction when they saw her coming.
“And I think you’re still doing this therapy thing because it’s your way of making me pay. You’re just trying to get more money out of me. You don’t want me to move on, get ahead, because you can’t. But I’m not the one who insisted on going through with a pregnancy with a known birth defect...”
Of course, having once been the love of her life, he knew best how to push her buttons.
“I am not trying to keep you from getting ahead.” With extreme focus, and having had a lot of practice, she ignored the worst of his barbs.
“I didn’t want to think so, but I’m not the only one saying it anymore.”
“Who else is saying it?” She hated herself for asking. Heard the question come out of her mouth before she’d thought about it, enabling his ability to get her going...
“Wendy.”
“Who’s Wendy?”
“The woman who’s been living with me for the past three months.”
She hadn’t known. He’d known she hadn’t known.
“You’re obligated to pay this money, Dillon. Please just give me a check and I’ll leave you alone.”
And Wendy. Leave him and Wendy alone.
She didn’t want Dillon for herself. Hadn’t wanted to be married to him since the second he’d denounced their son as not worthy of being born. The doctor had offered a medical abortion because they’d caught the Down syndrome diagnosis during her first trimester. Dillon had done everything he could to get Janie to agree to the procedure. He’d even made an appointment with the doctor’s office, behind her back, to have it done.
And yet...for many years they’d been a couple she’d thought would be together forever. Hearing that he was with someone else, even though they’d been divorced since before Dawson was born...
A part of her died.
Another part needed a good cry.
“You think this therapy is so important, pay for it yourself.” He looked smug. Arms crossed. His lips not smiling but his eyes looking like he was.
How could she ever have been in love with this man?
“I can’t.”
“Well, I can’t, either.”
“Yes, you can, Dillon.” She waved around her at the four bays behind them, all full, the wall-size calendar at the side of his desk and the Dry Erase board, both also completely full. “You’re doing well. Paying your obligation for your son won’t even put a dent in your petty cash.”
“And
