“Can I help you?” A woman who looks past retirement age greets me. She’s pushed up to the wooden desk on the opposite side of the glass window.
“Uh… yes.” I swivel my head around. I might remember the layout of the school, but room numbers not so much. “I have a meeting with Miss Amy?”
“Please sign the clipboard and take a visitor badge. She’ll meet you in the conference room, which is down that hallway, third door on the right.” She smiles at me in a polite way a stranger would, and I feel myself exhale. She doesn’t recognize me. Even so, I choose to scribble my first name only on the badge I clip to the collar of my shirt.
“Thank you.”
The farther I get from the office, the worse it smells—musty carpet mixed with hundred-year-old French fries. I could have spared myself the onslaught had I fought my family on this decision. It was a part of their homeward bound intervention plan the day after my concert exit. The five-to-one odds were not in my favor.
I pull out my phone on my way down the hall, checking the surveillance footage on the house.Nothing.Summer is still not there yet.What’s taking her so long?
I swipe the app closed as I come upon the open conference room door. Miss Amy is already seated at the oval table in the center of the room. She stands when she sees me and gestures to the chair across from her.
“Mr. Dawson. Please, come in.”
I stuff my phone in my pocket. “Thanks.”
“Thankyoufor meeting with me.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out to check it again. A snapshot of Summer, Quinn, and Henry opening the side gate to the house fills the screen. It surprises me how much that fuzzy image calms my buzzing nerves.
A throat clearing interrupts my stare. “I’m sure you have places to be, so I’ll get right to the point. Quinn is having a difficulttime in class.”
After the week I’ve had hauling her here kicking and screaming, this is not shocking news.
“As you know, Quinn lost her mom several months ago. And with my line of… work… she’s not used to me being around much.” I want to add that Quinn’s been through more than anyone should at her age. She may not understand the feelings of grief or the purpose of death, but I know every night before bed when she says, “Mommy stay,” she knows what it feels like to miss her.
“I’m not talking about Quinn’s home life, Mr. Dawson.”
“You can call me Everett.”
She nods.
If it’s not about the tantrums, then what is she getting at? Why am I here?
My phone buzzes again with another screenshot. I can tell it’s the backyard based on the grill in the corner, but the people are farther away. I hold it closer to my face and see Summer turned toward the camera. She’s holding out a bucket of something to Quinn. My heart does this brief stutter in my chest at the broad expanse of her smile. I don’t like it, so I flip over the device and set it on the table.
“What I’m trying to say is, I think your daughter might need additional services I can’t provide at this school.”
A triggering onslaught of memories washes over me. Trapped in a small space, interrogated with concerns, pushing for answers. There’s a chasm of doubt with my ability to be a capable father hovering over it. One gust of wind and it’ll all fold like a house of cards. All that’s keeping me upright at this point is determination. I’ll tell this woman exactly what I told Caroline—Quinn isfine.
“She’s four.”
“I mean no disrespect.” She freezes for a moment.
All of these thoughts and feelings are swirling around in mybody. Being here in this building, having this conversation, it’s all too much. I know what she’s referring to, and I don’t want her to say anything else.
“My own son struggled with a speech delay,” she adds.
There it is. It was easier to ignore when Caroline was the one pushing. But Quinn’s teacher?
She slides a card across the table. I pin my eyes on the wall instead of her face. I’m afraid she’ll see the one emotion I hold tight to my chest: fear.
“There’s a speech pathology clinic across town. They have a great working relationship with some of our students and accept most insurances. But, of course, you’re welcome to see who else might be in-network if you prefer. They’ll start with an evaluation and help her…”
Her words slip out of focus as I fixate on her pen.
Mrs. Dawson, your son needs help.
