“I do!” She reaches in her purse, whips out a ballpoint pen, and hands it to me.
Her shirt is tight and ribbed. On so many levels this is a recipe for disaster. I let go of Quinn’s hand to uncap the pen. I’m not about to sign this woman’s cleavage in front of our children if that’s what she thinks, so I step to the side. It’s awkward even touching her shoulder. I use as little pressure as possible dragging the dried-up pen meant for paper down her cotton shirtsleeve.
“I don’t think it’s working.”
I hoped she’d say “Thanks anyway.” Not step aside when an onlooker offers their child’s marker.
Terrific.
I scribble my signature and pass it back.
“Thanks,” she finally says. The door collapses with her back no longer pressed to it. I catch it with my palm before it slams into my shoulder.
There isn’t anything else that could surprise me about this place after that. Not the neon saturated walls or the toddlers playing with trains in the entryway. Not how the entire city of Boise seems to have a five o’clock appointment here or the speech pathologists who don’t look a day over twenty.
It screams of chaos and inexperience, and I come to accept I’ve made a mistake. One I can’t back out of with a front desk lady shoving an iPad against my chest. I barely register theinformation she’s asking for on the screen—our names and Quinn’s birthdate maybe?—before someone says, “You must be Quinn.”
I look up. An older woman with silver curly hair is bent over at the waist and holding out her hand. “I’m Sue.”
“Say hi,” I prompt Quinn.
Quinn doesn’t look away from the twin boys who are drilling holes in the vinyl tile with a pair of matchbox cars.
“She does better when it’s quiet,” I tell her.
Sue nods. “Come with me.”
It takes a tug of her hand to get Quinn to leave the lobby. Even after that, her attention remains glued over her shoulder the entire way to the exam room.
I was expecting this place to feel older but not small. Sue invites us into a space that’s barely larger than a closest, and I must not hide my surprise well.
“I know. It’s suffocating.” She sighs as she presents us both with chairs that had been previously stacked in the corner. Then she closes the door for privacy.
That’s not at all what I was thinking. Refreshing would be more like it. Usually, people roll out the red carpet for me.
“They’re wanting to add occupational therapy to the services we offer here, so they had to remodel half the building for it. It will be really nice when it’s all done.”
“I’m Everett, by the way,” I say to change the subject. Now that we’re in an enclosed space, I feel comfortable enough to share my name.
She shakes my hand and sits down across from us. “You don’t go by ‘Quinn’s dad’ all the time? I swear I didn’t have autonomy until my kids were grown.”
I go by Rhett Dawson, I think to myself. It’s something I’ve been proud of until this moment.
“I saw on my paperwork that you like bugs.” Sue turns her attention to Quinn when I don’t acknowledge her comment.
Quinn nods.
“Well, look what I have for you!” She pulls out a wooden bug puzzle and sets it in front of her. “Can I talk to your dad while you play with this?”
“Mhm.” Quinn gives her a closed-mouth smile before she takes the puzzle apart.
Sue turns her attention back to me. “She’s adorable.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I don’t know how much was explained to you over the phone, but I’d like to go over the process. Ask you a few questions about Quinn’s birth, development, home life, and family history. As her parent, you know her best.”
Do I?Two months ago, I would have told this woman, that might be true for most people, but not me. A parent should know their child better than anyone else. It was true for El. But I didn’t know Quinn the same way her mom did. Hell, I didn’t even know her the same way my parents did when they came and stayed with her after El died. Seeing her a day or two at a time between legs of a tour doesn’t give you much of a chance to know that she rubs her right ear when she gets sleepy or prefers Frosted Flakes over Fruit Loops. At least I didn’t before.
