“Well, first, can you prove it? That you’re actually his father?”
His eyes flash dangerously, stalking across the space to the desk, the only barrier between us. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Yes, you do. That poor boy has been here for the past seven days, terrified of something, of someone out there,” I say, pointing out the window, my voice filled with far more bravado than I feel. This man is dangerous, easily twice my size, and already on edge. Agitating him further will not play out in my favor. I soften my voice as I continue, “He wouldn’t even tell me his name. The first two days, he barely ate, barely slept. He hid in closets and cupboards like he was expecting someone to come after him. To hurt him. The only thing he said to me in all this time was a whisperedthe monster is coming for me.So, forgiveme if I need more than just your word before I let you walk out of here with him.”
Basili’s eyes calm some, but he continues to stare at me silently for a long moment, his jaw tense and working. With a deep breath, he pulls back slightly, pulling a phone from his pocket and swiping his hand across the screen several times before turning it toward me.
There on the screen is a photo of Emmanuel, perhaps a year younger, grinning at the camera with a toy car in hand, standing beside a large fountain, and beside him, with a smile and a proud look in his eyes, is Basili.
“His name is Emmanuel Cierro, and Iamhis father. Basili Cierro.” His voice is firm steel like a knife cutting through the air.
Analyzing the photo, I have no choice but to acknowledge that their resemblance is unmistakable. The same bone structure, the same dark hair, only Emmanuel’s eyes are darker than Basili’s.
He swipes again. Another photo, this time of Emmanuel lying in bed, a book about dinosaurs grasped in his hands. Then another, a banner behind him that readsHappy Birthday. Then another and another and another.
“Satisfied?” Basili demands, his voice cold, impatient.
I nod slowly, my throat tight. “Yes. I’m sorry. I had to be sure.”
He pockets the phone without further comment, crossing his arms as he stares across the desk at me. “I haven’t seen my son in twenty-eight days. I thought he was dead. Hear me when I tell you that no one and nothing is going to stand in the way of me taking him home. Not even you.”
“How? Why?” I ask, digesting that piece of information. “Was he kidnapped? Did he run away?”
“That is none of your concern.” His voice is sharp with barely contained anger. “What matters is he is going home where he is safest.”
“He was kidnapped, wasn’t he?” I push.
He slams his hand on the desk, then, glaring at me as he moves around the piece of furniture to invade my space once more. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
I gulp, backing away involuntarily as he stalks closer, stopping barely a foot away from me, fists clenched.
His voice is cold steel. “Now tell me everything that’s happened since he came here. What has he told you?”
“He hasn’t told me anything. Like I said, he has barely spoken to me at all.” The combination of anger, fear, and worry in his eyes pulls at my heart despite the shot of fear that runs through me at his nearness. I feel a pang of sympathy as I recognize that beneath the danger is a scared parent, and I manage to keepmy voice steady as I continue, “Selective mutism is a trauma response. It is not uncommon in children who’ve experienced severe stress, fear, or even abuse. He’s been through something terrible, and his brain has gone into self-preservation mode; it’s the only way it knows to keep him safe, by shutting down his ability to communicate.”
“But he spoke for you. To protect you. We all heard him.” It is a demand for validation and an accusation all in one.
“As I said,” I take a deep breath again, my chest rising and falling with the motion, and his eyes flicker down for the briefest of moments, “that’s the first time he’s spoken out loud. The rest of the time, he has communicated in signs with ASL.”
“I know what ASL is; who do you think taught him?” Basili says impatiently. “But he hasn’t signed to me, not even to tell me why he doesn’t want to leave. Why? Why only to you?”
“I–I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe because he is still scared, not specifically of you but of all that has happened. He’s deeply traumatized, Mr. Cierro. He needs time and patience and —”
He steps closer then, the movement cutting my words off. This close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body, feel the wisp of his breath as he glares down at me, and it affects me in a way I don’t care to admit.
“Are you insinuating that I don’t know how to take care of my own son? That I don’t know that he has been through something absolutely hellacious?” His voice drops an octave, the carefulcontrol slipping slightly. “You think I haven’t been going out of my mind worrying about him? That I haven’t imagined every possible scenario of what might have happened to him? Do you really think that I don’t want what’s best for him?”
“No, that’s not —” I start to say, stumbling over my words as I gaze into eyes that bear down on me as if they equally want to consume me as kill me. “I just think that you’re so focused on getting him home and back to normal that you’re not considering what might be best for him right now.”
I realize too late that I should have chosen my words more carefully. In that lightning-fast way he moves, Basili punches the wall beside my head, causing me to close my eyes and look away. His voice is an utterly animalistic growl. “Do not attempt to tell me what is best for my son. Do you hear me? What he needs is to be with his family.”
“What he needs…” I whisper out, slowly turning my head back to face him. Defiant. “… is stability. Familiarity. And right now, whether you like it or not, that means me. Not you. He trusts me. Feels safe with me. If you take that away from him right now, in the middle of the night, with no preparation or transition, you’re going to undo every ounce of progress I’ve made with him this past week.”
Basili takes a deep breath then, a sort of calming frustration edging across his features. His eyes are still locked on mine. “Are you suggesting that I leave him here?”
“I’m suggesting that you give him time. Talk to him, even if he doesn’t respond. Prepare him for the transition back home and give him time to gather his things and say goodbye to any friends that he has made here before you go hauling him out in the dead of night. Even better, let him stay a few more days, let me help him understand that he is going home to safety, not being taken from yet another place where he has found comfort.”
“Absolutely not.”
