CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BRONWYN
EARLIER
My hands are shaking as I lead Trip away from the kitchen, just wanting to get him out of there. Dad has no patience with him. Mom’s not got much either, but at least she goes through the motions. Normally, that is. Today, she seems to have escaped to her bedroom, sent there by Dad, so she didn’t disgrace herself by fainting from the sight of Short’s blood, and probably remained upstairs as the house is full of bikers.
Trip needs routine. He knows that after breakfast, he goes to his playroom, which is actually surprisingly bare of toys to entertain him. It’s where he has “school”, but I haven’t seen Mom doing much teaching, and I’ve never seen evidence of what he’s learning.
Lately, that’s started worrying me. Having my head in the sand about his existence since the day he was born, it’s only recently, and helped by my nursing experience, I can see he needs more than what he’s being given. But if I dare bring thesubject up in front of my dad, he limits the little time I have with him.
Today’s an exception. I know that if something doesn’t go as expected, he takes it hard, which usually results in a meltdown. Meltdown being the correct word for it – him being overwhelmed and automatically reacting in the only way he can - while my parents prefer the terms tantrum, or behaving badly.
Mom’s the constant, and today she’s missing. I’ve rarely been left alone with Trip, and I’m worried I might not be enough. Nervous, I don’t know how to talk to him, or how to entertain a boy who can’t use words to express how he’s feeling.
Mom calls her time with him “homeschool”, but in truth, keeping Trip occupied and out from under Dad’s feet is the real goal. Dad hates the very sight of him. He’s our father’s one failure, his big disappointment, stemming from the fact that he should never have been born. While Dad might have been able to overcome that if he were a normal boy, Trip’s issues were a step too far. At least, up to now, he’s kept his hands off him, but I’ve started to notice a recognisable look in my father’s eyes, which means it’s only a matter of time.
The bikers’ appearance will have upset Dad, and he’ll need an outlet to work through his frustration.
Trying to concentrate on the here and now and putting my worries about what might happen when we get our house back to ourselves, I fall back on the staple that keeps kids amused, and resort to tuning the television to a kids channel, and leave him sitting in front of it.
Today, though, he’s too agitated, so I have to try something else. I pick up the well-wornHungry CaterpillarI used to read from when I was a child, sit on the bean bag, and try to draw Trip down with me. He evades my touch, but at least sits at my side.
Slowly, I begin to read, but he’s unable to concentrate. He snatches the book out of my hands and throws it across theroom, before he draws his legs up to his body, wraps his arms around them, and starts rocking to and fro.
“Trip,” I say softly. It breaks my heart that I can’t cuddle him, but he won’t take physical comfort from anybody. “Trip, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.” I talk to him, just using words calmly, and keep my cadence soft and even-toned. It doesn’t really matter what I say, and I’ve no idea if he can understand me. It’s just a voice that reassures him he’s not alone.
The door opens, and Mom chooses that moment to step in. She sees Trip folded in on himself and rolls her eyes. “What have you done to upset him?” After glaring at me, she turns on the unhappy boy. “Enough of this, Trip.” She goes to pull him up by his arm, but I stop her with a hiss.
“He’s unsettled by the activity in the house. You know how much he likes his routine.”
“He’s got to get used to it, Bronwyn. Don’t mollycoddle him. It just makes him worse.” Then, ignoring my protest, she places her hand around his thin arm, yanking him up, before telling him, “If you want to be like that, you can go sit in the corner.”
I wince, the force that she used to lift him will probably leave a bruise, but Trip doesn’t cry. When she pushes him into the corner, he just stands, staring at the wall, and again starts rocking.
I want to rant at her that she’s treating him like a naughty child when it’s not him who’s done anything wrong. But raised voices will upset him, so I don’t want to get into an argument.
Instead, I try to reason with her, using a soft voice. “Mom, I’m here. I’ll look after him.”
She looks at me scornfully. “You haven’t the faintest idea what to do with that child.”
“And you do?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I’d kept quiet.
Her eyes widen at my challenge. “And you think you know what it takes to be a mother?”
Now I’ve started, I can’t stop. “He needs to be with other children. He needs specialist attention.”
“You think strangers know better than us? And who would want to deal with… that? Your father would never allow it, and you know exactly why.”
Swallowing down my pride, instead of criticising her, I hold out an olive branch. “I’m here now. Why don’t you take advantage of it? Go watch your shows, and I’ll stay here with Trip. I’ll keep him quiet.”
The house is now empty of our visitors. I’d heard motorbikes start up and go sometime past. Dad should be entrenched in his study. I don’t know what he gets up to in there, but he seems to spend his time making calls and working on the computer as if trying to convince himself he’s still a professional. It’s likely he won’t come out for a good few hours, which Mom knows as well as I.
As if it were her own idea, she sighs heavily. “I can’t do anything with him, so you can try. I’ll be in my room.” With that parting shot, she leaves.
When she leaves, Trip slowly stops rocking, and I encourage him back into the centre of the room. Without success, I search for toys to amuse him, and finally resort to turning on the television again. This time, he becomes engrossed in cartoons. But whether or not he gets any of the jokes, not one laugh or giggle comes from him.
I get him his snacks at precisely the right time.
