It’s for Trip.
That’s the only reason I keep my feet plodding forward, and don’t run back to the truck, begging Short to take me home.
I’m in a mess by the time we enter the waiting room. Short gives our names to the receptionist, for which I’m grateful. My entire body’s trembling, but I try to put on a brave face, as I don’t want to telegraph my feelings to Trip if there is even a chance he can pick up on them. I just don’t want to take the risk.
Short takes hold of my hand, holding it gently, but giving it a squeeze. Quietly, he tells me, “You’re doing the right thing, Bron, the right thing for Trip. Just remember, you can tell the therapistanything you like. Nothing will be used against you, and your visit here won’t get back to your parents.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re a nurse,” he reminds me. “Part of the medical profession. Would you divulge any confidence you were told?”
“If someone comes in with a bullet wound, we’re supposed to.”
“Not the same thing,” he says. “Maybe if Trip were still with your parents and they truly were his mom and dad, she might have some responsibility to keep them informed. But he does not, and you’re his momma.” He pauses and lowers his voice. “Once she hears what actually happened, she’ll be one hundred percent on your side.”
“I was talking about her thinking she needs to report a crime.” My words will quickly expose that my dad had raped a minor and forced her to carry his kid.
“Ask her for an off-the-record conversation,” Short suggests. “And if you really think she can’t be trusted, then call me in. I’ll put the fear of the Kings into her, and threaten bodily harm if she betrays a word of what you’ve said.” He pauses. “In fact, I’ll probably get Freak and Tempest to back me up.”
My eyes snap up, and I draw in a breath at his tone. “You’re not joking, are you?”
He has no time to reply, as a door opens and a fifty-something woman pops her head out. “Ms. Custer?”
I stand. Short distracts Trip with some of the toys they’ve got laid out for kids. Swallowing hard, I approach her. “Can I talk to you before you see my son?”
A friendly smile greets my words. “Of course. I like to talk to the parents first. Is your partner coming in? Grace,” she nods toward the receptionist, “is excellent at entertaining kids.”
“No, sorry, he’s not my…” I break off, not really knowing what he is. “I’d rather talk to you alone.”
Her eyes flick to Short, who raises his chin, letting her know he’s not affected by being excluded. Then, she stands back from the doorway and waves me in.
There’s a desk, sure, but it seems to be used more as a useful surface to hold stacks of papers, toys, games, and other equipment. Instead of being requested to sit on a hard chair opposite her, like I would at the doctor’s, she points me to a comfortable-looking couch, and takes the adjacent chair, kitty corner to me. While it doesn’t do much to calm my nerves, the setup feels non-judgmental, which is probably the reasoning behind the arrangements.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Custer.”
“Bronwyn, please.” The less I have to hear my family name, the better I feel. Maybe it would be a good idea to change it. Get Short to get me a fake ID. That would certainly help if I had to disappear with Trip.
“Bronwyn,” she says gently. “Are you ready to start?”
Realising I’d zoned out for a moment, I give her my full attention as I lie and reply, “Yes.”
She pulls a tablet toward her. “First, could you give me some details? Who has your son seen before about his issues? Can you give me his paediatrician’s name so I can get some background and records on him?”
My eyes turn to hers in horror. “I, er…” Then I do the most stupid thing. I burst into tears. When she hands me a tissue, my words tumble out one after the other. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. It was a mistake to come here. I’ll just go.” I start to stand, but she reaches over and places a hand lightly on my leg.
“And that reaction suggests you need me even more than you know.” At my stunned look, she chuckles and continues, “I’m a therapist. I read people. And it’s normally those who’re reluctant who need my help most.”
“I need help for my son,” I admit, in little more than a whisper. “But, what will you do with whatever I tell you? Will you go to the police?”
To give her her due, she doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Have you committed a crime?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m complicit and guilty, but then I remember Pippa’s words. I was a victim. I had no control, just as Trip doesn’t. It’s thinking of him that reminds me it’s important to put him first now. Even if it means laying bare my own soul. “No,” I answer her, my voice surprisingly strong.
“Then no police.” She smiles comfortingly.
Before she can repeat or rephrase her question, I blurt out, “Trip’s never seen a doctor.” Then, I correct myself. “His father’s a doctor, so his medical needs were catered to by him.”
“Not exactly ethical.” She frowns. She consults her notes, which must be what I told her on the phone, and then examines me critically. “Your son is eight years old, yes? Bronwyn, can I ask, how old are you?”
