God Bless the Child
by Merilyn Howton Marriott
Chapter 1 “H
e’s how old?” “Three.” I felt my brows lift. “In dog years?” “No. He’s a toddler.” “And he’s been kicked out of day care and can never return?” My assistant stood in my treatment room wearing her hard-to-resist begging face. Alicia always pled the cases of new clients I didn’t have time to see. She wore fresh scrubs, dark blue pants with a white stripe racing down the leg, and a round-neck checkered top in a lighter shade of blue. She weighed less than a hundred pounds, and, despite her age, resembled one of the children for whom she petitioned. Concern dug fine lines around her mouth. I waited for additional information. “Katie, we got an urgent call from his mother, a gal who works at the college—” I taught psychology classes at the university Tuesdays and Thursdays so I’d acquainted myself with most of the faculty and staff. “Who?” “Marianne Miller.” Alicia reached for the tiny silver cross dangling from her necklace. I shook my head. “I don’t know her.” We walked into the hallway, halting for refreshments where I poured a cup of herbal tea and squeezed in a dollop of honey from the bear-shaped bottle on the counter. “She’s new in Student Affairs.” Alicia glanced at her notepad. “She knows you … or about you. You’ve seen her ex-mother-in-law.” “I have seen—” “Everybody’s ex-mother-in-law,” we chorused together. “She wants to come on her lunch break.” “Ali, it looks like we’ll both retire before we eat lunch again.” “Just you.” She tucked straight chin-length hair behind her right ear. “I’m hitting a drive-thru for some grease when I run to the post office.” She shrugged. “I’d bring you something, but you won’t eat fast food.” “The phone call,” I reminded her. “It was … Marianne?” I savored the aroma
God Bless the Child
and flavor of my tea. “Wants advice concerning the child?” “Not exactly.” Dark brown hair slipped from behind her ear again. “The deal is, well, it’s not Marianne seeking advice. She’s bringing …” “Her kid,” we said together. Scary. I’d lost the ability to speak independently of Alicia. “Are you serious about him being three years old?” “Terribly.” She didn’t scan her notepad this time, but tucked it under her arm. She possessed near-total recall when a child was in distress. “Day care called Marianne and said she has one hour to pick him up along with termination papers.” “Wow.” I rattled through the drawer, fished out a spoon, stirred my tea, and stared at her. “Wasn’t I supposed to start seeing more adults and fewer children?” “Yes, and you will. But he’s a baby. And this is his seventh day care.” She stared at me, pitiful, pleading. “I didn’t know there was a black list for toddlers, but there is, and he’s on it.” She made her signature side-to-side head wag while hunching her shoulders near her ears with arms still crossed. “No day care facility in this area will take him. If you don’t see him, Marianne will have to quit her job.” “So if I don’t accept him … and his name is?” I gripped the curled cup handle and gestured widely. “Then—” “Alexander.” “Thank you. Okay then, if I don’t see Alexander, Marianne—whom I don’t know but have seen her mother-in-law—will lose her job.” “Miller. Marianne and Alexander Miller, and yes,” she said, falling into the familiar habit of nodding her head while sliding her cross. “That’s pretty much it.” Her deep brown eyes begged when she needed them to. “Marianne is a single mom. It’s just the two of them.” “Grab the phone book, girlfriend.” I set my cup on the counter. “Check the yellow pages under psychologists to see—” “If there is only one name listed.” She finished my sentence again, leaving me with my mouth open. “Tell her okay.” She grinned and shrugged again, “They’re on their way.” She tossed a “Ya know I love ya,” as she headed down the hallway toward her desk. Alicia was a divorced single mom. She’d dumped her near-useless husband, but then he’d stepped up as a reliable babysitter. Time and again she toggled between filing charges against him for nonpayment of child support and being grateful he was always home to manage their kids. She would forever be a soft touch for other single mothers and youngsters.
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I watched as she hacked her way through the jungle of child-rearing without a husband to help wield the machete. She navigated, along with twenty percent of America’s population, the ins and outs of aloneness in a world where she’d expected and sought to walk as half of a greater whole. God love my Alicia. A new client’s arrival five minutes after the hour meant no time to fill out forms before I talked to the child. A door slammed in the driveway. They’d arrived. # Marianne Miller opened the front door of my clinic for her son. She appeared stomped down, and overwhelmed. I walked into the foyer that doubled as a waiting room and stood observing, diagnosing. “Alexander,” Marianne said, “please walk through the door for Mommy.” He remained inert beside her. “Duht,” he said, pointing to the front door. “No, sweetheart.” His mom touched the antique wooden door. “It’s not dirt. See?” She held her fingers in front of him. “It’s clean. The dark stains are part of the wood grain. Just the way this wood looks, baby.” The youngster strolled through the door like a placated barracks inspector. He posed tiny, his furtive detective eyes casing the joint. He exuded a fascinating su-casa-es-mi-casa sort of awareness. I knew instinctively that doctors’ offices— probably including counselors’ offices—were familiar territory for him. His mom rushed in behind him effusing thanks that I would see him on short notice. Closing the door, she said, “Hi, I’m Marianne Miller, and this is my son, Alexander.” The boy, a wiry little turkey, patrolled the foyer. His short blond hair spiked on top, held with stiff gel. His T-shirt was tucked into belted jeans and his shoes shined ready for military inspection. He inched close to chairs, tables, the antique dresser where a brown earthenware bowl full of peppermints sat on top. The wee fellow backed away from the counter surveying the pen and standing holder nestled beside the sign-in book. He peered at everything and noticeably touched nothing. Clear gray eyes scrutinized, while he kept his arms protected at his sides. I pulled my eyes from Alexander to focus on his mother. “Hi, Marianne. I’m Katie Collier.” She propped against the closed door. “I’m grateful to finally meet you.” She turned to watch me observe her son. “Thank you so much. Alexander’s mee-maw said you could help him.” Marianne searched my face. She needed me to nod, or say yes, or anything that would give her hope she could get her son back in the
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God Bless the Child
most recent day care he’d been kicked out of. “He’s active,” she said, “but he’s adorable.” She paused, struggling to say what came next. “He’s odd. Kids don’t like him.” I held up my hand to stop her, but she didn’t—or couldn’t—notice. “Parents don’t want their kids to play with my baby.” The dam inside this mom—the one that had held back hundreds of words—crumbled. “He’s really a wonderful kid. His dad left because he couldn’t handle the energy it took to be around him and I’m desperate. I mean not desperate … but … okay, I’m desperate. I love him so much. The thing is, I have to work. “Friends told me before he walked he seemed different. I wasn’t sure. He’s my only child. I didn’t know how a boy should behave. I only had sisters. We—” “Marianne,” I said firmly, “we’re still in the foyer.” “Oh gosh,” she said, bringing both hands to her flushed face. “I’m embarrassed.” “Don’t be. It’s best if you not say things in the foyer,” I nodded toward Alexander without taking my eyes from hers, “that you might feel badly about later.” I pointed to a chair. “I don’t have lots of time, so I want to use the first few minutes with the little one.” She managed a shy smile and sat. “Relax a few moments. Take a couple deep breaths, then fill out the paperwork.” I gently touched the arm of this beautiful, blond-haired mother, who owned a pair of clear gray eyes—Alexander’s eyes. “Really. Breathe. I’ll chat with your boy, then I’ll come get you.” Alicia, my long-time assistant whom I loved like a member of my own family, attempted to guide Alexander into the playroom while I calmed Marianne. I gazed, fascinated, when he refused to open the door for himself. “Jums,” he said to Alicia, “I not touchin’ that doah.” “Sweetheart,” Alicia said to him, “this door was painted last week and cleaned this morning.” He scowled at her. “I not you sweethea’t.” “Okay, I’ll call you Alexander.” “You bettah ‘membah.” “Promise.” Alicia allowed him to stroll into the room without assistance. Marianne glanced at me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Her eyes rounded and she bit her lip. “Alexander can be difficult.” Her face held no color, and it appeared more than a lack of makeup. Marianne’s lovely features had resigned to ashen. “Not yet, but in a bit.” I tried to calm her with my voice. “I need to see what he’s like away from you. Your presence will change the way he interacts with
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me.” At the playroom door I turned to Marianne again. She bordered the edge of despair. “You okay?” She nodded. “Alexander is adorable,” I said. “If you say that on your way out, I will fall at your feet.” “I bet I will.” I turned and hurried into the playroom. As Alicia exited the room, she read the message in my eyes: keep an eye on the mother, I’m worried about her. “Alexander Miller.” I scrutinized my little drill sergeant. “What a fine substantial name. I like it. I’m Miss Katie.” He presented in an unusual manner. His movements measured. His appearance a bit too perfect. The way he stared at everything in the foyer but showed curiosity toward none. Correcting adults in a manner suggesting he stood in charge of all things. Something, or maybe everything, appeared all wrong. He poised with his weight evenly distributed and hands plugged deep into both pockets. “Gimme some gwubs,” he ordered. “What?” “Some gwubs. Gimme some fwikin’ gwubs.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and turned them palms up. “Are you saying gloves?” I asked, unsure. “Yeah.” He shook his palms. “I want gwubs.” He then spewed four-letter words I’d rarely heard from adults I knew. I hadn’t realized until that day such language could come through the lips of a three-year-old. “So, Alexander Miller with the good substantial name, you like to cuss.” He bobbed his blond head. “I say words I wike. I say—” His list floored me. After I found my breath I said, “I think I got it.” He stared a hole right through me cussing like a foul-mouthed grown man in movies I don’t watch. “If you don’t give gwubs, I’m leabin’.” With palpable anxiety, he surveyed the room. He wandered to the shelves, but finding nothing of interest, continued to circle. He halted in front of the small child-level sink that had been installed when my daughter Bailey had spent hours in this room being tutored. I pointed Alexander toward the Fisher Price table. “Will you sit?” “Not till I hab gwubs.” “What would you do with gloves if I gave them to you?” “Git me the fwikin’ thangs and I show ya.” He edged away from the sink and inched closer to the door. Get a plan, girlfriend. I picked up my trusty little this-has-never-failed-me
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God Bless the Child
suction-cup ball, a favorite of kids from three to ten. I sailed it hard past his right ear, straight to its mark. It slammed onto the Plexiglas window behind his head. Melded to the window, the ball dangled impressively. “That ain’t gwubs,” he said, turning up his nose and shaking his head. “I don’t have gloves.” “Is this a doctah’s oppis or not?” “Yes.” “Ah you the doctah?” “Yes.” “Then you have gwubs.” He extended both hands like he intended to prep for surgery. “What do you like besides gloves?” My chance to engage Alexander grew tenuous. “Hand over gwubs, and I tell ya.” “I don’t give gloves.” “Then you ain’t no doctah.” He inched closer to the door, “and I leabin’.” “Hey, give a gloveless doc a break, will you? Do you like snow cones?” I wheedled. “No.” But he stopped and spun back to face me. “What, then? You like something, Alexander Miller.” His eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “Umbwewwas, and bacuum cleanahs, and Pledge with a scent ‘a wemon.” Mercy, this child was adorable. But he was also extremely ill.
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