His second new word that week.
With trepidation, Jon put the boy on the ground and watched as he tripped over himself on his way to a toddler-size car shaped like a tube of toothpaste. Abe was wearing a bright yellow shirt and Jon’s gaze remained glued to the color.
“He loves the plastic-wheeled scooter in the playroom at Little Spirits,” Lillie said as she stood next to Jon, watching Abe climb aboard the car.
Without taking his eye off his son, Jon figured out what had just happened. “You were going to make sure I put him down, huh?” He grinned.
Because she’d been right. And she cared.
“Something like that.” He didn’t even have to look at her to get turned on. The saucy tone to her voice was enough.
Going from the toothpaste car to a pickle car, Abe pretended to drive it for a bit and then ran to a real motorcycle, demanding, “Up.”
“Let me take a picture of you two,” Jon said, taking his phone out of its holster as Lillie stood holding on to Abe on the other side of the motorcycle. Jon snapped several shots with the camera on his phone, knowing that one of them was going to be his new screen saver at home.
Next, Abe wanted to launch a race car down a track and watch its progress. At one point, Abe held up his hand like a traffic cop to get another little boy to stop his car. He was using his words, interacting with other kids, and laughing so hard he farted.
That was his boy—just putting it all out there. Healthy, well adjusted and apparently a future NASCAR driver.
The day was good. Great. And through it all, Lillie was right beside him, cheering Abe on, intervening when necessary, playing with him, watching over him as though he was her own son.
* * *
THEY TALKED ABOUT the day, reliving Abe’s breakthroughs all the way home.
“All those people and not one tantrum,” Jon said again as they neared Shelter Valley. Since it was at least the fifth time she’d heard the comment, Lillie just smiled.
They’d only stayed in the museum for a couple of hours, but she agreed that Abe had done well. Of course, they’d both been standing over him nonstop the entire time. But they’d made certain that his focus had remained on his activities first and them second.
The day could have been perfect—except that several times she’d seen Abe give that hand signal. The stop sign. Holding his hand straight up and out as a way to tell someone to stop. Something kids did. Adults, too.
And when added to the rest of the behaviors and anxieties Abe had exhibited since she’d started watching him—his fear of crowds, panicking for seemingly no reason...
“Have you had Abe’s hearing checked?” she asked Jon as they approached her neighborhood. It was Sunday afternoon and people w
ere out and about. Caro waved at them from the sidewalk as they drove by.
Lillie waved back.
“Of course, he’s had all of his checks,” Jon said. “Passed with flying colors in every way. You know my landlord, Caroline?”
Abe’s hearing was fine. He wasn’t Braydon. He wasn’t hers at all. And there was nothing wrong with him.
“Caroline Strickland?” she asked.
“Yeah, she just waved to you.”
“She waved to us,” Lillie said, “but yes, she’s a friend of mine.” She told him about her early-morning bike rides with Caro, leaving out the part about how they met—the medical emergency that had brought Caro to the clinic with a traumatized child.
She told him that Caro knew about her new doors and faucets.
He nodded.
It was all very casual and friendly and nice. And Lillie was on edge. They were almost at her house. He’d drop her off, say good-night, take his son home to bed and get on with the rest of his life.
She should leave it at that.
She’d just proved that she was in over her head with the Swartz men with her irrational concerns over Abe’s well-being. Her overreaction to his simple hand movements. He’d been acting normal and she was seeing hearing loss. Imagining that Abe’s panic was due to not being able to hear. Fearing that the little boy was going deaf.