A Child's Wish

By now, Mark was standing at the footboard, waiting through the commercial, impatient as hell. He’d done all he could for her and she just wouldn’t listen. There was nothing more he could do. He couldn’t help, couldn’t save her job.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen,” the newscaster said. “We went to Bartlesville today, where they have a psychic in town…or do they?”

He bowed his head, couldn’t watch. Barnett’s interview came first and the man was impressive—the sort of lawyer who could probably convince a jury to set a six-time sex offender free if he wanted to. And here he was merely attempting to demolish the credibility of one relatively harmless third-grade schoolteacher.

“It pains me to say this, but I believe Meredith Foster needs psychiatric attention,” Barnett said, his voice seemingly filled with compassion. “I mean her no harm, but she can’t be trusted with our children….”

Hogwash. Bullshit. Mark paced to the window, back and forth. Barnett told of other incidents in which Meredith had spoken to parents concerning their children, making her sound like a certifiable lunatic.

How had the man unearthed all this stuff?

Mark had told Meredith so many times to stop. He’d warned her that something like this could happen.

But had she listened to him?

No.

And if she had, would Amber Walker still be alive today—or would she be dead?

Barnett was citing some statistic about the number of people in psychiatric wards and prison who believed themselves to have psychic abilities. Mark was shocked at the percentage.

And then Meredith was there, standing with the solid bricks of Lincoln Elementary School at her back, giving thoughtful and intelligent responses to an off-camera reporter.

Thoughtful and intelligent. Which he knew her to be.

But she was wrong about Tommy Barnett. Wrong to speak out based on hunches. Misguided to believe she could see inside people and know when they needed help. All the same, she was smart—and kind.

And…

He reached for the phone and for his laptop computer, looking up a number and then dialing.

“Hello?” She sounded wide awake.

“You give a damn fine interview.”

“Mark?”

Only then did he realize that he was standing in his bedroom late at night wearing nothing but a pair of thin cotton pajama bottoms.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, glancing at the clock. “I forgot it was so late.”

“It’s only ten,” she told him. “I’m still up.”

“Did you see the news?”

“No.”

“You were on it.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t watch?”

“I never watch the news.”

“Ah, right, too depressing.” He flipped off the set and walked over to gaze out at his backyard.

The grass needed to be cut.