Damaged (10 page)

Mary said nothing, and Edward's lower lip started to tremble as he wiped another tear from his eyes.

“I wonder what my daughter can be thinking now, looking down on me, I pray to her to forgive me. I've done such a terrible job with that little boy—”

“No, you haven't.” Mary rubbed his back.

“I have, you don't know, and sometimes I'm so tired, I send him upstairs because I'm too tired to deal with him. His chatter, his questions, his homework, his worksheets. I don't even help him anymore. He helps me more than I help him. I used to have my diabetes under control with the pills, but not anymore. I have to check my blood sugar and inject myself four times a day now. He does it for me sometimes if I get the shakes. So who takes care of who?” Edward stifled a sob. “The truth is by dinner time, I'm so damn tired I think to myself, ‘God didn't make a seventy-two-year-old to be a parent.' Then as I tired as I am, I can't sleep all the way through the night. I wake up to go to the bathroom, then I can't get back to sleep, worrying. I take Ambien, it knocks me out.” Edward shook his head, trying not to cry. “I can't do it. I can be a grandpop, yes, but a father, no. I'm an accountant, I'm good with numbers, and I read somewhere that 10 percent of the kids in America, they're raised by grandparents. We love our grandkids, but it's hard, so hard, and sometimes I'm afraid I can't do it another day.”

“I'm sure, that's natural.” Mary heard the door opening behind them, and two young women left PCA, looking pointedly away, but Edward was too distraught to notice, continuing.

“If my daughter were alive, she would've done so much more, and she wouldn't have let his reading go the way I did. I see the commercials on TV, lots of things that can be done for dyslexia, but I didn't do any of them.” Edward looked down, shaking his head. “I let him down, I failed him, he can't even read a sentence and he's terrible with math, he can barely add.
That's
what happened on my watch, that's who he has for a parent, a tired old man who was willing to look the other way when some bastard hit him in the face—” Edward finally broke down in tears, his forehead dropping onto the fist made by his hands, his shoulders shuddering.

“Oh, Edward, let's go to the car.” Mary put an arm around his shaking shoulders, then helped him down the steps and toward the car. She fished a Kleenex out of her purse, passed it to him, and he held it to his nose, his tears dripping inside his glasses. They reached the car, where she installed them in the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. She hurried around the front of the car, climbing inside and turning on the air-conditioning, and by then, his sobbing was subsiding and he was blowing his nose.

“Mary, I'm … so sorry, I'm so ashamed…”

“No apologies are necessary.”

“God help me.”

“Just rest, Edward. Put your head back and rest.”

“I will, I need to, thank you.” Edward blew his nose again, making his cheeks flush a violent red, then he let his bald head fall back against the headrest. “I'll just rest my eyes, only for a second.”

“Sure, please do.” Mary stayed quiet as he closed his eyes, his glasses awry and the fissures of his cheeks stained with tears, and in the next moment, she realized that he was falling asleep. His shoulders let down and palms fell open on his lap, one hand still clutching the soggy Kleenex. His jaw went slack, and his head rolled slightly to the side.

Mary felt touched at the sight, feeling for him. He had stepped up, borne an impossible burden, and done the best that he could. She didn't judge him, and what was past was past. She glanced at the dashboard clock and she realized she had other work to do. She wanted to wrap up as many matters as she could before the wedding.

Mary picked up her purse, eased out of the seat, and stepped outside the car. She leaned on the car, scrolling through her phone, then pressed in the number of her first client, watching the traffic idly while the phone call rang. Front Street was lined with parked cars, and she happened to look at the cars parked across the street. They were all empty, but a brown sedan parked across from the PCA entrance idled with a driver inside.

Mary got a good look at the driver because the sedan had a sunroof. She blinked. He looked familiar. He had a mustache. The driver looked a lot like Robertson.

Mary's mouth went dry. Was it Robertson? Could he be following them? Had he followed them here? Patrick said he had threatened to kill him and Edward. She felt a tingle of fear. She hung up the phone but kept it to her ear, walking toward the brown sedan, but in the next moment, the driver took off.

Quickly Mary scrolled to the photo function on her phone to try to take a picture of the car or the license plate, but it was too late. The sedan had joined the traffic going in the opposite direction. She watched, stricken, as it disappeared down the street.

An hour later, Mary had sweated through her suit and Edward was still asleep, but she figured it had to be almost time for Patrick to be finished. She woke Edward up, and they crossed back through the parking lot, climbed the steps to the entrance, and went inside. She would tell him about the brown sedan when she had the chance, later.

Mary took one look at Cassandra's face and knew there was trouble.

 

CHAPTER TEN

Cassandra ushered Mary and Edward to another white cubicle that was the same as the others except for a bookshelf containing toys and art around adult-sized table and chairs, and two large posters on the wall, which were impossible not to read. The one said at the top:
HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY?
COMO TE TIENES HOY?
Underneath were cartoon kid faces in an array of expressions, labeled in English and Spanish:
HAPPY, FELIZ. AFRAID, CON MIEDO. SAD, TRISTE. CONFUSED, CONFUNDIDO. ANGRY, ENOJADO.
Next to that hung a rectangular poster that read at the top,
FEELINGS THERMOMETER
, next to a picture of a thermometer. Number 10 was at the top of the thermometer, with the feeling
I'M FREAKING OUT!!!!
Number 9 was
VERY BAD
, Number 8 was
BAD
, Number 7 was
DIFFICULT
, Number 6 was
NOT GOOD, NOT TERRIBLE
, and the numbers went down to Number 1, which was
GOOD.

Mary sat down in the chair across from Cassandra, wondering what it must be like to be a child who was freaked out, angry, confused, and sad. She knew that there were abused children in the world but it had been an abstract matter until now, when she had met Patrick and saw the bruise on his little face, and until she had come to PCA and was staring face-to-face with a “Feelings Thermometer,” undoubtedly invented to help little kids express how horrible they were feeling at the hands of the adults who were supposed to love and protect them. It hurt her heart, and she glanced at the Feelings Thermometer to realize that her own feelings were probably at a Number 9,
VERY BAD
.

Cassandra looked up from a white page of notes, her expression professional, if grim. She glanced from Edward to Mary and back again to Edward. “I'd like to speak with you both briefly about the results of our investigation, but first I have to caution you. You in particular, Edward.”

“Yes?” Edward blinked, coming to full alertness. His lined mouth was already turning down at the corners, he lifted his chin, trying to be strong.

“Edward, what I am about to tell you will be difficult for you, as Patrick's grandfather, to hear. It would be difficult for anyone to hear, but especially family. It is our policy to share information with family and other caregivers regarding what a child tells us during the forensic interview. There are a few exceptions to this, which don't apply in this case, but the one that does apply is that we will not give you the information if you cannot emotionally handle the information.” Cassandra blinked. “Edward, if you don't feel that you can handle the information, then you should feel free to step out of the room. I would not appreciate a replay of your earlier reaction. We could be overheard by other children.”

“I'll be fine,” Edward answered with such finality that even Mary believed him. “Where is Patrick?'

“He's playing in one of the other rooms. I gave him some watercolors and he went to town.” Cassandra smiled briefly.

“That would be Patrick.” Edward managed to smile back, but Mary could see that it was an effort.

Cassandra consulted her notes. “Okay, folks, I'll keep this brief. As an overview, the forensic interview with Patrick went well. After a slow start, he was able to express himself and open up to me. He cried, which is completely normal. In fact, I worry when children
don't
cry.”

Edward nodded but didn't say anything.

Mary swallowed hard.

Cassandra continued. “In my opinion, Patrick's account of what happened is completely credible. My experience tells me that he is telling the truth. He's an intelligent and brave little boy, and he isn't doing this for attention. On the contrary, he avoids attention and has anxiety, which he will require treatment to overcome.”

Edward nodded. “I told Mary that. He doesn't do it for attention. And he doesn't lie.”

Cassandra glanced at her notes. “My findings are that Patrick was not only physically abused by the teacher's aide, a Mr. Robertson, but Patrick was also sexually abused by Mr. Robertson. Robertson fondled Patrick on three occasions.”

“My God,” Edward said, choked.

Mary felt shocked, reaching out for Edward's elbow to steady him.

Cassandra looked sympathetically at Edward. “I know this is terrible news for you. The only comfort I can offer you is that we will do our level best to get justice for Patrick and to get him the therapy he needs.”

Edward nodded, his eyes suddenly brimming.

Cassandra pushed a blue box of tissues toward Edward. “In terms of the facts, the first incident of fondling occurred on September 9, the day after school started. The assault took place in a closet or small room off a hallway near the classroom. Patrick said it had a ‘floor machine' in it, and the police will follow up. Robertson managed to get Patrick alone and fondled him by touching his genitals on both the inside and the outside of his pants.”

“No.” Edward took a Kleenex and wiped his eyes under his glasses, and Mary felt outrage tightening her chest, that such a thing could happen at school. Where were the teachers? Where were the other kids? Questions raced through her mind, and she knew Edward must have them, too.

Cassandra glanced again at her notes. “Patrick had never been touched that way by anyone else and told me that he was confused and frightened. Robertson threatened him not to tell anybody or he would kill him—and you, Edward.”

Edward grimaced, and Mary thought of the brown sedan outside.

“Cassandra, not to interrupt, but I think I saw Robertson, or a man who looked a lot like him, parked in a car out front across the street.”

Edward looked over. “When?”

“When you were asleep.”

Cassandra frowned, in alarm. “Are you sure it was him?”

“No,” Mary had to answer, “but it looked like him. He had a mustache, dark hair. The car was a brown sedan.”

Cassandra took notes. “Did you get the make or model?”

“No, I tried but it drove away.”

“I'd admonish you both to keep an eye out for him. It's not uncommon for predators to stalk their victims and intimidate them to keep them silent. We can't rule out the possibility that Robertson is violent and may try to carry through on his threat. I'll report this sighting to the police, but if you see him again, either of you, call 911. Do not engage with him yourself in any way, shape, or form.”

Mary nodded. “Okay.”

Edward stiffened. “I'll keep an eye out at the house. I don't know where Robertson lives, but it probably is in the neighborhood. It's not hard to find out where we live, either.”

Cassandra nodded gravely. “Keep an eye out, and as I say, do not engage. If you see him, call 911 immediately. It's not only safer for you and Patrick, but it's better for our record.”

Mary felt concerned. “If it was Robertson in the sedan, he knows we're here. He knows we reported him to you. What effect do you think that will have on him, in your experience?”

“He's not going away since you came here, if that's what you're asking. I think the danger still exists. If it was him, he's not going away, and the fact is, he'd still want to prevent you from taking this further. There's a trial left, after all. Be on guard.” Cassandra paused. “Before I go on to the other two incidents, you should know that children in special education programming are often targeted by sexual offenders because they are the most vulnerable. Depending on the nature and extent of their disabilities, they are often out of the classroom for pullout sessions or to cool down, giving ample opportunity to offenders. Sadly, they are not always believed when they inform on any such incidents of abuse, and their reports are often dismissed as difficulties with perception, if not outright fabrication. Neither of these things is true with Patrick. He has anxiety issues, and simply put, Patrick is afraid of Robertson.”

Edward nodded, taking a Kleenex from the box and wiping his eyes under his glasses.

Mary interjected, “By the way, Robertson no longer works at the school. Evidently, he quit a few days ago, and I don't expect that Patrick will be at Grayson much longer. They're not programming for him and I'm hoping to place him at Fairmount Prep.”

“Great. That can help his recovery, if he doesn't have to go back to the school where he was abused.” Cassandra glanced again at her notes. “Now, as I was saying, the second such incident of fondling and physical abuse occurred on Friday, September 11, in the same room. Again, same situation, same fondling, on top and in the pants. Patrick told me that he was frightened, but because it had happened before, he knew what was happening and he told Robertson to stop. Robertson did not stop. Patrick threw up, and Robertson, evidently in anger, grabbed Patrick and forced him to lick up the vomit, and the incident ended.”