Her Forever Family (3 page)

B
en watched as the lady and her dog climbed the carpeted steps. The only other time he’d seen Alison Stone she’d been in a rescue worker’s one-piece jumpsuit. The zippered pockets from chest to ankle had been stuffed lumpy with recovery gear that hid her womanly curves. With her lustrous hair caught up beneath a safety helmet, it was no wonder he’d mistaken her for one of the guys.

But today in jangly silver jewelry, a bright turquoise sleeveless blouse and perfectly fitted jeans there was no doubt about her gender. She was one hundred percent female and very easy on the eye.

He cleared his throat to whisk away the direction his mind was wandering. The slight sound drew the attention of the dog. It stopped at the landing to turn a dark, searching gaze downward. Ben pointed toward Simba’s attractive mistress, narrowed his eyes and mouthed the word “Shoo!” The animal complied but Ben felt certain
she’d made the decision on her own and it had nothing to do with his command.

“Father, am I ever going to have a say in the direction of my life again?”
He prayed aloud as he’d done a million times since the day he’d returned from Theresa’s memorial and come back to the house to face Ethan’s problems. Alone.

With time, the aloneness had turned to solitude and eventually the home so filled with his late wife’s touch had become comforting. Where Ben found refuge in their tasteful surroundings, Ethan continually used reminders of his mother as reason to resurrect the past. Certain he bore guilt for distracting her during a rainy drive, Ethan felt he deserved the blame for her death. The assumption was as wrong as wrong could be, but it had become part of Ethan’s obsessive thinking, a behavior that had Ben clutching the tail end of his frayed rope.

“Father, for forty-two years You’ve blessed me with the ability to face any challenge.”
Ben continued his one-sided conversation as he headed across the foyer and into the fragrant kitchen.
“By now I thought we’d be operating on a Texas-size scale. But instead of wrestling legislative issues I’m struggling to get my kid to sit at the dinner table with me. What’s up with that? And if the folks who used to pay their hard-earned money to hear me speak could see me now, they wouldn’t be lining up to vote, they’d be lining up for refunds.”

Ben shook his head at his inadequacy, slipped quilted mitts on his hands and scooped a cookie sheet from the hot oven. He flipped one of the single-serving pies upside-down on a stoneware plate, removed the baking tin and
pierced the flaky bottom crust with a fork. Steam drifted upward, lasting only a few seconds before dissipating into air stirred by the fan blades slowly rotating overhead.

You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.
Ben recalled the words from the book of James.

“Okay, Lord, I get it,”
he admitted.
“This is temporary and there’s a bigger picture that I can’t see. But gaining a first down would be helpful now and again.”

Too impatient to take his plate to the table, Ben shoveled a mouthful of chicken and vegetables through parted lips. He was immediately reminded with scalding consequences that a cool-down moment and a proper grace are helpful now and again, too.

Ali walked through Ethan’s rooms, amazed at the affluence that was basically lost on the boy who really only cared, that is to say obsessed, about one thing.

Rocks.

After a brief reunion they’d struck a deal, or at least she thought so. Ethan would brush his teeth and comb his hair within ten minutes and in exchange Ali would allow him to show off some of his specimens, which turned out to be an impressive collection of core samples. Putting a time constraint on Ethan’s activities would give her a starting point toward measuring his OCD rituals and then she’d begin to strategize on how to hold them to a dull roar. She glanced at the large-faced, loudly ticking alarm clock she’d brought with her and noted his first deadline was approaching.

“Ethan, time’s about up,” she called without turning in the direction of his dressing area. Maybe if he was
cooperative she’d suggest his father reconsider the sanctity of the bathroom and agree to re-hang the door.

“The water hasn’t been running long enough,” Ethan answered, referring to one of his requirements that had to be fulfilled before he could begin to brush his teeth.

“You can let it run all night for all I care, but if you’re not finished and back in here minus the stinky breath in three more minutes, Simba and I are going downstairs to visit with your dad and we’re not coming back up tonight.”

He poked his face around the door frame and held up five fingers. “I need a little longer.”

“Nope.” Ali shook her head. She had to take a hard line right out of the gate or she wouldn’t have any wiggle room when it came time to ease up. “Ethan, it’s been a long workday for me and right now Simba needs a walk more than you need to purge the plumbing. When time’s up we’ll be downstairs for a few more minutes. Otherwise, we’ll give this a try again tomorrow. If you don’t want the same results, I suggest you take care of personal hygiene before we arrive.”

“There’s no need to be difficult,” he complained. “I don’t remember you being this way before.”

As she had during their first encounter, Alison noted Ethan’s speech seemed normal, even above average for teens. She’d learned early in her research that language is one of the most diverse areas of autism, ranging from nonverbal to highly skilled. And while Ethan communicated well, he processed information and reacted with the behaviors of a boy half his age.

“I’m not the one being difficult, kiddo. Like I told
your dad, if I’m going to spend my time driving out here, then I expect some flexibility from the two of you in return.”

“If I’d known you were so bossy, I wouldn’t have asked to see you.”

“Is that a fact?” When her young patients wanted to spar, Ali was happy to oblige them, keeping it on their level. “Well, welcome to reality where most of the world learns to adjust. I’m here to work with you, not cater to you.”

“You sound just like
him
.” Ethan jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. “You’re not going to start quoting his
positivisms
at me, are you?”

A swarm of barbed responses tumbled inside her brain, but she held them in check. While she hoped Benjamin Lamar would share her position on the treatment of his son, any further like-mindedness would probably be a fluke. Ali couldn’t imagine finding much more in common with a man so well known for his conservative affiliations and views. Ethan’s comparison was definitely not complimentary.

He stared, waiting for her response.

“Your insult is duly noted,” she quipped. “And if I think of something you need to hear, I’ll quote Mickey Mouse if it appeals to me.”

The final few seconds ticked away and the old-fashioned bell began to clang on the top of the red enameled clock.

“So, will you wait a little longer on me?”

Knowing Ethan would likely interpret the expression incorrectly, Ali controlled the urge to pfffft at the comment.

“No, sir.” She gestured for Simba to follow and both headed for the door. “Tomorrow is another day,” Ali called over her shoulder. “And if you’re interested, the source of that quote is Scarlett O’Hara.”

Ben tipped the bottom of his glass toward the ceiling and waited for the last, stubborn chunk of ice to drop into his waiting mouth. His pallet was roasted from the molten chicken pie, but two frosty glasses of tea had eased the burn. The echo of footsteps against the wood floor caused him to turn his face toward the hallway that connected the grand entry to the spacious kitchen.

“Mr. Lamar?” The doctor called out and stepped into his field of vision.

Clunk! A frozen, pointy projectile thumped Ben’s right eye followed by a cold dribble and then the smack of a mushy wet blob.

He squinted hard against the blow of the ice and then the sting of the fat lemon wedge. Though his eyes were tightly closed, his ears clearly detected snickering.

He groped for the napkin he’d tossed beside his empty plate.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.” More snickering. “Do you need help, a bib maybe?”

He pressed one corner of the linen square to his eyeball and used another corner to soak up the moisture trickling down the side of his face. Ugh. Cold.

“Thank you for your generous offer,” his voice was muffled by the thin layer of fabric. “I think I can manage this.”

Toenails tap-danced on the kitchen tile nearby.

That dog!

Ben dropped the napkin, swiveled his head to the left and unconsciously pulled his knees upward in one smooth motion.

Thankfully, the animal had come to an obedient halt, not appearing aggressive at all. Still, its mere presence in Ben’s personal space made his flesh shrivel. Alison Stone’s smile said she was really enjoying his discomfort, as well she should. He knew his reaction was just one step below a woman jumping on a chair while she screamed bloody murder over a cockroach in her kitchen.

“You’re a psychotherapist. Surely I’m not the first person you’ve run across with cynophobia.” Ben’s tongue began to feel fat and dry in his mouth and his pulse thumped in his ears thanks to the nearness of the animal.

“Actually, the fear of dogs is not uncommon in kids. But by your age most guys have worked through it.”

“Well, until now I’ve been able to stay away from it so I’ve never felt the need to ‘work through it’ as you say.”

With sympathy for his anxiety, she reached for the dog’s collar and slid her index finger into one end of the choker chain.

“Why don’t you count to ten and then follow us outside? I’ll put Simba in the Rover with the windows down for a few minutes while we talk.”

Without waiting for his response the pair quietly left the room and moments later the front door closed behind them. Ben did as instructed—waited for a ten count, threw in an extra five for good measure and then moved into the front hall. His natural inclination was to throw the deadbolt and lock the infernal woman and her
evil-looking hound outside. But then Ben would be no better off than Ethan, who was holed up in his bedroom, paralyzed by his fears.

Lord, Lord, Lord. Ben wondered, as he often did, if he’d passed a defective gene to his son. Theresa had been a fearless dynamo, and she’d never expressed any feelings of personal responsibility for Ethan’s mental illness. Maybe that’s why she’d had so much more patience with his problems.

Ben exhaled, hoping to blow away the worry, twisted the knob and pulled the door halfway open. Good to her word, Doctor Stone had secured her lion-hunting dog in the vehicle. Yes, Ben had looked Rhodesian Ridgeback up on Wikipedia. Forewarned was always forearmed, whether the opponent was a six-foot-three guard or another candidate running against you. Or, worse, a dog running at you. The little ones could turn from yap boxes to ankle-biting machines with no provocation. Ben didn’t even want to consider what that hundred pounds of sleek muscle called Simba could do to an un-suspecting target.

“Maybe while we work on Ethan’s problems we can address this little issue of yours as well.” The doctor moved toward him, her jingling silver jewelry as complimentary and distracting as the womanly sway of her body.

“If you’d just come here alone, that’d be one less phobia on the to-do list.”

She shook her head, earrings dancing. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, especially at this time of year. Unfortunately, Ethan won’t be the last person to need a rescue crew. Simba’s not just my partner—she’s part of the team.”

Ben learned early in life about spittin’ in the wind. Ethan needed this lady and if the truth be told, Ben did, too. If he wanted to get on with his life and into the Congressional race before it was too late, then he and his son both required a miracle worker.

He prayed the beauty before him had more than a buff arm up her sleeve.

F
rom what Ben could tell things hadn’t gone well upstairs today. His wood-paneled study was on the main floor, directly below Ethan’s rooms. On this third daily encounter with a new therapist there seemed to be a lot of cajoling, threatening, alarm clock jangling and disagreement between the muffled voices overhead. It was impossible to discern whether the subject matter was anything of importance or if it was just the two establishing ground rules.

Ben was a big believer in rules. They defined a fair game for the players, kept a race equal between opponents and prevented society from running amuck. Through the gift of the Bible, mankind had been given the ultimate rule book and Ben reasoned that if people would simply keep a positive attitude and follow God’s guidelines, their lives would be so much easier.

It was a perfect plan in theory that humans messed up in practice.

Ben folded the national politics section of the paper he’d been reading and considered his own situation. He tried faithfully to let The Word be
the light unto his path.
Even so, his road had been far from easy with its share of hidden trip wires. Landmines exploded when he seemed least prepared to deal with a crisis.

But he’d always survived.

“I hear Ya, Lord.”
Ben tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin beside his favorite leather recliner.
“You never said it would be easy, but You told us we wouldn’t be alone. I’m counting on You to keep that promise.”

Ben wasn’t prone to self-pity because overall his life had been amazing. But the past few years had tested his mettle well beyond anything the world of professional sports had thrown his way through injuries, contract negotiations and unexpected trades. Personal tragedy had shown him how quickly life and priorities can shift, turning from a skyrocket ride toward success to a struggle for emotional survival. Entering politics would not only be the fulfillment of personal dreams and family expectations, it also would be a welcome relief to focus on the needs of others for a change.

Yesterday’s call from his old college roommate had brought undeniable attention to the fact that a fuse was burning, and with or without Ben’s cooperation, matters would soon be decided.

“Buddy, the deadline to put your name on the ballot is three weeks away,” Randy had reminded Ben. “You will never get an opportunity like this again. With Matthews stepping down at the end of his term, it’s a
perfect segue for the party from one strong conservative to another. Not to mention, having your last name on the ticket will guarantee a record voter turnout.”

The Lamar family had been active in Texas politics since Mirabeau Lamar served as President of the Republic in 1838. With Ben retired from football, his uncles were adamant—carrying on the tradition wasn’t just an option, it was a calling. While family money and support was a given, over the years Ben had forged his own personal relationships that he’d learned could be counted on through good times and bad.

Randy Mason topped the list as more than a best friend who shared Ben’s values. Randy was willing to put his successful law practice on hold to coordinate the campaign ahead.

They’d been planning this move and testing the political waters for months, but Ben had blown it.

“Man, you know we’d already be drafting phone bank volunteers if I hadn’t messed things up with Ethan by sending him to that camp. Still, I’m optimistic.”

“How so?” Randy asked.

“He just started working with a new therapist and I think they’re getting somewhere. We might have him outside the house again soon.” Ben wanted to believe his statement was positive thinking and not an outright fabrication.

“Look, Ben, you know I love your kid. But the truth is Ethan’s in his own world these days. Forgive my bluntness, but as long as his physical needs are met and he’s free to study his rocks, he doesn’t really care whether you’re on the campaign trail or down
stairs in your office. You haven’t had much of a life since Theresa died and it’s time you thought of yourself.”

Hearing his friend say the words Ben hadn’t dared to speak out loud was an emotional body check. To Randy’s point, strangers would surely appreciate their efforts more than his son appeared to most of the time.

Well, what about me, Father? Do my dreams count for anything, especially when I want to be of service to others?

“You still there? I hope you’re not being quiet because you’re mad at me for speaking my mind.”

Ben had to chuckle. “No, my friend, I’m not mad. I was just enjoying a moment of agreement and then doing a little silent whining to God.”

“Whining? Ben Lamar, whining?” Randy snorted laughter. “I’ve known you a lotta years and I’ve never heard you to so much as grumble under your breath, not even after the late hit that broke your collarbone in the ’93 Super Bowl.”

“Don’t remind me.” Ben pressed his palm to the old injury. “That busted bone can predict a thunderstorm more accurately than The Weather Channel.”

“Don’t miss my point.” Randy wouldn’t give up. “You’ve never been one to complain, so if you feel the need to let loose, just go ahead. You’ve earned it.”

“I’ll remind you of this conversation when we get to Washington and I have a complaint
du jour
.”

“Does that mean you’ll commit?” The hope in Randy’s voice made Ben regret the quip.

“That means I’m still praying for a positive sign that Ethan can handle change. Let’s give this new doctor
some time and then I’ll feel better about making decisions for our future.”

“Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on the—”

“Calendar.” Ben finished Randy’s sentence. “Yes, I’m well aware the game clock is running.”

A loud
whump
resounded overhead. Ben abandoned his rehash of yesterday’s conversation and jumped to both feet. By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, frantic barking echoed from the rooms above. He dashed upward while a dozen scenarios flooded his mind, all of them disturbing.

“Give up!” Ethan shouted.

“No!
You
give up!” Doctor Stone demanded over the ruckus of her blasted dog.

Nothing Ben imagined even came close to the sight that assaulted him as he stood in the doorway. Ethan’s bed had been stripped of the covers. The mattress was bare, the blankets were heaped in a pile and the pillows had been flung across the room. He lay facedown on the floor clutching one corner of the sheet, holding on with all his might.

The opposite corner was in the unyielding grip of Doctor Stone, aka the Rock. Her worn, leather boots were planted wide, both heels dug into the carpet. Her cheeks were flushed from physical exertion. Strands of red-orange hair the color of a Texas wildfire had wrestled free of her braid and sprung like confused lightning bolts about her enchanting face.

“I’m not letting go,” Ethan insisted.

“Fine with me, hot shot. But while you’ve been
sprawled on your bed all day I’ve been lifting weights, so I’m pretty sure I can keep this up longer than you.”

“What in blue blazes is going on in here?” Ben demanded loud enough to be heard over the dog’s carrying on. His son’s lazy body hitting the floor accounted for the loud noise, but the full explanation would be interesting. Actually, other than the manic hound, the scene was quite funny and the closest thing to roughhousing that he’d seen Ethan experience in years. Ben squashed down a grin and kept his distance from the action.

Ali gave a mighty yank, sufficient to pull Ethan a foot closer to the goal line she’d drawn on the rug with the toe of her favorite old ropers. The boy’s long arms and legs were stretched end to end, looking like he was making a dive for the end zone. He’d aggravated her since she’d arrived, so this turnabout was not only fair play, it was fun.

Simba danced around his body, barking her pleasure.

“That’s enough, girl,” Ali quieted her beloved pet, then turned attention to the new arrival. “Sorry if we bothered you, Congressman. But I needed to score a point on this stubborn son of yours.”

She tightened her grip and sucked in a breath. “Ethan seems to think nobody’s the boss of him. Now, as his dad it’s your call how to handle business between the two of you. But as his therapist, I’m the one callin’ all the shots, no ifs, ands or buts.”

“Real mature way to handle a kid, Ali.” Trapped facedown during the struggle, Ethan’s voice was muffled by the thick pile.

“That’s
Doctor Stone
, to you.” His father corrected.

“It’s okay. We’re on a first-name basis, aren’t we, kiddo?” Ali gave another sharp tug and the boy’s hands crossed the goal into her territory. “Sir, will you please verify the outcome of our tug-of-war?”

“Happy to accommodate.” Long strides carried the former athlete across the floor, where he made note of Ethan’s position compared to the faint line and nodded agreement. “By my calculations you are the winner.”

One final yank for good measure and she flung her corner of the sheet over Ethan’s head, hiding him from her view. She was fed up with the kid.

He flailed beneath the cover for a moment, then climbed to his feet, leaving the king-size square of fabric on the floor. He tossed his head like the ornery mule that he was and then stomped into his dressing room.

“Well, he got off the bed so I suppose today wasn’t a total waste of time.” She stooped to gather the sheet, then dropped it into the laundry hamper in the corner.

“So, what was that all about, Doctor Stone?”

“As I said, we’re on a first-name basis and I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Ali.”

“Then please, call me Ben.”

“But you’d prefer Congressman Lamar, correct?”

Mixed emotions crossed his face, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. Or maybe he was deciding which of his responses a potential voter would rather hear.

“As appealing as it sounds to me, I don’t know if that title will ever be mine.” He ducked his head, suddenly shy.

The guy was a natural for politics. As handsome as West Texas is hot and with a humble act that would charm Attila the Hun. But Ali’s strong suit was finding the kernel
of truth among the lies her patients told, even to themselves, in order to cover their pain. Only Ali and God knew how many years she’d personally spent in denial, blocking out the horror of her childhood, choosing memories of abandonment over nightmares of abuse.

“Well, if you don’t mind I’ll use the powder room in the hall to freshen up and then meet you downstairs to explain the
progress
you just observed.”

With the door closed behind her, Ali did a double take before the bathroom mirror.

“Good gravy, I look like I’ve just run a half-marathon.”

She unthreaded the braid that had come loose in the struggle with Ethan, groped in her purse for a brush and made quick work of restoring her hair. A splash of water on hot cheeks and a good hand soaping completed her effort to regain some dignity but did little to improve her mood.

This ridiculous effort to get Ethan to groom himself had gone on for three days! The hours consumed by rituals, arguments and rationalizing on both sides were probably no sweat for a therapist who willingly lived on Planet Asperger. But Ali had made a private commitment to limit her counseling skills to abuse victims where she had a ton of personal knowledge.

But here she was anyway, dealing with this bizarre disorder again. It was giving her anxiety the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since her earliest days in foster care. Ali’s candle was melted at both ends from searching for wisdom. Between office sessions with her patients she pored over old research materials hoping for a long-forgotten clue. Then late into the night she surfed
psychotherapy sites, reading updated studies on Asperger’s hoping for a discovery.

And as she’d waited for Ethan to finish today’s diatribe on the chemical properties of sedimentary rock so he would finally get off the bed and change his sheets, only one thing was certain in her mind: she was ready to admit defeat.

“Ethan, I need to tell you something.” Ali tried again to distract him. When he yammered on about salt and gypsum she used the time to gather what little was left of her paper-thin patience. If the attention he’d paid her over the past few days was any indicator, the boy probably wouldn’t hear a word she said. So, why bother?

And that’s when the fight broke out. Pillows flew, blankets were tossed and a battle for the linens became a life and death issue. But the bed
would
get stripped.

“After I drag you over this line, we’re gone for good!”

“But you just got here,” Ethan insisted between grunts of exertion. “Why are you leaving already?”

“For your information, bituminous breath,” she jerked her head toward the clock placed prominently above his flat-screen television, “It’s been two hours since I arrived and we haven’t accomplished diddly squat.”

“How can you say that?” Indignation filled his wide, incredulous eyes. “If you’d pay attention to me when I speak instead of constantly looking at your notes, you might learn something.”

She ground her teeth, holding back the defensiveness that always accompanied being busted. She’d learned it was a waste of breath. The first time Ethan had called her out she’d been impressed with his intuitive nature.
By the tenth time he’d taken her to task she realized he simply had no sense of tact. To an Aspie, diplomacy was tantamount to a lie. When something was straightforward, a candy coating made no sense. It was just that simple to Ethan, who had a remarkable ability to hit a nail on the head even if he could only hit one nail over and over and over again.

Enough already. Ali tossed her brush into her purse, resigned to what was about to happen. After the display of foolishness Benjamin Lamar had just witnessed, she didn’t figure he’d want her coming back again anyway. She slung her bag over her shoulder, opened the door and headed down the stairs with Simba in tow.