Mending Places (10 page)

He stepped under the hot water and remembered the incident a couple of weeks ago when he’d frightened her in the office. She sure did scare easily. Embarrassed easily too. He could tell she’d been embarrassed when he’d walked in on her talking about her dream. He smiled. She hadn’t even turned around to face him. He was glad. The smile slipped from his lips. He didn’t want to encourage her. Tempting though she was, he was determined to stay clear of women.

Then why is it you keep thinking about her?
He frowned and rinsed the suds from his hair, imagining the water was washing away all thoughts of Hanna. What was it about her anyway? She was attractive enough in a very natural way, but he’d been around plenty of attractive
women and been able to maintain his hands-off policy. It wasn’t as if she were coming on to him the way Fran had.

God, help me to get my thought life in order. I don’t want a relation ship with Hanna or any other woman. Help me to get her out of my head.

Micah dried off and dressed in his gray sweatpants. He had to do something, anything, to get her off his mind. His gaze fell on the Recovery Journal, still on his bed where he’d dropped it. He groaned. He had a whole week to complete the assignment, but at least that would get his mind off Hanna.

He snatched it up, grabbed the pen off the nightstand, then leaned back against the headboard and thought about the discussion in the group tonight. They’d talked about pivotal points during their childhood. He knew what that was for him.

He’d been in first grade. He liked his teacher, Mrs. Winters, because she had a soft voice. One day she was reading to the class when his stomach began to itch. And every time he scratched, it itched more. He couldn’t even pay attention to what Mrs. Winters was reading. Finally, she closed the book, and the class divided into groups for their reading circles. But instead of joining his group by the aquarium, he walked up to his teacher’s wooden desk.

“What’s wrong, Micah. Did you forget to bring your book?”

“No. My stomach itches.” He scratched. “Right here, and it won’t stop. I think a skeeter bit me.”

Mrs. Winters stood and circled her desk, then squatted down in front of him. “Well, now, those skeeter bites can itch pretty bad. Let’s see what we have here.” She lifted his T-shirt.

Micah watched her eyes grow wide.

“Oh, my! That’s no mosquito bite, sweetie. I think you have chicken pox.”

“Really?” A smile stretched his lips. Just about everyone else in his class had already had the chicken pox, and he thought he’d never get it. But he didn’t know it would itch this much.

“You’ll need to go to the nurse’s office and show her your stomach. While you’re waiting for your mom to come get you, I’ll put together a packet of the work you’ll miss over the next week or so.”

His smile fell from his face. He didn’t know he’d have to miss a whole week of school. He would have to stay at home all day with no one to play with.

Mrs. Newburg, the school nurse, was walking a girl out the door when Micah entered the office. She said goodbye to her, then turned to him. “Hi, there. Not feeling well?”

“My stomach itches. Mrs. Winters said I have chicken pox.”

“You’re Micah, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” His bangs flopped over his forehead, caught in his eyelashes, and bounced each time he blinked.

“I’m Mrs. Newburg.” She lifted his T-shirt. “I think you visited me a few months ago.”

He nodded. “I had a temperature.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said while examining him. “Well, you do have the chicken pox, young man. We’ll need to call your mom or dad to come and get you. Are they at home or work?”

“My mom’s at work.”

“Do you know her number?”

“Uh-huh.”

She showed Micah to the phone, and he dialed his mom. When he told her he had chicken pox, she cursed and huffed but finally said she’d come.

“Is she coming?” Mrs. Newburg asked.

“She said she’d be here in a while.” He scratched his stomach.

She smiled gently. “I’ve got just the thing for that itch. Come sit here.” She patted the vinyl bed and shook a pink bottle. “Why don’t you take off your shirt, and I’ll put this on.”

He hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want anyone to see his back.

“I can see you’re a very smart boy, Micah; it’s good that you’re careful of who you undress in front of But I’m a nurse so, just like at the
doctor’s office, it’s okay to take off your shirt.”

He swallowed, suddenly dry mouthed, then peeled off his shirt. He held still as she dabbed pink lotion on each spot. “There. It should stop itching real soon, but be careful not to scratch or you’ll rub the medicine away. “Turn around, and let’s see how your back looks.”

Micah froze.

“You probably have some on your back even if they aren’t itching yet.” She reached out and helped him turn on the bed. Micah closed his eyes.

He heard her gasp. The clown on the wall in front of Micah blurred as his eyes filled with tears. Nobody except his mom had ever seen him without his shirt on; he’d made sure of it. He’d tried so hard to be good in school. To make sure he obeyed his teacher so she’d like him. And now it was all ruined. His secret was out, and she would tell everyone the truth: He was a bad boy.

Stop crying! You’re such a baby.
He counted the polka dots on the clown’s outfit to distract himself
One, two, three, four …

“You only have a few spots on your shoulders.”

Micah felt the cold lotion as she dabbed it on.

“There. Why don’t you sit here for a few minutes and let it dry. I’ll be right back.”

Micah put his shirt back on. He didn’t care about the wet lotion; he didn’t want anyone else to see the burn marks. Stretching out on the bed, he lay on his side and pillowed his head with his arm. Would Mrs. Newburg tell his teacher he’d been bad? Is that where she’d gone?

For what seemed like hours, Micah lay on the bed. He didn’t like the way his skin stuck to his shirt. He’d already studied all the pictures on the walls. A clown, holding a fistful of round balloons, a chart they used to test eyes, and one of the food groups like they’d studied in class a few weeks ago. He reached out and played with the fingers of the fake skeleton hanging in the corner. Sitting up, he grasped the fingers in a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bones.” He giggled, then inspected the hand. Were there really that many bones in his hand? He held his own next to it and flexed his fingers. Neato.

He heard the outer office door shut, then voices. Micah dropped the bony hand and listened.

“Can you tell me …”

He leaned closer to the door, but could only hear pieces of conversation.

“And I’ve seen them before. I’m certain …”

“Did you question him about …”

“His mom is coming …”

A moment of silence followed, then the door to the clinic opened. He leaned back against the wall. A lady dressed in fancy clothes stepped in, followed by Mrs. Newburg, who closed the door behind her.

“Hi, there, Micah. I’m Nancy.” She put her notebook down and extended her hand.

He shook it, then stared at his shoes. They were untied again, and the laces were dirty from being dragged along the ground.

“I hear you have a case of the chicken pox. My little boy had them last year, and he was itching all over. Is that how you feel?” She sat beside him on the cot.

He studied her face. She had the skinniest nose he’d ever seen, but she had kind eyes and a nice smile. “Just my stomach. Is my mom here yet?”

“Not yet. Can I have a look at those itchy spots?”

She didn’t want to look at his chicken pox. The nurse had told her about his marks, and she wanted to see them too.

“It’s okay, Micah, I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t know why, but he trusted her eyes. He lifted his shirt, and she looked at his stomach.

“Yes, I’d say that’s chicken pox, all right.” She met his gaze and smiled gently. “Mrs. Newburg said you have marks on your back. May I take a look?”

Fear seeped into Micah’s bones. He was right. The lady just wanted to see the sores. And then she would know he was bad too. What did they do to bad boys?

“It’s all right, Micah. I’m here to help you.”

Reluctantly, he lifted his shirt and turned away from her. He flinched when he felt her fingers run over the marks.

“Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“But they must’ve hurt a whole lot when you got them, huh?” She lowered his shirt Micah turned to face the door again. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. “I want to go home.”

“Your mom is on her way. Does your dad work too?”

“I don’t have a dad.”

“How about brothers or sisters?”

“A little sister.”

The lady wrote something down on her paper. “So the two of you just live with your mom?”

“Uh-huh.” Why was she asking all these questions?

“Where does your mom work?”

“At a restaurant.”

The lady smiled. “I used to work at a restaurant too. But now I have a different, very important job. Do you want to know what I do, Micah?”

He looked at her face. She was still smiling. If she thought he was bad, wouldn’t she be mad at him? “Guess so.”

“I keep children safe. My job is to make sure children are not hurt by anyone. Do you know a child who gets hurt by someone?”

Micah studied the lady’s face. Then his gaze went back to his shoelaces. Was his mom in trouble for hurting him?

“Sometimes children are hurt by a parent, grandparent, or babysitter. Sometimes grownups have a bad day and do things that are not right. That’s a very sad thing. When a child tells someone he trusts, it’s my job to make sure nobody hurts him again.”

He heard the bell ring out in the hall and then the shuffling feet and locker doors being opened and shut. He wished he were with his class.

“Can you tell me how you got those marks on your back?”

Micah felt hot. He scratched his stomach. He itched again. What would they do if he told the truth? Could she really stop his mom from hurting him? He didn’t want to get his mom in trouble.

“Can you tell me how you got them?”

He wished she would stop asking. He didn’t want to think about that. He could still feel the scalding tip on his skin, still remember the smell. He closed his eyes.

“Grownups make mistakes sometimes, Micah, and I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

Micah opened his eyes and looked at Mrs. Newburg through a glaze of tears.

“It’s okay, honey,” the nurse said. “Tell Nancy what happened.”

He looked at the lady. She patted his hand. “Sometimes my mom gets mad. I do bad things.” He sniffed, and Mrs. Newburg handed him a tissue.

“Go on, Micah.”

“It burned.” Fat, wet drops rolled down his cheeks, and he held back the sob that rose in his throat.

“It’s going to be all right, sweetie,” Nancy said. She stood and whispered something to the nurse and left the room.

Mrs. Newburg sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.

He wiped his face. “Is my mom here yet? I wanna go home.”

“You’ll be able to leave soon.”

They waited side by side for what seemed like hours. Micah’s stomach rumbled, and the nurse went to get him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When he finished it, he balled the plastic wrapper and practiced shooting it into the trash can in the corner.

Finally, Nancy opened the door and came in followed by a policeman. Micah’s eyes widened. He looked at Nancy, then the policeman. Suddenly he was very thirsty, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was the policeman, how big he was and how he had a gun in his holster.

He’d had it now. Why did he say those things to Nancy? She told the police, and now he was in trouble. What did they do to bad kids? He didn’t want to go to jail!

“Hi, Micah, I’m Officer Dan.” He held out his hand, and Micah shook it.

Then he asked a question. Micah remembered his teacher talking about honesty. She always said telling the truth was the right choice. Looking at the big policeman, he wondered if she was right. Maybe they wouldn’t be as mad at him if he told the truth. He’d already told Nancy and the nurse anyway.

He answered question after question until the officer stepped out of the room.

Nancy knelt in front of him. “Micah, remember how I said—”

“What’s going on here?” his mom’s voice carried in from the office. “Where’s my boy?”

A quieter voice rumbled, in words he couldn’t hear.

“You said I was to come get him, now you’re telling me I can’t take him? I had to leave work—”

The door burst open. His mom came toward him.

The policeman stopped her.

Nancy took Micah’s arm and pulled him out of the room, then through the office. “Where are we going?” The policeman walked on his other side. No one answered his question.
Where are they taking me?

His mom’s voice carried through the glass doors. “Micah! You can’t just take him! He’s my kid!”

Micah looked at his mom, then turned back and ran. The officer caught him and snatched him up. “Mommy!” he screamed. Tears ran like a river down his face. His mom blurred as he bounced on the policeman’s shoulder. “Mommy!” He beat the man with his fists. “Put me down!”

“Let him go!” His mom screamed. The nurse was trying to hold her back. “You can’t just take him!”

They burst through the exit doors. The sunlight stung his eyes. “Mommy! I want my mommy!”

He was dropped into a car. He looked frantically around. He was in a police car. Fear spiraled through him, strangling his words, choking his breath.
I don’t want to go to jail! Mommy! Help me, Mommy!

CHAPTER EIGHT