His Healing Touch novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Morning Routine

Hallie learns Freddie's day and Stewart's test, then a court letter names the other side's expert: her husband.

I woke at six to a small sound on the other side of the guest room door.

It was the soft scrape of a body sliding down a wall.

I got up in the borrowed t-shirt Stewart's housekeeper had left folded on the bed and opened the door.

Freddie sat on the hall carpet with his knees pulled up and his back against the plaster.

He was wearing dinosaur pajamas and holding the end of my scarf.

"Good morning," I said, and stayed in the doorway.

He didn't look up.

Barely ten words, his father had said, and last night Freddie had spoken to me.

I sat down on the carpet three feet away and let the silence be.

After a minute he held the scarf out toward me without turning his head.

It was a gift and a test at the same time.

I took the end and held it, and nothing else.

Footsteps came down the stairs from the third floor, fast, then stopped.

Stewart stood at the landing in a gray t-shirt and sleep pants, hair pushed back, watching us.

He looked exhausted, as if he had slept in a chair beside a door.

"He's been up since four," he said quietly. "He sat outside your room the whole time."

"Does he eat breakfast?"

"Same thing every day. Toast cut in four triangles, a banana he won't let me peel, and milk in the blue cup."

"Then we do that."

"He needs a routine," Stewart said, as if I'd argued.

"I know," I said. "That's why I said we do that."

He stared at me for a second, and then something in his shoulders let go.

In the kitchen, Freddie sat at the island and ate with his eyes on the clock over the stove.

I stood on the other side of the counter and did not touch him or look straight at him.

Every time he finished a triangle, he lined up the crust on the plate.

Stewart watched.

"Say something," he said.

"About what?"

"About how bad it is."

"It isn't bad," I said. "His fork is in the right hand and he drank the milk, and he has a system. That's a kid with a plan."

"Nobody has ever said that to me."

"The people who say the other thing are usually selling something."

Stewart didn't answer.

He took his phone out of his pocket and set it face down on the granite.

"I'm going to test you," he said. "I'm telling you now so you can say no."

"All right."

"Freddie has a meltdown nearly every day at ten when the school bus honks. I want to see what you do."

"You want to see if I touch him," I said.

"Yes."

"I won't touch him unless he asks."

"He doesn't ask."

"He's going to," I said, and I went to get my coat.

The bus honked at ten, loud enough to rattle the glass.

Freddie's whole body went stiff at the window, and his hands came up to his ears.

He started to make the high sound again.

I knelt on the floor six feet away with my palms up on my knees.

"Loud one," I said. "I hear it too. Do you want pressure or do you want to go to the quiet room?"

He rocked.

I held up two fingers, one for each, the way I'd done in the clinic with other kids who had no words.

He looked at my left hand.

Then he walked across the hall in four stiff steps and leaned the whole side of his body against me.

Not a hug.

Just weight.

I put both arms around his shoulders and pressed in, firm and even.

His breath came down in three long pulls, and then he was soft.

Behind me Stewart made a sound that was half a laugh and half something else.

He had one fist against his mouth.

"That's the first time he's asked anyone," he said when he could talk.

"It's not magic," I said. "It's deep pressure. Lots of kids need it."

"You did it in ten seconds. Six therapists couldn't do it in two years."

"They were afraid of him," I said. "He can feel that."

He crouched across from me, close enough that I could see the gray in his eyes.

"And you're not afraid of him?"

"No."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I haven't decided."

The corner of his mouth moved again, and this time it kept going.

He looked like another man when he smiled.

The doorbell rang before I could look away.

A courier in a rain jacket stood on the front step holding a thick envelope with a court seal.

Stewart signed for it and tore it open at the island while Freddie ate a second banana.

I watched his face go from warm to nothing at all.

"What is it?"

"Her lawyers filed the final witness list. The hearing's in two weeks."

He slid the page across the granite.

It was a legal list of names under the heading "Petitioner's Designated Experts."

Helena Acheson, petitioning for sole custody of Frederick Acheson.

Under that was one name in bold.

"Dr. Bradley Whitlow, M.D., Pediatric Neurologist, Harborview Pediatric Neurology."

I read it twice.

"Stewart," I said. "That's my husband."

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