The Forgotten Child

Chapter 6, The Forgotten Child

Chapter Six

Emily sat Trevor on the long discolored marble counter beside the bathroom sink. Katy perched on a small stool by the toilet. The bathroom was a large, modern bathroom with a soaker tub, lots of cupboards and room for dressing. Emily reached for a burgundy washcloth from one of the cupboards and turned on the tap until the water warmed. She soaked the terry cloth, wrung it out, grabbing Trevor's leg every time he squirmed, and gently wiped his hands, and then his face. "Okay, Trevor, stand-up. Let's get you out of these wet clothes."

Katy, her two-year-old, bright-eyed angel, looked up. Trevor didn't, instead he jammed the edge of the washcloth in his mouth and chewed. Those pale blue eyes held no recognition to her or anything she said. They appeared glassy—unresponsive. "What's wrong with you, Trevor?" Emily snapped her fingers. He didn't even flinch, much less look up.

"Lift your arms." She helped him to stand on the counter, but then he reached fitfully for the damp washcloth she'd pulled from his mouth. And he shrieked. Emily pulled off his shirt and gave it back. He shoved it back in his mouth. Content, for the moment, sucking away, Emily hurried, cleaning him up.

She carried Trevor the way a mother does, resting on her hip, across the carpeted hall to a child's large bedroom which held a toddler's racing car bed and nightstand with a horsey lamp. There was also a tall mahogany, six-drawer, highboy and a toy shelf filled with cars, stuffed toys and children's books. Emily rummaged through the top two drawers until she found another long sleeve, dark blue cotton shirt with matching sweatpants and a pair of socks. She had no trouble pulling the shirt over his head and helping him step into his pants; he was so focused on chewing on that rag. But when she tried to put on the white cotton socks, he threw the washcloth at Emily, and whined a high pitch squeal as he pushed her hands away, kicking his feet against her legs. "Okay, so socks are not going to happen today. We'll leave those for now." Maybe that was why he'd been barefoot.

He calmed down when Emily put the socks back in the drawer. Trevor raced for the discarded washcloth again jamming it in his mouth. "I'm not going to fight with you, Trevor. Keep the washcloth for now. Come on, Katy. Let's go downstairs. This time she carried Katy and held Trevor's hand down the back steps to the kitchen. Trevor never looked up, the way you expect a child to do, with a tiny smile or fleeting look connecting in that personal way of non-verbal communication. Trevor focused on the spindle railing and his hand, as he dragged it over each groove all the way to the bottom step.

The screen door squealed and slapped against the wood frame. A stocky man about medium height, wearing a green plaid loggers coat, stalked in. Dirt caked his cowboy boots. He yanked down the brim of his black baseball cap, tufts of dark hair sticking out, and wore what must have been several days worth of black stubble on his round cheeks. "Hey boss, what do you want to do about the spring hay? You still want to order more from Harley? We can't wait much longer. We only got enough for another few days."

"Ah, crap." Brad glanced over his shoulder but didn't get up from where he was crouched down in form-fitting jeans, showcasing a perfect set of buns, before an open fridge. He snapped the lower bar back. The floor was now clean, and a black garbage bag was tucked against the cupboard. Trevor pulled his hand free and raced past the other man. "Eeegg, eeegg," he screamed over and over, gesturing wildly to the fridge.

Brad shut the door and Trevor slapped the shiny white door again and again.

Brad suddenly appeared tired as he let out a heavy sigh. "What do you want? Is it juice?" The thick tension buckled the air in this large square kitchen. Trying to figure out what this child wanted was exhausting and Emily just stared.

The strange man, who now stood beside Emily, rested his large, dirty hands on his hips.

Brad ignored both of them and grabbed Trevor's arm, "Come here." He pulled open the fridge door and Trevor practically dove in for the carton of eggs. His dad lifted him with one arm and pulled him out, closing the door. "No way, how about a cookie?"

"Brad, lunch is almost ready. I just need to reheat the soup. Everything was ready before your box came. Oh, sorry, I dropped it by the door." Brad put Trevor down and he once again raced to the fridge and tried to pull it open, screeching at the top of his lungs. This kid was out of control. Brad scooped Trevor up and took a box of chocolate chip cookies out of the cupboard. Jackpot! Trevor stopped flailing and screaming, long enough to greedily cram a cookie into his mouth.

"Uh, sorry, at least he's quiet and you can get lunch out."

Emily firmed her lips and crossed her arms. He gave in to this kid; talk about reinforcing bad behavior. But now wasn't the time. She hurried to the stove and flicked on the burner, heating up the pot of soup.

Brad ignored her and spoke with the large man in the kitchen. "Emily, how long until lunch is ready?"

She didn't turn around. "Five minutes."

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