Home Again. Joan Elliott Pickart
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to raise a child on your own, without a high-school education?” Cedar said.
“No. I’ll get a job. I can wait tables, or whatever. Waitresses make good tips if they’re nice to the customers. And I’ll get a cute little apartment and fix it up really nice. I’ve done a lot of babysitting, you know, so I can take care of my baby just fine. It’s not as though I haven’t thought this through. I know what I’m doing.”
Cedar nodded. “Okay. I’m going to give you an assignment I’d like you to complete before we meet again next Monday.”
“Oh, bogus,” Cindy said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “What is it?”
“I want you to look in the newspaper for apartments, then enquire about how much money you’ll need to move into a place of your own…such as first and last month’s rent, security deposit, the whole nine yards. Then I want you to find out what waitress jobs are paying these days. Also, call several day-care centers and ask about their rates.
“You do that much, then we’ll work together to figure out the additional cost of diapers, formula, utilities, transportation and on the list goes. Now, before you start to argue with me about this, remember you signed a contract stating that you would cooperate with me one hundred percent.”
“Yeah, right, okay,” Cindy mumbled.
“Good. I’m sure your foster mother is in the waiting room because our time is up,” Cedar said, getting to her feet. “I’ll see you in a week. We’ll meet here again, then in the future let’s consider getting together in a park or a cozy café.”
“Whatever,” Cindy said, then rose and stomped across the office, closing the door behind her with a resounding thud.
“Oh, Cindy,” Cedar said, sinking back into her chair. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m going to burst your bubble.”
Cedar opened Cindy Swanson’s file and wrote notes from the session with the pregnant teenager.
Cindy’s divorced mother had four younger children at home. When Cindy had announced that she was pregnant, the mother couldn’t deal with it. She’d called Child Protective Services and had Cindy placed in foster care. CPS had then made arrangements for Cindy to become one of Cedar’s clients. Beyond the many cases the social service organization had directed to her, she also got referrals from schools and private physicians…like the one who had recommended her to Mark Chandler.
Mark Chandler, who was no doubt sitting in the waiting room right now with Joey.
Mark Chandler, who hadn’t strayed far from her thoughts the entire weekend, the rotten bum.
Cedar placed Cindy’s file in the out basket for Bethany to file, then reached in another basket for Joey’s file and placed it on her desk. She stood, tugged on the hem of the navy blazer she wore with a red blouse over winter-white slacks, then walked slowly across the room. She drew a steadying breath before opening the door.
Cedar felt, and tried to ignore the immediate increased tempo of her heart as she looked at Mark sitting on a sofa against the far wall. When she shifted her gaze to the small boy next to him, her heart did a funny little two-step.
Joey. He looked enough like Mark to be his son, with his tousled black hair and big, dark eyes. He appeared small for his age, his feet not reaching the floor.
Even with the distance between them she could sense Joey’s vulnerability and wanted to scoop him up, hug him and tell him everything was going to be just fine.
Objectivity, Dr. Kennedy, Cedar told herself, then crossed the room to stand in front of the pair.
“Hello, Mark,” she said, smiling. “And you must be Joey. I’ve been eager to meet you.”
Joey glanced up at her, then quickly directed his attention to his hands that were clutched tightly in his lap.
“Say hello, Joey,” Mark said.
“’Lo,” Joey mumbled.
“I’d like to chat with you a bit, Joey,” Cedar said, extending one hand toward the little boy. “Shall we go into my office? We’ll let your Uncle Mark stay out here and finish reading his magazine.”
“No,” Joey said.
“Hey, buddy, we talked about this,” Mark said. “I’ll be right here waiting for you, I promise. You go with Dr. Kennedy.”
“Call me Cedar, Joey,” she said.
Joey frowned and looked up at her. “That’s a weird name.”
“Oh, cripe,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Joey, you don’t tell someone that their name is weird.”
“Well, it is,” Joey said.
Cedar laughed. “It’s different, that’s for sure. It was my mother’s last name before she got married. She thought by sharing it with me, it would connect us in a special way.”
“Is your mom dead?” Joey asked.
“No, she isn’t,” Cedar said. “She and my father live in Florida now. I miss them very much.”
Joey folded his thin little arms over his chest. “You’d miss them more if they were dead people ’cause you couldn’t talk to them on the phone or nothing. Nothing.”
“I never thought of that,” Cedar said. “Let’s go into my office and you can explain it to me further.”
Joey slid off the sofa, but ignored Cedar’s outstretched hand. Cedar smiled at Mark, but he just shook his head again, a frown on his face.
“Did Joey get a snack, Bethany?” Cedar said. “Busy boys are hungry after school.”
“He certainly did,” Bethany said. “He had a juice box and a granola bar.” Her secretary was a plump woman in her early fifties, who was in the process of consuming her own box of juice and a granola bar.
“Good,” Cedar said, then placed her hand lightly on Joey’s back and guided him into her office, shutting the door behind them.
In the office Cedar patted the seat of one of the chairs fronting her desk, then sat down in the other one once Joey was settled.
“How come you’re not sitting behind your desk like the principal or something?” Joey said.
“I like to sit here when I’m getting to know a new friend.” Cedar paused. “Joey, would you like to talk some more about how you can’t speak with your parents on the telephone?”
“No,” he said, drumming his fingers on his thighs and watching the repeated motion.
“Okay. So, tell me, do you like your teacher at school?”
Joey shrugged.
“Have you made some new friends?”
Joey shrugged.
“Are you getting along all right with your Uncle Mark?”
Joey shrugged.
“Are you tired of eating scrambled eggs?”
Joey’s head snapped up. “Those eggs are so gross. They’re never good. Sometimes they run all over my plate and sometimes they’re hard as a rock and…I hate scrambled eggs the way Uncle Mark cooks them. Totally, totally gross.”
Cedar nodded. “They do sound gross. Have you told Uncle Mark you’d rather not have scrambled eggs anymore?”
“No. No, ’cause he…he might get mad at me or something and tell me I can’t live with him, and I don’t have anywhere else to live because…because I don’t.”
“Because your parents were killed in the accident?” Cedar said gently.
“That’s none of your business,” Joey yelled.
“Okay. Let’s go back