Chương 8
Connor looked at Kirsten. “Can we see him?”
“Mr. Fleming already has regular contact,” Dana said.
“I meant Kirsten.”
The use of her first name sounded almost indecently familiar.
Dana’s expression remained neutral. “My client is not comfortable with that.”
Kirsten had expected the refusal. The pain still arrived with humiliating force.
Simone adjusted her green glasses. “I recommend gradual contact in a neutral setting, supervised at first. Not because Dr. Sinclair poses a risk, but because Caleb does not know her.”
“He saw her at the hospital,” Connor said.
“A frightened child in a public confrontation does not count as an introduction.”
Connor looked down.
Kirsten appreciated Simone’s refusal to spare him.
Dana said, “My client believes contact should wait until the court resolves parentage.”
“That could take months,” Kenneth replied.
“My client did not create the court schedule.”
“No,” Kirsten said. “She created the reason for it.”
Dana’s mouth tightened. “Dr. Sinclair, my client’s conduct will be addressed. But using access to the child as punishment will not help anyone.”
“Then tell her to stop.”
The video window shifted as Dana leaned closer to her camera. “She is afraid.”
“So am I.”
“That does not make the fears equivalent.”
Kirsten stood.
Kenneth said her name quietly.
She picked up her coat. “I have spent ten days being told to protect the stability of a life built from a crime against me. I understand why. I understand it better than I want to. But no one in this room gets to speak as though my anger is the dangerous thing.”
Simone watched her carefully. “Your anger is not dangerous. Unexamined decisions can be.”
Kirsten met her eyes.
Then she sat down.
It was not surrender. It felt like learning the dimensions of a cage.
They agreed on two supervised visits the following week at a family-services center. Melinda would remain in the building but not in the room. Connor could attend the second visit. A child-development specialist would observe.
Outside the office, Connor waited beside the elevator.
Kirsten pressed the button.
“I believe you,” he said.
She looked at the changing numbers above the doors. “About what?”
“That you didn’t know what you wanted until you saw him.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you.”
The doors opened. Kirsten stepped inside.
Connor followed.
“No,” she said. “You knew me when knowing me was convenient.”
He flinched but stayed in the elevator.
“I’m trying not to make this about us,” he said.
“You failed in the pediatric wing.”
“Yes.”
The elevator descended.
He stared at the floor. “I watched the video.”
“So did everyone.”
“I don’t remember deciding to say it.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I thought you looked untouched. I wanted to break that.”
“You did.”
His eyes lifted.
Kirsten looked straight ahead. “Not because I believed you. Because Caleb heard you use his existence to degrade someone.”
“He doesn’t understand words.”
“He will.”
The doors opened into the lobby.
Connor did not move.
“I don’t know how to be his father now,” he said.
“You were his father before you knew what the clinic did.”
“But everything with Melinda—”
“Is not his fault.”
“I know.”
“Then start there.”
She walked away before he could mistake the answer for forgiveness.
The first visit took place in a room painted pale yellow. It held a low table, foam blocks, board books, and a plastic kitchen with one cabinet door hanging crooked. Kirsten arrived twenty minutes early and spent twelve of them trying to repair the hinge with a dime.
The child-development specialist, Mara, watched from the doorway.
“You know maintenance exists,” Mara said.
“It was bothering me.”
“It has bothered six therapists for two years.”
“The screw is stripped.”
“Now you’re part of the institution.”
Kirsten put the dime back in her wallet.
When Caleb entered, he held Melinda’s hand.
Kirsten had imagined him being carried. Seeing him walk changed something. His steps were wide and uncertain, one shoe turning slightly inward. He wore navy overalls and carried the giraffe by its neck.
Melinda stopped at the threshold.
For a moment, the two women looked at each other.
Melinda knelt and whispered something to Caleb. He glanced at Kirsten, then pressed against Melinda’s legs.
Mara crouched several feet away. “Hi, Caleb. I’m Mara. We have blocks.”
He did not care.
Melinda kissed the top of his head. Her eyes closed for one second too long. Then she stood and left the room.
Caleb began to cry.
The sound was not dramatic. It was worse than that—confused, breathless, betrayed. He turned toward the closed door and struck it with the giraffe.
Kirsten remained seated on the floor.
Every professional instinct told her what not to do. Do not rush him. Do not demand eye contact. Do not use a bright voice. Do not interpret distress as rejection of you when the child is reacting to separation from his caregiver.
Knowing did not protect her.
Mara sat nearby. “You can talk to him.”
Kirsten looked at the plastic kitchen.
“That cabinet is broken,” she said.
Caleb cried.
“I tried to fix it, but the screw is stripped.”
Mara’s mouth twitched.
Kirsten picked up a blue block and set it on the floor. “This one is not broken.”
Caleb hit the door again.
She placed a red block on top of the blue one.
He cried for four minutes.
Then he turned.
His cheeks were wet. His hair stuck to his forehead. He watched Kirsten place a yellow block on top of the red.
The tower fell.
Caleb stopped crying.
Kirsten rebuilt it. It fell again.
He walked toward her in five uneven steps and knocked the third tower down before she could finish.
She did not laugh. Laughter might have frightened him back into the corner. She set the blue block upright.
He knocked it over.
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They repeated this for several minutes.
Eventually he sat. Not close enough to touch her, but close enough that the giraffe rested against her knee when he dropped it.
