Julia Spencer-Fleming - Out Of The Deep I Cry

Clare got out of her car, crunching and slipping in the poorly plowed drive. Across the road from the house, an enormous barn had been partially gutted, its old doors widened into something resembling a municipal garage. There were two purple buses parked inside. She shook her head. She couldn’t wait to see what Karen Burns, whose brick town house was straight out of Traditional Homes magazine, would make of the Clow place.

She slipped and slid past Karen’s Saab and climbed the stairs to the front door, which was painted to resemble an underwater scene. She pressed the bell-a turtle-and stared at an octopus waltzing with a mermaid while she waited.

“Hi! You must be Reverend Fergusson.” The door was opened by a woman in her late forties or early fifties, with the lean, weather-beaten face of someone who spends most of her time outdoors and active. “I’m Lilly Clow, Deb’s mother.” She took Clare’s hand and combined shaking it with pulling her inside. “It’s colder than a Norwegian well digger’s you-know-what out there,” Lilly said. Deb’s mother looked vaguely Norwegian herself, dressed in an embroidered sweater with her gray hair hanging in long braids. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Thanks for having me,” Clare said, shucking her coat. “It’s quite some place you have here.”

“Yeah, it’s wild, isn’t it? The kids love it. The paint fumes are probably destroying whatever brain cells I have left, but what the heck. C’mon back to the kitchen, it’s warmer. Deb and the lawyer are meeting there while I ride herd over the kids in the playroom.” Lilly led the way through a room that was either a living room or an artist’s studio, and another that was either a dining room or a craft shop.

“Reverend Fergusson’s here,” Lilly announced as they entered the kitchen. Karen and Debba looked up from their seats at a scrubbed pine table and greeted her distractedly.

“We’ve got some nice herbal tea already made up,” Lilly said. “Or I could offer you some juice, or some bottled water.” The table was set with three mugs and a honey jar that had all the earmarks of someone’s first pottery project. A more professionally made teapot sat on a woven mat in the center of the round table.

“Coffee?” Clare asked.

“Sorry, no coffee. We have some chai tea in the fridge if you want caffeine.”

“Ah. Thanks, I’ll just help myself to what’s here.”

“Okeydokey. Me and Raffi will be entertaining the kids if anyone needs us.” Lilly opened a door in the back of the kitchen. Clare caught a blast of “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” before it latched shut.

She pulled out a chair-mercifully unpainted-and sat down. Karen had a yellow legal pad in front of her and had been jotting notes. “Have I missed much?”

Karen shook her head. “No, we were just going over the terms of Debba’s divorce decree.” The lawyer picked up her mug and took a drink. When she put it down, Clare noticed that, despite the mug’s lumpy and uneven edge, Karen’s lipstick was unsmudged. There were women who always looked perfect, Clare reflected, and then there were the rest, who had mystery stains on their blouses and unevenly-bitten-off fingernails. Being in the same room as Karen Burns always reminded Clare that she was one of “the rest.”

“So he’s been paying his support on time, and using his visitation schedule,” Karen was saying.

“Yep,” Debba said. “Although only with Whitley. When we went through mediation, he said he didn’t feel competent to meet Skylar’s special needs.” Her voice made it clear what she thought of this excuse.

Karen pulled a document toward her. “That fits in with the motion his lawyer’s filed. He states”-she riffled through the pages until she reached a spot marked with a sticky-“ ‘The minor Skylar has been diagnosed with autism and requires highly specialized care and teaching which Ms. Clow is unable and unwilling to provide. Petitioner would enroll his minor son in a residential educational facility in order to maximize the child’s emotional, physical, and intellectual development.’ ” She squared the document and placed it next to her legal pad. “He’s obviously going to make an argument that you’re retarding your son’s development by keeping him at home.”

“That’s not true! Mom and I both work with Skylar all the time! Plus, he gets all sorts of services through early-childhood intervention. He has occupational therapy and speech therapy twice weekly. His therapists will say I’ve been providing a rich educational environment for him to develop in.”

“Are they specialists in autism?”

“No, but-”

Karen raised her hands. “I’m not trying to argue with you, Debba, I just have to let you know what we’re facing here. I’ve dealt with some of the people in the early-childhood intervention program, mostly through my volunteer work at our church.” She nodded toward Clare. “We sponsor a mentoring program that hooks up teen mothers with older women. I’m sure everyone who’s a part of your son’s team is caring and competent. But now he’s six, and it’s almost time for him to be enrolled in school.”

“I’m home schooling him.”

“Which is a perfectly valid choice. But look at it from a judge’s perspective. You’re going to provide at-home schooling, which many people still see as inferior to ‘professional’ schooling. You don’t have an educational degree, do you?” Her voice raised hopefully.

“I never went to college.”

“Hmm. Not good. So you’ll have Skylar at home, and he’ll be eligible for special-education services, but you’ll be hauling him back and forth to the school for those. The judge will be comparing that to the glossy, professional gleam of a special school.”

“An institution!”

Karen took another drink. “We can’t afford to put special-ed institutions on trial, Debba.”

“So what should I do?”

“One thing would be to find out what your ex really wants. Lower support payments? Different visitation? Maybe he’s tired of paying his half of Skylar’s non-covered medical expenses.”

“Maybe he’s sincere,” Clare said.

Debba and Karen looked at her.

“Maybe he really believes that Skylar needs something different now that he’s reached school age. Maybe he’s worried about Whitley not having been vaccinated.”

“Hah,” Debba said.

“Regardless, unless Debba wants to give up custody, she needs to figure out a way to counter his position. I think the first thing will be to find another M.D. who’s willing to state that the kids are in excellent health and that Skylar’s doing well under the current program.” Karen jotted a note on her legal pad. “Are you sure Dr. Rouse will back your husband instead of you?”

“It’s that son of a bitch’s fault I’m in this mess,” Debba said.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Would you consider changing your position and getting Whitley immunized?”

“No.”

“What about at a different venue?” Clare asked. “Someplace where you could feel sure that the vaccinations were mercury-free?”

“No.” Debba thumped the table. “It’s not just the mercury, you know. We’ve been letting the medical establishment put living viruses in our bodies for years now. Look at the unexplained rise in autoimmune diseases and asthma. Were you aware that while the flu vaccination rate went from thirty-five to sixty-five percent, the mortality rate from flu has increased a hundredfold?”

Clare lifted the teapot. “Couldn’t that reflect the fact that there’s a lot more old people around than there used to be?”

“Let’s stay on point, people.” Karen tapped her mug handle with her pen, a risky move in Clare’s mind. “Debba, I need a list of everyone involved in Skylar’s care.”