Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

“If I were you, I’d make it clear to the whole school that those boys won’t be allowed into the dance, and neither will any other troublemakers. Turn them into poster boys for what not to do.”

In the prolonged silence, everyone looked to Fern for a decision. She was tired of being the one in charge, the one who got blamed when things went wrong. Now here was this Ph.D. Lieberman, telling her exactly what to do, and she almost welcomed the chance to defer to his judgment. To pass the responsibility to someone else.

“All right. The dance is back on the schedule,” she said.

There was a knock on the door. Fern’s pulse quickened as Lincoln Kelly stepped into the room. He was out of uniform today, dressed in jeans and his old hunting jacket, and he brought with him the scent of winter, the sparkle of snowflakes on his hair. He looked tired, but fatigue only emphasized his appeal. It made her think, as she had so many times before: You need a good woman to take care of you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got back into town a few minutes ago.”

“We’re just finishing up the meeting,” said Fern. “But you and I need to talk, if you have the time right now.” She stood up, and instantly felt embarrassed when she saw him glance in surprise at her shabby attire. “I had to break up another fight, and ended up getting shoved to the ground,” she explained. She tugged on the sweatshirt. “Emergency change of clothes. Not exactly my most flattering color.”

“You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“No. Although it is painful to ruin a good pair of Italian shoes.”

He smiled, an affirmation that despite her bedraggled appearance, she could still project both charm and wit, and that this man appreciated it.

“I’ll wait for you in the other office,” he said, and stepped out again.

She could not just walk out of the room and join him. First she had to make the necessary graceful exit. By the time she’d successfully disengaged herself, it was five minutes later, and Lincoln was no longer alone in the outer office.

Claire Elliot was with him.

The two of them didn’t seem to notice Fern as she came out of the conference room; their attention was focused so completely on each other. They didn’t touch, but Fern saw, in Lincoln’s face, a vibrant intensity she’d never seen before. It was as if he’d suddenly awakened after a long hibernation to rejoin the living.

The pain she felt at that instant was almost physical. She took a step toward them, but found she had nothing to say. What is it he sees in you that he never saw in me? she wondered, looking at Claire. All these years she had watched Lincoln’s marriage deteriorate, had thought that in the end, time would be her ally. Doreen would fade from the picture and Fern would step into the void.

Instead here was this outsider, such an ordinary-looking woman in her snow boots and brown turtleneck, moving straight to the head of the line. You don’t fit in here, thought Fern spitefully as Claire turned to face her. You’ve never fit in.

“Mary Delahanty called me,” said Claire. “I understand Noah was in another fight.“

“Your son’s been suspended,” said Fern, pulling no punches. If anything, she felt the urge to inflict damage on this woman, and she was glad to see Claire flinch.

“What happened?”

“He got into a fight over a girl. Apparently Noah’s been playing fast) and easy with his hands, and the girl’s brother stepped in to protect his sister.”

“I have trouble believing this. My son’s never mentioned any girl-”

“It’s not easy for kids to communicate these days, when parents are so busy with their jobs.” Fern had wanted to hurt Claire Elliot, and it was obvious she had, because a guilty flush appeared on Claire’s cheeks. Fern had known exactly what target to aim for, a parent’s sorest point, where self-blame and overwhelming responsibility have already left them vulnerable.

“Fern,” said Lincoln. She heard reproval in his voice. Turning to look at him, she felt suddenly, deeply, ashamed. She’d lost control, had unleashed her anger, showing off her worst side, while Claire played the role of the innocent party.

In a subdued voice, she said, “Your son’s waiting in the detention room. You can take him home now.”

“When can he return to school?”

“I haven’t decided. I’ll meet with his teachers and consider their recommendations. The punishment has to be severe enough to make him think twice before he causes trouble again.” She gave Claire a knowing look.

“He’s been in trouble before, hasn’t he?”

“There was just that skateboarding incident-”

“No, I mean before. In Baltimore.”

Claire stared at her in shock. So it was true, thought Fern with satisfaction.

The boy has always been a problem.

“My son,” said Claire with quiet defiance, “is not a troublemaker.”

“Yet he does have a juvenile record.”

“How do you know that?”

“I received some newspaper clippings, taken from a Baltimore paper.”

“Who sent them?”

“I don’t know. That’s not relevant.”

“It’s very relevant! Someone’s trying to ruin my reputation, drive me out of town. Now they’re going after my son.”

“But the clippings are true, aren’t they? He did steal a car.”

“It happened right after his father died. Do you have any idea what it’s like for a twelve-year-old boy to watch his father waste away? How completely it can break a child’s heart? Noah has never recovered. Yes, he’s still angry. He’s still grieving. But I know him, and I’m telling you, my son is not bad.”

Fern held back a retort. There was no point arguing with an enraged mother. It was obvious to her that Dr. Elliot was blind, unable to see beyond her love.

Lincoln asked, “Who was the other boy?”

“Does that matter?” said Fern. “Noah has to face the consequences of his own behavior.”

“You implied the other boy started the fight.”

“Yes, to protect his sister.”

“Have you spoken with the girl? Confirmed that she needed defending?”

“I don’t need to confirm anything. I saw two boys fighting. I ran out to stop it, and I was shoved to the ground. What happened out there was ugly. Brutal. I can’t believe you’re sympathizing with a boy who attacked me-”

“Attacked?”

“There was physical contact. I fell.”

“Do you wish to press charges?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, then stopped herself at the last instant.

Pressing charges meant testifying in court. And what would she say under oath?

She’d seen the rage in Noah’s face, knew that he’d wanted to strike her. The fact he hadn’t actually raised a hand against her was only a technicality; what mattered was his intent, the violence in his eyes. But had anyone else seen it?

“No, I don’t wish to press charges,” she said. And added, magnanimously, “I’ll give him another chance.”

“I’m sure Noah will thank you for it, Fern,” he said.

And she thought miserably: It’s not the boy’s approval I want. It’s yours.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Claire asked.

Noah’s response was to draw away like an amoeba, shrinking to his side of the car.

“We have to talk about it sometime, Hon.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is, you’ve been suspended. We don’t know when, or even if, you can go back to school.”

“So I don’t go back, so what? I wasn’t learning anything anyway?’ He turned and stared out the window, shutting her off.

She drove a mile without speaking, her gaze fixed on the road, but not really seeing it. She saw, instead, a vision of her son as a five-year-old child curled up, mute, on the couch, too upset to tell her about the teasing he’d endured in school that day. He has never been a communicator, she thought. He has always wrapped himself in silence, and now the silence has grown deeper, more impenetrable.