Caroline Anderson - A Very Special Need

‘Cheeky monkey. I might beat you anyway.’

He grinned, lopsided and teasing. ‘Yeah. After all, there’s always room in the world for another miracle.’

She chuckled, cleared away the pizza plates and put the chess board on the table. ‘Right, you, do your worst,’ she challenged, and wondered, if there was a spare miracle lying around, whether it could please be dedicated to her finding a job and not thrashing her cocky son at chess…

Nothing was ever easy. There was no job, neither the next day nor the one afterwards, and on the Thursday evening Woody was late back from the bus. She was walking down the path to investigate when he came into view, walking even more awkwardly and his face twisted with pain.

‘Woody? Whatever’s wrong?’ she asked, running the last few steps towards him.

‘I fell,’ he said tersely. He looked withdrawn and mutinous, and she could tell he was suffering.

‘OK. Let’s get you in and inspect the damage. I want to hear all about it.’

‘I’m fine, I just fell,’ he repeated, limping painfully up the little step to their front door.

Judith doubted that he ‘just’ fell. Oh, he did sometimes genuinely fall, of course. She knew that. She also knew that look on his face, that stubborn, determined look which overtook him when someone had cut him to the bone—just as she knew that there was more to this than a simple fall, but she could do nothing.

To interfere and fuss would simply make it worse.

‘Cup of tea?’ she offered, allowing him to deal with it in his way.

‘Mmm, please.’ He sat at the kitchen table, a muffled groan escaping from his tightly closed mouth, and she shut her eyes and counted to ten.

She put the mug down in front of him. ‘Here. Drink this while I run you a hot bath,’ she said softly, and went out before she gave in to the urge to cry her eyes out.

He didn’t deserve this—whatever ‘this’ was. Life was tough enough without some bully going for him. She wondered if he would ever tell her what had really happened.

He wouldn’t let her help him with the bath. That didn’t surprise her. He’d been independent in that department for some years now, struggling to cope alone while she metaphorically bit her nails on the other side of the door.

This time, though, he was ages and she could hear the groans from the kitchen.

There was a time for his pride, she decided, and a time when she just had to be a mother.

She waited until he had gone into his bedroom, then knocked on the door.

‘What?’ he growled.

‘Edward, I want to come in.’

The door opened to reveal her son, clad only in a pair of briefs and some colourful bruises. ‘Why do you always call me Edward when you want to pull rank?’ he said mildly, and turned away.

She swallowed a retort and studied his body. Thin, a little twisted, never moving smoothly, it was even more stiff and jerky than usual tonight. She ran her practised eye over him, looking for strains and stresses, and her eyes settled on his spine.

‘Have you put your back out, falling?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll live.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Where did you fall?’ She tried to keep the edge of irony out of her voice but failed.

‘On the stairs,’ he told her defiantly. ‘I tripped over my foot.’

Plausible but not the truth. Her son could never lie to her, she knew him far too well. Sure, he’d tripped over a foot, but whose? ‘I’ll bring you some ibuprofen tablets.’

‘I’ll come. I’ve got homework to do,’ he told her, and followed her a few painful minutes later, dressed in a baggy tracksuit which hung on his gaunt frame. Heavens, he was getting so tall now…

‘How about your physio?’ she suggested, wondering if that would give her an opportunity to find out how hurt he really was.

‘I don’t think so. Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.’

It must be bad, she thought. Painful as his physio was, he never shirked the chore they had shared each evening for so many years.

She went in to his room to tuck him up and turn off his light at ten. He was asleep, his lashes black against the pale, drawn cheeks. He looked so fragile. She brushed the thick dark hair away from his brow and dropped a kiss on his cheek, surprised yet again at the fine dark fuzz that covered his jaw. He would need to start shaving soon, she realised with a shock.

He was growing up so fast. Up and out and away from her, his battle for independence every bit as fierce as any other teenager’s, only the other kids didn’t have to deal with disability as well.

‘I love you,’ she whispered soundlessly. ‘Please don’t be hurt.’

In the morning he could hardly walk. Knowing his courage and knowing from her own experience that bad backs were best treated by specialists, she sent him back to bed and left the flat.

In the next street, just a few hundred yards away, there was an osteopath. As well as being so convenient for her home, he had also established an excellent reputation. She had heard his name at several clinics and support group meetings, and she understood he treated lots of children with cerebral palsy and other disabilities. Not that she could afford any treatment, more’s the pity. No, but she would go and ask his advice. Hopefully it would be free.

It was a strange area, she thought as she set off. Their flat was a maisonette, the lower half of a conventional-looking two storey house in a little street with several similar ones, drab and ordinary but functional. Aesthetic appeal seemed to have passed it by, and yet round the corner the next street was altogether grander, the houses imposing Victorian double fronted status symbols, very des-res and so far out of her reach that she hardly even dared to imagine what they were like inside.

At the entrance to one of them she hesitated, looking up at the impressive red-brick façade, at the large bay windows and ornate stone lintels and the immaculate garden with shrubs and perennials creeping onto the tarmacked drive in carefully orchestrated profusion.

It was gorgeous—and intimidating. It was also the home and workplace of the man she wanted to talk to. Mentally girding her loins, she walked up the driveway, past the cars parked at the front, and found the outer door propped open. Beyond the glass door into the hall she saw a reception desk ahead of her, a beautiful walnut desk with the glorious patina of age. It was probably worth more than her entire flat contents.

Her heart sank. This man was weathly and successful. Why should he help her? She was about to turn tail and run when the receptionist, a woman of about Judith’s own age, looked up and smiled through the glass, and beckoned her in.

She went. It would have been impossibly rude not to have done so, and she dredged up an answering smile.

‘Good morning,’ the receptionist said as she approached. ‘Can I help you?’

Where to start? How about the obvious? she thought. ‘My name’s Judith Wright. I wonder if it would be possible for me to have a word with Mr Barber about my son.’

‘Is he a new patient?’ the woman asked, turning to a card index on the desk. Judith noticed that she was very pregnant. His wife?

‘No. Well, that is, he isn’t a patient—not yet. That was what I wanted to discuss,’ she lied boldly.

The woman smiled. ‘I see. If you’d like to take a seat, Mrs Wright, I’ll have a word with him in a few minutes in between patients.’

She didn’t bother to correct the mistake. She was so used to being called Mrs Wright that she ignored it now. Returning the smile, Judith went through the door indicated and found herself in a waiting room overlooking the front. It was light, airy and welcoming—and most of the chairs were upright, wooden armchairs, ideal for people with bad backs, she thought with a slight smile. She armed herself with a magazine and sat in one of the chairs. There were two other people in there, a man and a woman sitting on opposite sides of the room, their noses buried in magazines.