.STEELE TIES DON’T BREAK.

.Part XVIIII

By Kelly Rourke

 

---

"Juice?" the young woman said. "Or coffee?"

 

He was scowling fiercely down at his hands and didn't answer. Laura let the silence go on for a moment.

 

"What about a Scotch on the rocks?" she asked, but that got no response, either. Finally she looked up at the flight attendant. "Bring us a Scotch on the rocks and two coffees," she said, pulling out the price of the cocktail and handing it over.

 

She settled back and returned her gaze to the window. The ocean was on the other side of the plane and there was little of interest to see outside her own window. The bare desert landscape far below slipped by with a monotonous regularity. Watching it pass, she felt a sense of increasing discomfort, as if she'd left something vital behind that she should have with her. She understood exactly why she felt that way, however, and there was nothing on either side of her window that would help with the feeling.

 

Still, she knew that Frances and Donald were wonderful with Harry and she'd call him from the hotel before dinner to say goodnight. After that, she reasoned, she'd feel just fine.

 

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" His voice was soft, as if it came from far away. She turned to him and smiled.

 

"I did, but that was about five minutes ago. I ordered you a cup of coffee and a Scotch on the rocks, because I didn't know what you'd want."

 

"Coffee and a Scotch? Good heavens," he said mildly. "But I'm sure neither will go to waste, short as the flight is, even."

 

"How's it going?" she asked, fearing the question alone would be upsetting. He sighed.

 

"Not at all well, I'm afraid. I'm getting nowhere at quite a brisk pace."

 

"I don't understand the problem," she said with an encouraging smile. "You've given hundreds of speeches before. I've heard them. You've never had trouble addressing an audience."

 

"Yes, but that was different. I wasn't talking about anything I knew a thing about, so it didn't seem to matter what I said, as long as I said it well. Because, to be fair, the people I was talking to didn't usually know what I was talking about, either." He stared in dismay at the index cards clutched in his left hand. "That's not the case here. And what I do, well, it's damn near impossible to put into words. I've never been good at verbalizing what it is I do. I can write reports 'till I'm blue in the face and all the facts are right there. But none of them really say precisely what happens in the therapy room. I have no clue how to put that into words. I work with the electively mute and words just don't seem to explain how it all happens. Ironic, eh?"

 

"Maybe we should get some you some white pancake makeup and a beret and you can mime your way through it," she said and gave his forearm an encouraging squeeze. He managed a small smile as the flight attendant brought their drinks.

 

And that was the end of the conversation for the remainder of the flight. When the 'fasten seatbelts' sign came on, he sighed and tucked his notes and his pen into his pocket, looking as unsettled and resigned to it as she felt herself.

 

At least we're on the same page, she thought as they retrieved their luggage from the endlessly slow carousel.

 

*****

 

The hotel was understatedly elegant, and check-in was mercifully brief. They were given information about their room and where to go to register for the conference. A bellboy tucked their two small bags and one briefcase onto a ludicrously large chrome dolly and escorted them to their room. She couldn't help but notice the difficulty he seemed to have counting out bills for the young man's tip. She'd almost expected one of his casual flourishes as he dropped the money in the outstretched hand, but it didn't happen.

 

It wasn't the big changes that seemed to catch her unprepared, it was the small ones. And there'd been many of those, she realized as she unpacked her suitcase and laid out her dress for that evening. It wasn't just the weight loss and the beard. It was his almost obsessive need to finish his paperwork before retiring for the night. The way he watched her and little Harry whenever he was with them, as if fearing they'd vanish before his eyes. How he paused before doing anything, seeming to gauge any possible reaction before making a single move.

 

She began to wonder if he'd ever be able to relax and just accept his life now, without the fear that had seemed to have folded around his edges like unwanted paper blown by a hard wind.

 

Maybe this weekend would help with that. If she could make the cognitive leap he seemed to need of her. She showered quickly and did her hair and makeup. When she emerged from the bathroom in her slip, it was to see him staring grimly down at his notecards once again. He'd finished his shower first and had put on a clean, pressed suit; a cut above the one he usually wore to work, but nothing like the flashy tuxedoes she was used to seeing him in. She stepped into her grey crepe de chine cocktail dress quickly.

 

"Hey," she said, pleased to see him react to her voice immediately this time. "Is this going to be too dressy for this evening, or not dressy enough? I don't know what people will be wearing."

 

He smiled at her, a genuine, shadow-free smile. "Laura, you look stunning. You're perfect, just as you are. Don't change a thing. Please." He stood and wrapped his arms around her. "I think I could get through anything with someone as beautiful as you on my arm tonight."

 

"Well, then, you're in luck," she told him pertly. "I don't happen to have any other arms worth dangling on, so I'll just perch here on yours for the evening."

 

"This is my lucky day," he said and stepped out the door with her.

*****

"Laura!" John Needham's voice seemed pleasantly surprised. She turned to see him striding up behind her. "I'm so glad you came!" He took her hand and held it briefly. "Don't you look lovely tonight!"

 

"Thank you," she said and realized how glad she was to see his friendly face.

 

"And you managed to get this idiot to the right place at the right time. I knew I could count on you!" John slapped his colleague on the back. Both men stepped away from the registration table just outside the ballroom.

 

"Um, John, I have an awkward question to pose," he said, fingering his nametag.

 

"What's that, Harry?"

 

"Chalmers? I know we've got people here from both sides of the border, but…"

 

"You're registered as Dr. Chalmers. Didn't you realize?"

 

"Yes, I suppose, but what about the people here from the States? Won't they be expecting Dr. Cathcart?"

 

"What's in a name? Stop worrying so much. Relax and enjoy the evening!"

 

Someone tapped John on the shoulder then and he turned away. Laura moved protectively closer. "He's right, you know," she told him gently. "You really should just relax and enjoy the evening."

 

He snorted softly. "Easy for the two of you to say! Well, let's take the plunge, shall we?" And placing his hand comfortingly in the small of her back, he pulled open the ballroom doors and they stepped inside.

 

Sound hit them like a physical wall. Somehow, Laura hadn't expected the sheer number of people clustered around the room. But this was a national conference. International, really, as many participants came from Canada as well as the US.

 

"I don't suppose Pat will be here, anywhere?" she said, leaning closer and raising her voice to be heard above the crowd. He was looking around himself with an almost surprised scowl on his face, however, and didn't answer. Several people bumped into them from behind and they moved quickly away from the door. As they moved, his head swept the room, seeming more to listen than to look at anyone. She saw his hand slide into the pocket of his suitcoat where his notecards were.

 

But he removed it, empty, as two exceedingly polished-looking and attractive women approached.

 

"Harrison!" one practically purred. "It's so good to see you again!" She had a slight accent and some odd muscle along the back of Laura's neck sprang tight. Her name tag read Dr. Vanessa Stripe. The tag on the second woman's blazer read Dr. Ann Walsh.

 

He smiled and took their well-manicured hands briefly. "Dr. Stripe, Dr. Walsh, I'd like you to meet Laura Holt. Laura, these ladies work at our clinic in Ottawa."

 

Laura managed to smile and shake hands. It was Dr. Walsh who spoke first. "We were based too far away to work directly with Dr. Cathcart on any kind of regular basis, but we were on the same conference calls so often it was almost like being next door neighbors at times."

 

"And then there were the odd symposiums and conferences," put in Dr. Stripe, "like this one, only much smaller. Still," she added, giving him an appraising glace that was entirely feminine to Laura's jaundiced eye, "you've been sorely missed since your assignment to the States. How've you been lately?"

 

During the ensuing small talk, Laura realized she was clenching her teeth and forced her jaw to relax. Ottawa. A good distance away. And the cost of international phone rates probably meant that the volume of conference calls would be much less these days. Really, she must set a good example here. It was time to relax and try to enjoy herself.

 

She managed to focus on the conversation for a moment and was preparing to put in a word here or there when Ann nudged Vanessa and pointed toward the door. "Look who's made an appearance!"

 

Vanessa brightened. "Sheila! Let's see what dragged her out from under her rock this time! Excuse us, won't you?"

 

So the only contribution Laura managed to make to the conversation was her insistence that it had been a pleasure meeting them and they were gone, swallowed up in the shifting crowd.

 

They had taken a few steps in what seemed a random direction to Laura, when she felt him stiffen beside her.

 

"Oh good Lord," he muttered, his eyes focused on something in front of them. She looked and saw a bald man with a broad smile coming toward them.

 

"Dr. Chalmers! So good to see you! I've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been hiding?"

 

"Our flight was delayed, Howard. We just got in an hour ago ourselves. Ah, Dr. Howard Lasko, may I present Laura Holt? Laura, Howard was my immediate supervisor in Canada."

 

"Dr. Holt!" His grip was enthusiastic and his handshaking technique more than muscular. The red flags that were going up in Laura's head weren't just a reaction to that, however. Something had been said about this man, but what?

 

"It's Ms. Holt, actually," she said, retrieving a hand she was sure would have aching knuckles in the morning.

 

"So sorry! And such a pleasure to meet you, my dear." His smile had turned slightly condescending. "Now, Harry, tell me what Needham bribed you with to get you here. I've never been able to drag you to one of these, no matter how persuasive I was."

 

He began to fiddle with his earlobe, something Laura knew perfectly well meant his answer would be less than forthcoming in some fashion. "He said 'please', if I recall correctly. How've things been with you lately, Howard? I hear you may be up for a directorship."

 

He hated him! That was it. This was the Canadian supervisor he had been so happy to be rid of. Now on her guard, Laura began looking for a reasonably polite way to extricate both of them from the situation. Nothing seemed immediately forthcoming, however.

 

"Oh, you know what the rumor mill is like." Lasko's self-deprecating laugh rang hollow, somehow. "There's always talk. I put no stock in it myself. Still, if it happens, I won't complain. But you? Leave us high and dry and suddenly you're all the rage. Half the staff seem to be referring patients to you all the way down here in the States. Tell me, what is your secret?"

 

"Oh, kickbacks, bribes, the odd stock option here and there. You know. The usual." If she didn't do something soon, she could tell that the muscle in his jaw would start to noticeably twitch.

 

"Harry! Look!" she touched his elbow. "It's Pat. And she's spotted me. I have to go talk to her. Please don't make me do it alone. I can't face her. Really." She turned to Lasko with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry to tear him away, but it's an old college friend and we have a certain history that makes it, well, difficult. You understand, I'm sure."

 

"Of course, my dear. I'll catch up with you later, Harry, eh?" Lasko's pat on her shoulder was unctuous, at the very least, but it was preferable to his bone-crushing grip. He stood watching them as they moved away.

 

"Quick, find someone female that we can persuade to be Pat for a few minutes!" she hissed. But he was ahead of her, as always, and marched straight up to an attractive brunette.

 

"Pat!" he said, not overly loudly, but with enough volume so that anyone trying to listen in could hear. The woman whose hand he clasped looked slightly confused and he leaned in. "Help me out here, Claire. We're trying to ditch Howard Lasko."

 

"Now there's an endeavor I can wholly support!" the woman said with a throaty laugh. Her welcoming smile was genuine. Laura didn't dare risk a look behind. But Claire linked arms with both of them and began walking away from where they'd been.

 

"Claire works with our preadolescent at-risk program in Los Angeles," he explained.

 

"How do you know Dr. Lasko?" Laura couldn't help asking. Sheila grimaced slightly.

 

"Everyone who works for this organization has the misfortune to know Dr. Lasko in some form or another," she said. "Those of us who don't work directly under him get down on our knees every night to thank God for our good fortune."

 

"So you've never actually worked directly with him?"

 

"Lord, no! Just conference calls where I can sit and make faces to my heart's content." Claire said. Before Laura could continue what was promising to be a fascinating conversation, a young man interrupted them.

 

"Dr. Chalmers? We're getting ready to begin seating people for dinner. I've been sent to show you to your places."

 

"Yes, of course. Claire, thank you so much for the timely save. We'll talk later?" he said.

 

"Of course. And I'm looking forward to your presentation this evening."

 

His answering smile was a bit tense. "Wish I could say the same." And then they were moving away, toward the front of the room.

 

They paused near the door and the young man indicated the long table up front. "If you would take the seats just to the right of the podium, Dr. Chalmers, dinner will be served shortly. I have to find Dr. Terrance now." he said, and left them.

 

Laura stared at the head table, her mind whirling. "Laura?" he said softly. "Something wrong?"

 

"N-no. Not really. I just didn't realize. I mean--"

 

He looked puzzled still.

 

"It's nothing. I'm sorry. I'm probably just lagged from the flight, I suppose." She pulled in a breath and straightened her shoulders. "You ready for this?" she said, trying to make her smile as optimistic as possible.

 

Now he did pull his notecards out from his pocket and fingered them briefly for a moment.

 

"Laura, I need you to do something for me, if you don't mind?"

 

"Of course. Anything."

 

And with a suddenness that startled her, he ripped the notecards in half and deposited them in a trashcan artfully concealed behind a potted ficus.

 

"Whatever happens when I'm up there, I need you to act as if nothing is wrong. No matter what I do, or don't do, just stay perfectly calm. Can you do that?"

 

"I can do that," she said firmly, not entirely sure if she could or not. They moved over to the table and took their seats. As others came to join them, she leaned over and touched his shoulder.

 

"Um, you do realize I was joking about that mime thing, right?"

*****

He was in place again at precisely the right hour. People seemed to be coming in a steady stream. Of course she would choose a place like this. Busy. Popular. Somewhere to be seen.

 

He smiled in the dark. She would be seen. He would not be. There would be no games tonight. He wouldn't be drawn in like that again. He would wait here. Outside. A few hours, three at the most, and she would return, carefree, laughing, certain that she was mistress of all she surveyed, that nothing could ever touch her.

 

Her friends may walk her out as they had both nights previous to this but, as he had observed, they would not walk her to her car. This time, he would be ready. She had arrived shortly after he had. And her car was parked in the perfect place. A large hydrangea bush behind a bus stop provided shelter just a few cars away from hers. His own car was parked right in front of it. Following her would be simplicity itself.

 

This time she would not slip away into the shadows, leaving doppelgangers in her wake to confuse him. This time he would face her in her own setting, but on his terms. She'd been making a fool of him for months now, longer really. But tonight, it would end. Tonight he would take back what was rightfully his.

 

And all he had to do now was wait.

*****

"Are you feeling all right, Laura?"

 

The question startled her. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

 

"Because you didn't touch your roast beef, rolled a few vegetables around your plate and swallowed exactly two mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. And now your chocolate-raspberry mousse is about to be taken away from you without so much as a spoon-dent in it. So I felt the question had some merit. I still do, in fact. Are you all right? I mean, really. I could understand my losing my appetite. But what's going on with you?"

 

"Nothing! Honestly, I'm fine." She plunged her spoon into her dessert and began shoveling it into herself.

 

He sighed. "Well, at least dessert wasn't a total loss, I suppose."

 

Guiltily, she laid her spoon down. "I'm sorry. I'm just a bit self-conscious, I suppose."

 

"About what?"

 

"I don't know, really. Sitting up here, with everyone watching. It just feels odd."

 

"Why? You've sat at head tables before. I know. I've sat there with you. Why is this odd?"

 

"I really don't know," she said, searching for something, anything to offer. "It's just been awhile, I guess. I haven't been to a formal dinner like this in years. Since before Harry was born, really."

 

"Come now, Laura. You have to do better than that. Something's bothering you. I'd like to know what it is."

 

"No, really. I'm just out of practice. That's all." She tried giving him a clear-eyed, innocent look. But she could see he wasn't buying it. "Oh, all right. Look, I'll make you a deal. Let's get through the rest of this program, dinner, what-have-you. Then maybe we can go for a walk and talk it through before we turn in for the night. And I promise not to make excuses. Just let's get through everything first, o.k.?"

 

He didn't look entirely happy with the plan, but Dr. Terrance had laid down his napkin and was rising from his chair. "All right, Laura, but we're taking that walk and having that talk. Tonight."

 

She smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He sighed and slipped his arm around her shoulder briefly as a waiter took the last of their dishes away.

 

"Good evening!"

 

There was a brief squawk from the microphone.

 

"Thank you all for coming. As most of you know, my name is Dr. Michael Terrance and I'm the current chairman of the North American Association of Psychiatrists and Psychologists. This is the opening of our fifth annual conference and I'm pleased to see such a large gathering tonight."

 

As Dr. Terrance droned on, Laura let her mind wander a bit. She had done a little research on the organization before leaving Los Angeles, and knew that, with the rise in international medical practices, organizations that spanned more than one country, like this one, were springing up more often. What she hadn't done was get hold of an agenda for the conference itself. Or for the scheduled speakers for the opening dinner. Now she found that to have been a serious omission on her part.

 

"We've had many successes as a group over the past few years and some members have distinguished themselves notably and individually as well."

 

She'd never gone to professional conferences when she'd been training at Havenhurst and she'd avoided them after opening her own agency. Somehow, she'd pictured men in silly hats chasing women with plunging necklines all interspersed with dry lectures backed by soft snoring.

 

That may have been a bit simplistic, she now concluded. Looking out at the faces in the room, she noted that serious attention was being paid to Dr. Terrance. There were even small bursts of applause here and there and she forced herself to pay attention as he continued his list of some of the accomplishments of various association members; awards won, papers published, practices expanded.

 

"I must admit that, for the past several years since I became chairman of this group, I have been trying to persuade a certain colleague to give us the benefit of his experience and, until this year, all my efforts had been in vain," Terrance was saying and suddenly Laura had no trouble focusing on his words.

 

"However, those of you fortunate enough to have worked directly with Dr. Harrison Chalmers know him to be a generous colleague and a thorough professional. You are also no doubt aware of his stunning success rate in working with a historically and notoriously difficult group - electively mute children. No other clinical child psychologist of my acquaintance has come anywhere close to his performance in this field and, while he's written several well-received papers, he has never given a public presentation on his methods or his practical philosophy of working in this area."

 

"This year, for the first time, I have managed to arrange for him to host several panel discussions and to give us a brief address on his work in the field. Therefore," he continued, "tonight it is my great pleasure to present to you our keynote speaker for this year's conference. Please welcome Dr. Harrison Chalmers!"

 

As the applause rolled, he rose and took Dr. Terrance's place at the podium. Laura watched him carefully as he slipped his wristwatch off and laid it where he could see its face clearly. And then he stood there. And said absolutely nothing.

 

Remembering his words before they sat down, Laura carefully schooled her face, hoping it looked bland and innocuous. Act as if it's all perfectly normal, she told herself. The silence stretched on. He didn't move a muscle.

 

Finally, someone coughed. And someone else cleared their throat. Several people shifted uneasily in their seats. Still he stood, silent and motionless. Until at last a low murmur arose from a table in the back of the room. He smiled and picked up his watch.

 

"Almost six minutes. That's amazing and speaks well for your professionalism. Most audiences wouldn't have lasted two." He slipped his watch back onto his wrist and looked out at the room.

 

"What is it about silence that terrifies us so much?" he asked. "Think about it. When we come home at night, for many of us, the first thing we do is switch on the television. We get into our cars and immediately turn on the radio or put a tape in the deck and jack up the volume. We fall asleep to a compact disk and wake up to a local radio station. We go to ridiculous lengths to avoid spending any time in the presence of silence. We fill every inch of our homes and our lives with noise of one kind or another. I have a friend who can't write a letter or read a book or pick up a broom unless he has a video cassette playing at the same time. He calls it background noise. He also calls it essential."

 

"But why? What is it, hiding there in the silence, that is so frightening? What is it we think can harm us so badly that we avoid it at all costs? Is it the threat of our own thoughts that we run from? Or is it the simple loneliness, the inherent reminder that we all essentially live and die alone, no matter what and who we surround ourselves with?"

 

"Children are adaptive creatures, and instinctive to a great extent. It isn't surprising, then, that even the youngest of them can sense our deepest fears. And it isn't a great stretch for them to sometimes realize that in silence lies great power over the giants that otherwise control every waking moment of their lives."

 

"The child who adopts silence gains the immediate attention of the grownups around them, and sometimes even a measure of control. This is seldom the main reason a child falls silent, but it is often a beneficial side-effect for them. We are inherently communicative creatures and the idea that we can't communicate with our own children both frustrates and terrifies us. I can't tell you how many parents literally beg me to wrest some kind of words out of their child. What words don't seem to matter, as long as there is some verbal sign that the child hasn't, in some way, vanished for all time, leaving just a soundless body behind to mark their place."

 

"And yet, if we simply pay attention, the child isn't truly silent or uncommunicative. In fact, these children are constantly trying to communicate, desperately reaching out to the adults in their lives. Silence is merely how they command our attention. The rest, unfortunately, is up to us."

 

"And that is our fundamental mistake in these situations. We seem to consider silence an empty space, a void, filled with nothing, containing nothing of interest or value. In fact, we can sometimes see it as a vacuum, threatening to suck even more out of our lives than we are prepared to give. But silence is never truly empty. In fact, it's never truly silent at all, if we bothered to simply listen."

 

"Listen! Please, for the next few moments, let yourselves be still. Let the silence, for want of a better term, exist without protest. And listen, with all your attention, to what exists within that silence that we so fear. Listen…"

 

He fell silent himself and stood listening. The audience followed suit. In a nearby kitchen area, there was a sound of something crashing to the floor.

"Someone's having a bad day," he said softly with a small smile. The audience laughed, and he held up a hand. "Listen!"

 

From the lobby area outside the ballroom, a woman's voice could be indistinctly heard. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was strident, angry. The answering voice was softer, calmer.

 

"There's communication of one kind," he commented. "Off to a bad start, though, it would seem." He held his hand up again. "Listen. But this time, go farther. Listen to what's behind the sounds we normally listen for."

 

From well outside the building, there was a sound of briefly squealing tires. Unconsciously, Laura tensed for the sound of metal crumpling, but it never came.

 

"Someone out there narrowly avoided a very bad day, didn't they?" he said quietly. "Listen!"

 

Silence reigned once more. Laura became aware of a soft, almost metallic, chirping sound from somewhere either in the walls or outside them.

 

"Is that a malfunctioning air conditioner," he asked softly, "or a group of crickets telling the world how their day went? Listen! Go deeper still."

Silence once more. Even the crickets seemed to have fallen silent.

 

"I think someone here needs to see their internist. The way they're breathing, it sounds like upper chest congestion to me. But I'm not a medical doctor." He smiled and relaxed his stance a bit.

 

"If we listened hard enough, we might even hear our own pulse, pounding through our veins. That, however, would take more practice than most people have the time and patience for. But we can learn to listen to each other, can't we? Truly listen. Even to things that don't come in words."

 

"I had a patient, early in my career. Her teachers noticed it first. They sent home notes that Susan, as we'll call her, wasn't participating in class. She wasn't speaking up, volunteering answers. She wouldn't participate in classroom discussions, wouldn't read aloud even when it was her turn. Over time she fell silent even at home. She stopped playing with friends, riding her bike, even going outside the house except when forced to go to school or church. Her parents finally brought her to me."

 

"I looked over her record, asked all the usual questions. She'd had academic difficulty in school for years. She was eight at the time and attended a small private school several miles from home. But socially, she'd seemed successful enough. She'd had a reasonable number of friends in her neighborhood. Her extended family didn't live nearby, but she saw them as frequently as possible. Her medical records showed nothing that might point to a physical cause of any kind. And yet at the point I took her on, she hadn't spoken aloud in three months at least."

 

"As I said, this case came early in my career and I hadn't worked with electively mute children that often. In fact, I had little experience with this particular population. But I was fortunate, because Susan was, in her own way, desperate to communicate. She was screaming for help at this point, if someone could only hear."

 

"During our first meeting, Susan chose a seat alone, as far from my desk as possible, even though there was a chair right next to her parents. Her parents talked to me as if reciting something they'd been over many times. The difficulty in school, particularly English. How she had changed, at school and at home, and the odd repetitive behaviors she had adopted over the past several months."

 

"She'd begun tapping, her mother told me. Just tapping on things, seemingly random objects of one kind or another. Books, cereal boxes, cans, even her mother's jar of cold cream. With her silence and her self-imposed isolation, it was just one more odd symptom they could report. Everything about their own daughter baffled them at this point and they were becoming overwhelmed. After about a half hour, I asked them to have a seat in the waiting room and give me some one-on-one time with their daughter."

 

"Almost before the door had closed behind them, Susan got up and began walking around the office. She seemed fascinated by the bookshelf and went down the rows of books, one by one, tapping each one on its spine, three times. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then moving on to the next book. Tap. Tap. Tap. I let this go on for awhile and finally took her into the therapy room."

 

"We started, as we always do, with crayons and blank paper. At this point, I might add, I hadn't said a word to Susan herself. And the tapping continued. She would take a crayon out of the box, tap it three times on the blank page, and lay it down, only to pull out the next crayon and repeat the procedure. She never drew an actual line on the page. I was beginning to think the therapy process might take years at this point. But my assessment was premature and didn't take into account how motivated she was to communicate with me."

 

"It wasn't until we reached the sand table that she found a way to get through my thick skull. First she pulled out every toy building she could find and set them up in a cluster in the middle of the table. Then she found a female doll and held it parallel to the table, with its arm stretched out over its head, and proceeded to tap three times on the door to each building with it. Tap-tap-tap, and onto the next, tap-tap-tap. And when she'd tapped on each and every building on the table, she carefully placed the doll face down in the sand off in a corner of the table. Then she stood and walked away to a chair near the door, sat down, folded her hands in her lap and waited for me to get a clue."

 

"I'd like to tell you that enlightenment dawned at that moment, but instead, I waited a bit, and then led her back to my office. Before we got there, she pulled away from me and reached the door first. With the forefinger of her right hand, she tapped three times on the door to my office, tap-tap-tap, and then stood back and waited for me to open the door for her."

 

"Once inside my office, she crossed immediately to the bookcase and went through it again, each and every book. Tap. Tap. Tap. And, finally, I understood what she was trying to say. I called her parents back in and asked them one question. Had she ever been tested for dyslexia?"

 

"To make a long story a bit shorter, today she is a happy, healthy, verbally communicative young lady. She'll always need special help in school, but books and other printed material are no longer completely locked doors to her. And it was her own courage that saved her. Unlike so many of us, she didn't fear silence. She embraced it and found her true voice in its depths."

 

"She's not the only one who can do that, or should. And so I ask you again, what is it about silence that frightens us? And why? When there is so much to be found in it, if we only pay attention."

 

His head came up suddenly and he tensed. "Listen!" he almost hissed.

 

Every ear in the room strained to hear. Every person sat motionless. In fact, their concentration was so intense that the audience almost didn't notice that he had quietly retaken his seat. When they did, the applause was both warm and generous.

 

But before he rose to acknowledge their praise, his eyes went to Laura's face. And then, for the first time in what seemed like days, he finally relaxed.

*****

She hadn't spotted him following her. His smile glittered in the darkness of his car. Always thought she was so smart, but she hadn't seen him and now he was pulling into her own parking lot. Sliding jerkily into a spot a few places down from where she had parked.

 

He killed the engine and opened his door. She had opened her own door and was warily getting out of her car. He carefully did not look at her as he stood up. He held onto the door, though and instead of closing it, he hung on it for a moment, before sliding back down onto his seat. She paused near the back end of her own car, watching him. He let himself sag against the steering wheel. For a long moment, she did not move.

 

"Mister?" she finally called. "Are you o.k.?"

 

He didn't answer, waiting her out. It wasn't a long wait.

 

"Mister?" He heard her heels on the pavement, slowly, hesitantly moving in his direction. "Is anything wrong?"

 

"No," he said, weakly. "It's o.k. I'll be o.k. In a minute, I'll be fine. Really." Her footsteps were steadier now, coming closer. Through his lowered eyelids he could see her feet stepping closer, almost where he needed them to be. Almost.

 

"Can I get you some help? I don't think you're o.k. at all." She sounded genuinely concerned. But then, she always sounded genuinely concerned. And she never really was. He sat waiting patiently for her to take the last few steps that would bring her finally to where he needed her to be. Where they both needed her to be.

 

"I just need a little time. I'll be able to get up in a minute and then I'll go inside and…" He let his voice trail off. Now he let his eyes close completely. He had her. It was just a matter of those last few steps and he didn't need to see them. He knew her. She would let him know when she was where she needed to be. She couldn't help herself.

 

A moment later and he felt her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to move, then, but still he waited, for the caution and tension to leave her, for her guard to finally drop.

 

And then he moved.

 

Before she could so much as gasp, he had her arm twisted behind her and a cloth pressed over her nose and mouth. It was over in a matter of moments and he was pulling her limp form over to the back seat of his car, folding her in like a lawn chair that had seen honorable service. Closing the door securely. Locking it. Sliding behind the wheel and pulling smoothly away, out of the parking lot, back onto the street. Only a few miles to the forest preserve now. To a private place where his business could be concluded.

 

A place where he could finally retrieve the life she had stolen from him all those years ago.

 

TO BE CONTINUED----

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