Turner grins—a cheeky, shy expression that warms my heart. “No, I fell off the monkey bars and landed funny.”
His dad stands and extends his hand, my simple beige greeting not enough. “Lincoln Wilds, ma’am. Thanks for fitting us in. I know you were booked solid. I called until there was an opening or that nice lady I spoke to made an opening for my son after I annoyed her half to death. Not sure which is the truth. I’m thankful all the same.”
When our hands and gazes lock, my stomach drops to the floor and floats back up to where it belongs. Lincoln knits his eyebrows.
“You’re the best in the area, and I only want the best for my boy.” A familiar, comfortable feeling washes over me as my skin warms against his. My hand slips out of his grip and the fleeting emotion vanishes in favor of confusion and embarrassment. What just happened?
After his statements, I know exactly who he is. The persistent dad with a growly voice is how Aspen described him. Clearing my throat, I counter, “I’m happy to help, of course. No thanks needed.”
Lincoln smiles, and it matches the one his son flashed. Butterflies flap in my stomach.
“Aspen is harder to get rid of than that. She rarely gets annoyed by me. I’m the best at exasperating her, for sure.” I test the waters with a light joke. It’s easier to work with children if the parents feel comfortable. “Looks like his cast came off two days ago and we’re ready for some light therapy today. I’ll explain everything to Turner once we get inside the training room.” It goes smoother when I take them back by myself, but a quick read of the room tells me Lincoln is joining us—that he’s a protector and wants to be near his son at all times. It’s the moment I realize that not only don’t I mind, but I want Lincoln to join us for therapy that the warning bells start ringing.
As I make small talk and lead them to the training gym area, I notice things I never notice about patients or parents. His wedding ring finger is bare and doesn’t have a tan line. Lincoln hasn’t brought up Turner’s mom once, even though he’s prattling on. I nod at something Lincoln tells me about the injury and open the file once again to glimpse the intake paperwork and emergency contacts. No mother there either. I set aside the file and have Turner gingerly climb up on a padded table and explain what happens next. “Tell me your favorite memory.” I ask the question that I usually use to distract little kids, but this time it’s for ulterior motives. Most will bring up a family memory, more times than not, their mom is involved. Mothers are important. I only know that because I don’t have one.
Lincoln clears his throat and I glance over my shoulder at the sound. His gaze is focused on his son. The little boy starts to talk, but stops when I wrap the large elastic band around the ball of his foot and bring it around his head so I can test his reflexes.
I don’t pull or put any pressure on his leg. “You okay, Turner? Tell me if anything hurts. What were you about to say? Happiest thing you can remember, right?”
I’m behind him so I can’t see his face, but I can see Lincoln’s to my left. His eyes slant down in the corner as he swallows hard.
“’Member when we went fishing, Daddy?” the boy says. Lincoln’s face lights up. “To catch the big ones!”
“You caught the biggest fish that day,” Lincoln says, leaning in to rest a hand on his son’s good calf. “It was one of my favorite days, too.”
I pull on the rubber band just a touch to flex his foot and ask him to push against it if he can. “Tell me about the fish you caught,” I prompt Turner. “Do you remember what kind? How was it?”
As he tells me the color, shape, size, and every detail he can remember, I use the distraction to test his flexibility. Lincoln’s gaze flicks over to meet mine. The stare is so intense I look away. “That sounds like an amazing day, Turner.” I prompt him with another question as I move him onto another machine, aware that while Lincoln doesn’t follow us, he’s watching, studying every move I make. A gesture that’s both normal and completely raw. A look is something I’m skilled at reading. At least more than average people. When you fend for yourself at a young age, you’re able to discern looks and the emotions behind them. I can tell you that some people were born looking safe, and those are the ones you watch out for because they’re usually the worst kind of monster. The wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Growing up in foster care, cycling from home to home, ’d familiarized myself with what pity looks like, and what anger, rage, and disappointment look like. The slant of a brow or the quirk of a lip. Micro-expressions can tell you everything you need to know about someone. Unfortunately, I also know what a casual glance filled with, ‘I’ll see you in your bed later tonight. You better not scream,’ looks like. I shudder against the cool that felt nice only minutes ago. The next therapy exercise is one that will be a little painful after being in
