On Blue Falls Pond Read Free

long moment, he sat in the car, staring toward the forested mountains shrouded in their ever-present blue mist. In a way, Scott’s mind was concealed from him just like the detailed contour of those mountains. He wished with all of his soul that he could divine the right course to lead his son out of the mysterious fog. The local doctors had varying opinions; from developmental delay (a catchall phrase, he’d decided), to mild autism, to he’ll-grow-out-of-it, to it’s-too-early-to-tell.
    Eric was willing to do whatever it took to help his son—if only there was a definite answer as to what that was.
    He slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Then he took a deep breath and tried to exhale his frustration. He would need all of the calm he could muster to deal with what awaited inside.
    When he entered the hall that led to the basement classroom, he could hear Scott crying—screaming. A feeling of blind helplessness
whooshed
over him like a backdraft in a fire. He quickened his pace.
    With his hand on the doorknob, he paused, heartsick as he looked through the narrow glass window beside the door. His son stood stiffly in the corner, blue paint streaked through his blond hair and on his face. Mrs. Parks, one of the teachers, knelt beside him, talking softly. Eric saw her hands on her knees; Scott really didn’t like anyone other than his parents to touch him.
    Scott ignored his teacher, his little body rigid with frustration. It was a picture Eric had seen before. Still, it grabbed his gut and twisted with brutal ferocity every time.
    When he went into the room and knelt beside his son, there was no reaction of joy, no sense of salvation, no throwing himself into Eric’s arms with relief. Scott’s cries continued unabated.
    Was this behavior an offshoot of the divorce, as Jill insisted?
It seemed implausible, as he and Jill hadn’t lived together since Scott was ten months old. Still, that nagging of conscience couldn’t be silenced.
    Mrs. Parks, a woman whose patience continually astounded Eric, said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do but call you.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully and looked back at Scott. “I think he wanted the caps put back on the finger paints. Although I can’t say for sure.” In her hand she held a wet paper towel. She handed it to Eric and got up and walked away. “Maybe he’ll let you wipe his hands.”
    Eric took the towel. Scott had become increasingly obsessed with closing things—cabinets, windows, doors, containers—with an unnatural intensity. Anything that he wasn’t allowed to close sent him into an inconsolable tantrum, as if his entire world had been shaken off its foundation.
    Jill’s mother said the child was overindulged, spoiled because his divorced parents were vying for his love. Jill’s family
did not
divorce. At first Eric had bought into the theory. But he’d been careful, watched to make sure they weren’t acquiescing to Scott’s every demand.
    “Okay, buddy, can I wipe your hands?” Eric asked, holding out the towel.
    Scott’s cries didn’t escalate; Eric took that as permission. He got the worst of the blue off his son’s hands, then scooped him up in his arms and carried him, still stiff and crying, out of the classroom.
    Scott wiggled and squirmed, but Eric managed to get him strapped in his car seat. By the time he was finished, Eric had almost as much blue paint smeared on him as Scott did. Before he climbed into the driver’s seat, Eric tried to call Jill again. No answer.
    Eric then called the station. When the dispatcher picked up, he said, “Donna, I’m going to have to take the rest of the afternoon off; I had to pick Scott up at school, he’s . . . sick.”
    Eric hadn’t discussed his son’s possible condition with anyone. It was still too new, too baffling. How could he explain something that was currently such a mystery to his own mind?
    Donna made a tiny noise of understanding. “No problem,” she