The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO




Willow sat outside the room waiting for the psychologist and the speech therapist to finish testing Lucian.

Poppy and Jinty had already been assessed, but the psychologist had insisted she come back with Lucian to ‘look at a few things’.

Willow, in a panic, had rung her mother in New York.

‘What do you mean he’s not talking yet?’ Janis had screamed down the phone.

‘Mom, you knew this,’ she said, in an equally high-pitched tone.

‘I didn’t, I mean I did, but still,’ said Janis.

‘Janis, you never see them, you never come over; I offer all the time but you say you don’t want to leave your practice,’ said Willow tearfully. ‘I have had the worst time in my life and you haven’t bothered to help me. Didn’t you think I might need some help? I know you’re all about this being my journey and my independence but I need some help here,’ said Willow, her voice breaking.

Janis was quiet on the end of the phone.

‘Mom?’ cried Willow.

‘We’re on our way,’ said Janis and she hung up the phone.

Willow wasn’t quite expecting that to be the outcome. It was true that Janis and Alan were avoiders when it came to their daughter and her problems. They were so proud of her successes and her glory, but they refused to see she might not be coping, for that would mean they had failed in their alternative style of parenting that they had written books about.

Willow had no idea where she was going to put them if they decided to stay with her. She was half hoping they wouldn’t come, although she could do with the help.

She could only afford the nanny when she was actually working, not full time. Just last night she had been up twice to Jinty, who was restless with the new sounds from the street outside. Poppy had refused to dress that morning and was now at the park with the nanny and Jinty, wearing her pyjama bottoms, a ballet skirt and a bikini top.

The women walked back into the room with another younger girl and Lucian.

‘Can we have a chat with Mummy while Penny stays with you?’ asked the speech therapist. Willow felt the knot of fear tighten in her stomach. It had been there for almost two years, since Kerr had left. It had disappeared at Middlemist but it had found her again in London, she thought as she followed the women into an office and sat down facing them.

‘How is he?’ asked Willow anxiously.

‘We think Lucian has a disorder known as dyspraxia,’ said the speech therapist slowly.

‘Is it terminal?’ asked Willow, tears filling her eyes.

‘It’s not a disease,’ said the woman gently. ‘It’s a neurological speech development issue.’

Willow took the tissues that one of them set out before her and she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m having a tough time at the moment,’ she said.

‘It’s a very stressful time when a child is diagnosed with something like this, but please take heart that this is treatable,’ said the speech therapist.

‘Really?’ asked Willow doubtfully.

‘Really. I think the main issue with Lucian is anxiety, as well as a significant development delay,’ said the psychologist.

‘Anxiety?’ asked Willow, her mind racing.

‘Yes, it’s obviously become an issue for him between the ages of two and five; that’s really when he should have had intervention. Children teasing him often makes it worse. How has he coped at school?’ asked the speech therapist.

‘He’s not at school,’ said Willow, looking down. ‘I was going to have him homeschooled.’

‘By you?’ asked the psychologist with interest. How on earth was a celebrity mother planning on homeschooling her child? she wondered.

Willow was silent and then told the truth. ‘By my nanny,’ she said, leaving out the part that her nanny, now ex-, was illiterate. There was no way she wanted to bring that up.

‘If homeschooling is something you want to do still, then I suggest you work with a therapist to ensure he is getting everything he needs. But I think he would do well in school with intensive work,’ said the psychologist, looking to the speech therapist for agreement. The speech therapist nodded.

‘I agree. Children are the best way to get other children talking. He’s only five, so you can hold him back this year. I suggest kindergarten, where he can have a carer. Start him as soon as you can. We can give you a list of names.’

Willow nodded.

The psychologist looked at her and leaned forward. ‘How is Lucian’s relationship with his father?’ she asked.

Willow put her head back, hoping the tears would go back into her tear ducts. She looked at the white ceiling. ‘He doesn’t have one,’ she said. ‘Kerr thinks he’s retarded. I have tried to tell him he’s just special and he’ll find his own way, but Kerr insists that he is stupid.’

‘Has he said this to Lucian?’ asked the psychologist.

‘Yes, many times,’ said Willow, her face reddening. ‘But I knew he wasn’t correct. Lucian definitely understands me. There is intelligence in his eyes, I know it,’ she said passionately.

The psychologist nodded. ‘He’s not stupid, you’re right; he’s a little delayed, but hopefully we can get him working and talking in a much better way for himself and for those around him.’

‘Why did you ask about his father?’ asked Willow suddenly. ‘Did he say something?’

The psychologist looked at the speech therapist and spoke quietly. ‘He seems to freeze when we mention his father. It was a noticeable reaction; enough to worry us. You said he spoke in Bristol, when you were there?’

‘Yes,’ said Willow. ‘I didn’t hear him but he said the name Merritt to a policeman when he was lost. That’s how they managed to get him back to us.’

‘And Merritt is the name of your nanny’s brother?’ asked the speech therapist, looking at her notes.

‘Yes, Merritt. He also waved at him, which I did see; he never seemed to react before to anyone, except maybe Poppy a little.’

‘These are very good signs. Is there any chance that he could spend some more time with Merritt? Maybe we could teach Merritt a few of the exercises to help him in his therapy?’

Willow shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ she said.

‘That’s a shame,’ said the psychologist, pulling out a picture from the folder. ‘I asked him to draw a picture, and this is what he did,’ she said, putting it in front of Willow on the table.

Willow was shocked; she didn’t even know he could draw.

She looked at the drawing. It was quite good for a five-year-old, she thought proudly as she assessed the picture, and then she saw what he had drawn. Middlemist, albeit crude, was still recognisable.

There was she, with Poppy in her red shoes, Jinty and Lucian with a small dog at his feet with only three stick legs. At the back was a stick drawing of a man, holding a spade.

‘When I asked if that was his father, he shook his head,’ said the speech therapist. ‘And then when I asked if it was Merritt, he smiled. He loves that man very much, it seems.’ And Willow picked up the drawing and held it to her chest, trying to breathe through the pain. So do I, Lucian; so do I, she thought.





Winter