Mase
One phone call to Kiro, and I had an appointment the next day with a psychologist with a PhD in learning disabilities only an hour and a half from Rosemary Beach. The man stood up to shake my hand from behind his wide, cluttered desk after pushing his glasses back up his nose from where they had slipped. He did n’t seem very thrilled about our meeting. An annoyed furrow sat between his white eyebrows, giving him a pinched look.
“You must know people in high places, Mr. Manning. I, as you can imagine, am a busy man, and my courses are coming to the end of the semester.”
As I had guessed, he wasn’t happy about this. Knowing Kiro, he’d called the president of the university where this guy taught and had him order Dr. Henry Hornbrecker to meet with me today. “I’m sorry that I’ve come during a bad time for you. I leave town tomorrow, and there’s some business I need handled before I go back to Texas.”
The man’s time was obviously important, so I wasn’t going to waste it. I pulled the piece of paper Reese had left crumpled up on the floorboard of Harlow’s Mercedes when she scrambled out in a panic. Every time I looked at it, I remembered her struggle, and it made something inside me ache.
I handed him the paper. “I had asked the person who wrote this to write down Three-three-three Berkley Road. If that person is an adult around the age of twenty-two and struggled to write this much, what do you think that means? Why would she write that? And why would it be so difficult and send her into a panic?”
The doctor frowned down at the paper. “Twenty-two, you say?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Are you asking me for you or for her? Surely a twenty-two-year-old who suffers this severely has already been diagnosed in school or as a child and knows what her problem is.”
He knew what the problem was. My heart sped up. “No, she doesn’t know. She couldn’t finish high school. She can’t pass tests. She’s been told she’s . . . stupid. But she’s not. Not at all.”
The doctor muttered a curse and sat back down in his chair, looking at the paper I’d given him. “I thought that by this day and age, our public school systems were more adept at labeling and dealing with learning disabilities. Especially one as common as dyslexia. Tell me, does she read?”
Dyslexia. Fuck me.
I’d known someone with dyslexia in school. He had special classes and a tutor who helped him every day. He ended up graduating with honors. No one had helped Reese, and it had been this simple. A lump formed in my throat, and I pressed my fist into my thighs. Anger, relief, and frustration all coursed through me at once.
“No, she can’t read,” I replied. “She tries, but she struggles. I need to get her help. Someone who can help her read and write. She struggles daily with things that are so simple to everyone else, and she thinks it’s because her brain isn’t all there. I will pay whatever price.” Fuck, I wanted to roar in protest. It was pure injustice. And neglect.
“I know a professor in Panama City. He is younger, but this is a condition that is near and dear to his heart. His father suffered from the same thing and didn’t learn to read or write until he was fifty years old. Astor Munroe has had several adult cases that have ended successfully. He even works at a school for dyslexia in a less fortunate neighborhood pro bono, several afternoons a week. I will give him a call and have him contact you as soon as possible.”
A man. Reese didn’t do well around men. “Is there a female who can do the same thing? Men make her nervous.”
Henry frowned. “I don’t know offhand of a woman in that area who can help with someone who suffers as severely or has been as neglected as your friend. But I assure you, Dr. Munroe is a nice man. He’ll set her at ease.”
Maybe she would let Jimmy go with her. She trusted him. Fuck, I needed to stay. But I couldn’t. My life and responsibilities were back in Texas. I had done this much. Now it was up to Reese to take the next step. I couldn’t force her.
“OK,” I said. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with me.”
He nodded, no longer looking as annoyed as he had when I arrived. “She’ll need testing to confirm my diagnosis, but from what you’ve told me and what this says”—he held up the paper I’d given him—“it’s dyslexia.” He reached for a pad and a pen and slid them to me. “Give me her info and yours. I’ll have Dr. Munroe contact you either later today or tomorrow, depending on his schedule.”