The Better Man. Amy Vastine

would have wanted a school with a male administrator, however. Not because he was sexist, although it might have come off that way, but because he felt more men should show interest in the development of young minds. Trevor, like his own father, took the role of father seriously and believed boys needed a strong male presence in their lives to survive in today’s world.

      Familiar faces greeted her in the main office. Her welcoming committee consisted of Lisa, the social worker, the principal, and the school nurse. They quickly ushered her to the first grade hallway, into the small boys’ bathroom with blue-and-white tiles on the wall and worn-out linoleum on the floor.

      “Simon, it’s Mommy.”

      Black sneakers with neon green striping poked out from under the one closed door. He knocked as if she was the one who needed to open up for him.

      “Can you unlock the door for me? We can go back to class together.”

      His little feet shuffled back, recoiling from the suggestion of going to his classroom. Avoidance, escape—these were his friends. These were his comfort when the anxiety took over.

      “I talked to Nana and she said you can hold Zoe’s leash when you go to the groomer, but you have to make it through the school day. If you don’t make it through the day, then there’s no playtime with Zoe.” It was a bribe, plain and simple, but sometimes that was the only thing that worked.

      Silence.

      Kendall hated the silence. She wished it was a tangible entity that she could strangle and put out of its misery. Her hand rested on the stall handle.

      “Come on, Simon. Open up, honey.” She resisted the urge to say she would take him home. As soon as she made that promise, she was done for. One thing she learned from Psychologist #1 was that she couldn’t make a promise in the middle of one of these episodes and not follow through. His trust was essential. He had to be able to rely on what she said.

      She wanted him to stay and finish his day of school. She wanted to try to save the mess she might have made of the Sato project. Yet what she wanted was of little importance when the anxiety was in charge.

      “I’ll stay for lunch. We can have lunch together. Then you can tell the yucks to take a hike and finish your day. I know you can do this. I know you can.”

      Silence.

      Sometimes she wished the silence would finish her off. It was good at choking her, but she always survived its evil games. Survived but never won. No, the silence was always the victor.

      Kendall could feel the three pairs of eyes watching her. Watching. Judging. Pitying. She hated that the most. The pity. Pity and sympathy made her almost as angry as silence. Almost.

      Everyone at school knew why the boy didn’t talk. Kendall had sat in the principal’s office on more than one occasion to discuss the difficulties Simon was having at school, at home, in life. She had accepted their referrals for counselors and behavioral specialists. They had done the charts and incentives. She had taken him to Rainbows grief support groups, which ended up being filled with more children dealing with divorce than the death of a parent. She had read every book written on both grief and selective mutism. Still, she felt lost. She refused the medication because he didn’t need medication. He needed his father. There was no pill to cure a broken heart. She would have taken it a long, long time ago if there was.

      “I’m going to count to ten and then I want you to open the door for me. Ready? One, two...” she counted slowly, each number that went unacknowledged by the boy on the other side of the door tearing at her paper heart. “Ten.”

      Silence.

      In an alternate universe, she pounded on the door with both fists, making it quiver and rattle. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Knock it off! Stop being afraid!! It’s just school!” In her fantasy, she stormed off and back to her meeting with Mr. Sato.

      But in the real world where she had to live, Kendall dropped to her knees and pushed her pride and dignity aside. She buried her rage and her fear. She crawled under the door and into the stall with her son. She righted herself and pulled him into her arms. He melted against her.

      “I love you. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make the world okay for you and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.” Kendall’s tears fell on top of Simon’s head as the weight of his world began to crush her.

      He clung to his mother, not caring that her body had been in contact with an elementary school boys’ bathroom floor. He hugged his mother like he wished he could make the world right for her, too. But the world would never be right because his dad was dead and he was never coming home. He was never going to help out at school or eat lunch with him. Dead was forever.

      “Let’s go home,” she whispered. Resigned. Defeated.

      The walk to the house offered much less promise than the one in the opposite direction a few hours earlier. Simon held tight to his mother’s hand. Kendall’s eyes were focused solely on the sidewalk ahead of her. She was a failure. A complete and utter failure.

      Trevor would never have given in. He would have made the boy tough it out. Told him to man up. Trevor wouldn’t have given in to the silence. He would have filled it with a firm voice and a confidence that couldn’t be ignored. Trevor would never have surrendered.

      At the last stoplight, they had to wait for the signal before crossing the street. A blur of colors went by as car after car moved past them. The city was alive. Her husband was not. The city roared, a myriad of noises—buses, people, machines, music. Her son was a mute.

      Simon pulled on Kendall’s arm. Tugging and tugging.

      “Stop it, Simon!” she snapped.

      “Dad! It’s Dad!” he yelled over all the street noise. He pointed across the street to a man jogging toward a cab. Simon pulled on her arm again, almost taking them both into the busy road. “Dad! Wait! It’s us!”

      Kendall’s whole body froze like it had that day, one year, two months and three days ago. The man looked up at the screaming boy and his mother. Eyes met. Her mouth fell open and she was sure her heart stopped.

      “Trevor?”

       CHAPTER TWO

      MAX JORDAN WAS a punctual man. Always on time. Never late.

      Except when meetings were scheduled before noon, that is. He tended to be a little tardy for those.

      In his defense, he was still adjusting to the time change. It was only eight-thirty in Los Angeles, and the only time Max saw eight-thirty was if he was getting ready for bed after an extremely late night. In the restaurant and night club business, daytime was bedtime.

      Even though the restaurant he was here to run wasn’t open yet, it was difficult to change his sleep schedule. There were plenty of places for him to scope out, as competition in the restaurant business was tight in the Windy City. He wanted Sato’s to be a success. He needed it to be.

      Managing a successful restaurant would look good, and right now, Max needed to look good—in the eyes of the court, his ex and, most important, his son. Being late to his first meeting with the interior designers was not going to help.

      The invitation to sit in on the presentation had been unexpected, especially since Max knew Mr. Sato had the only vote that counted. Sato was a shrewd businessman who only hired the best of the best. Whomever he chose to design the restaurant’s dining area would be top-notch.

      That didn’t excuse Max’s lack of punctuality, however. He should have been there. On time. How he was going to explain his late arrival was the only thing on his mind as he raced down the steps and out the door toward the cab he had called. Just as he reached for the car door handle, he heard a voice.

      “Dad! Wait! It’s us!”

      Max stopped,