Words Get In the Way Read online

  Books by Nan Rossiter

  The Gin & Chowder Club

  “Christmas on Cape Cod,” in Making Spirits Bright

  Words Get in the Way

  WORDS GET IN THE WAY

  NAN ROSSITER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  PART II

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  PART III

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  EPILOGUE

  WORDS GET IN THE WAY

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  THE GIN & CHOWDER CLUB

  Copyright Page

  For my mom and dad

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I can hardly believe that I’ve been given the opportunity to write a second novel! When I was writing my first, and praying it would be published, I promised God I would try to write uplifting stories that make a difference. I hope readers find Words Get in the Way to be that kind of story.

  When I began writing, a young mom from our church, Krista Dirienzo, introduced me to her young son Joey. Krista shared with me the heartache of the moment she learned that Joey has autism, and she told me about some of the revealing traits. Krista’s openness and willingness to answer all of my questions were a tremendous help, and Joey’s sweet personality was my beginning inspiration for Henry.

  When I was almost finished writing, a young man named Michael Smith serendipitously sat next to me at a book signing for one of my children’s books. Michael showed me a notebook filled with his amazing drawings and then began to share with me what it’s like to have autism. Michael thoughtfully considered and answered all of my questions and, when he wasn’t sure of an answer, he encouraged me to ask his parents.

  To my wonderful agent, Deirdre Mullane, whose guidance is invaluable and who always has a word of encouragement.

  To my awesome editor, Audrey LaFehr, and everyone on the Kensington team, who believe in me and who, together, do their very best to make every book a success.

  To my husband, Bruce, and our sons, Cole and Noah, the handsome men who inspire me and who always keep me smiling!

  And to all of my reading friends: I have been overwhelmed by the support from readers across the country—and especially those in my community—from coverage in the local papers to, every time I’m in town, someone stopping to say, “I’m reading your book!” or “Our book club is doing your book!” or my favorite compliment: “You kept me up all night!”

  Thank you all! I am truly blessed.

  PROLOGUE

  Callie stood by the window, watching the late-day sun play hide-and-seek with the clouds. The buses began to pull away, and as the last one passed, she noticed a small blond head leaning against one of the windows, peering out. The little boy looked weary as he gazed through the glass, but when he saw her standing there he sat up, beaming, and opened and closed his small fist. Callie smiled and waved back.

  She continued to watch as the buses disappeared and then turned to straighten up her classroom. She picked up pencils and crayons and put chairs up on desks so Jim could vacuum. When she came to the desk of the little boy on the bus, though, she paused. Shy Sam, as she called him, always remembered to put his chair up; he even put his neighbors’ chairs up when they forgot. She pictured his sweet smile and thought of Henry when he was that age. Sam was quiet, was meticulously neat, and loved to draw, and Callie often thought he must be cut from the same cloth as Henry.

  She took down Sam’s chair, sat in it with her knees touching the underside of his desk, and opened his crayon box. Sam organized his crayons by color, just as Henry had always done, and Callie knew that every crayon was accounted for, even the ones that had become too short to hold. She closed the box, slipped it back in his desk, and looked at the drawing he’d been working on that day. It was a picture of Winston, his beloved golden retriever. She smiled, remembering all the pictures Henry had drawn of Springer. Sweet old Springer!

  Callie gazed out the window at the now-gray sky. She couldn’t believe Henry was going to be sixteen that winter. Where has the time gone? She could still picture him with his arm around Springer’s neck. And she could still remember, with vivid clarity, the fateful week thirteen years earlier when their lives had changed forever.

  PART I

  Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

  That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it

  And spills the upper boulders in the sun ...

  —Robert Frost

  1

  Callie knelt beside Henry’s bed. He looked so peaceful, so different from the frustrated little boy she lived with all day. She reached over and lightly brushed the wisps of blond hair from his forehead. She watched him breathe, his lips slightly parted; she marveled at the smallness of his perfect hands and stroked his smooth cheek. Henry murmured and pulled his beloved Travelin’ Bear closer until the worn stuffed animal was tucked tightly under his chest. She whispered his prayer for him, as she always did, leaned forward, kissed him gently, and breathed in his sweet little boy scent. Finally, the tears she’d been fighting all day spilled hotly down her cheeks. She slumped against his bed, buried her face in her arms, and cried into the soft cotton sheets. She listened to the thunderstorm rumbling into the valley and, for the hundredth time that day, silently pleaded, Please don’t let this be true. Please make Henry better. Just make it go away. Don’t punish Henry for the things I’ve done.

  Callie stayed beside Henry’s bed for a long time before finally pulling herself up and collapsing on the bed in the next room. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her as she stared into the darkness and replayed the foolish encounter that had changed her life. At the time it had seemed so innocent. Afterward, though, she knew there had been nothing innocent in the events that led to that night.

  It was a sunny Tuesday when they’d first met for coffee to discuss her thesis. The following Friday, it had been a beer at an outdoor pub on Church Street to celebrate the arrival of spring. And on Saturday, he had appeared handsome and smiling to take her to dinner at a quiet inn on Lake Champlain. They’d sat on the porch and watched the lights around the lake begin to flicker and sparkle as the sun streaked radiant flames of color across the sky. They’d shared a bottle of Merlot and talked about her plans for graduate school and his hope for tenure. Then he’d ordered a second bottle, and Callie had begun to wonder what he was thinking. She had watched him toy with the gold band on his finger and thought
of Linden. What would he think if he saw me now? She had pushed the thought away.

  He had paid for dinner, carefully eased the cork back into the second bottle, and discreetly smuggled it out under his tweed jacket, and then he’d jovially draped his arm over her shoulder as they’d made their way back to his car. Driving a short distance, he had pulled into the parking lot of a secluded beach. When he’d opened the back of his Volvo wagon and produced a wool stadium blanket, it had suddenly seemed too convenient. Callie had felt an unsettling wave of apprehension. This has already gone too far. At the same time, she hadn’t tried to stop it.

  They’d sat on the blanket and he’d laughed as he struggled with the bottle between his legs and she’d laughed too as she tried to help by holding it while he pulled on the cork. Finally it had eased out, splashing a spot of red wine on his khaki pants. He had run his finger around the top to wipe off any stray droplets and, with a smile, passed the bottle to her. She’d hesitated, smiling too, but finally she’d taken a sip, her heart pounding.

  As they watched the lights dance on the water, he’d slipped his jacket off and dropped it over her shoulders. Passing the wine back and forth had reminded Callie of high school. And then he’d brushed his hand along her thigh and teased her about having only one dimple and, feeling light-headed, she’d grinned mischievously, slowly running the tip of her tongue around the lip of the bottle.

  He had watched with raised eyebrows. “Where’d you learn that, Miss Wyeth?”

  “Learn what?” Callie had asked, feigning innocence.

  “Hmmm, what else do you know?” His eyes had sparkled as he’d lightly traced his finger around her dimple and along her lips, and Callie had closed her eyes and let him.

  Callie hated the memory, but sometimes it slipped into her mind, and she couldn’t seem to stop it. Two months later she’d discovered she was pregnant, but when she tried to reach him at the college they told her that he had taken a job in California. Whatever happened to tenure? she’d wondered bitterly.

  Callie finally drifted off, but it seemed like it was only moments before she awakened to the sound of crying. In the early morning light she found Henry rocking back and forth on the floor. She scooped him up, felt him shiver in her arms, and pulled the blanket around him. He continued to whimper, and she whispered softly into his tousled hair, “It’s okay, Hen-Ben, everything’s going to be okay.” Her words of reassurance were as much for herself as they were for him.

  She glanced around the room at the pile of boxes and sighed. She knew the unfamiliar surroundings weren’t helping Henry, but there was nothing else she could do. Without childcare she was unable to work, and she had no money left. In the half light of dawn she stared at a box labeled “Henry / LEGOs” and relived the last few months.

  During that time she’d noticed a change in Henry but she’d convinced herself it was nothing to worry about. He’s just quiet, that’s all. Some boys just develop more slowly than others and, besides, Henry knows how to use words... . He already started to. Callie tried to remember the last time Henry had actually spoken. That’s okay, she had told herself, he’ll learn when he’s ready. All of Callie’s self-reassuring, however, had gone right out the window when Mrs. Cooper had voiced her concern too.

  Mrs. Cooper was the matriarch of the daycare near the college—the daycare where Callie had been leaving Henry since he was six months old. After he was born, she’d been unable to continue her studies and had instead taken a job in the financial aid office. She’d always felt blessed and thankful to have found such a wonderful home away from home for Henry, and she could still see the faded green carpet and the pattern of shadows from the windows that crisscrossed the floor of the large playroom every afternoon when she picked him up. On that last afternoon Callie had been waiting for him by the door when Mrs. Cooper had taken her aside. She remembered the concern in her voice as she’d quietly told her that she’d been watching Henry for several weeks and been praying for a positive sign.

  “Henry is so quiet,” she’d said, “and often he just seems lost. Lately, he shows no interest in playing with other children. Instead, he just stands at the rice table and pours rice from one cup to another or lets the rice pour through his hands. If another child interrupts him or borrows one of his cups, he becomes very agitated. Just today, another boy took the cup he was using and gave him a different one. Henry became very upset and erupted into an inconsolable tantrum. He threw all the toys that were on the rice table as well as handfuls of Legos. When he finally calmed down,” Mrs. Cooper continued, “I asked him to join our reading group, but he refused and just sat in the corner, rocking back and forth. I’m so sorry, Callie, I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

  Callie had been staring at the pattern on the carpet when a passing cloud drifted in front of the sun. She’d nodded slowly, tears stinging her eyes. “I think you need to have Henry tested, dear,” Mrs. Cooper had said kindly, giving her a hug. “Please let us know how you make out. We will be keeping both of you in our prayers.” Callie realized then that Mrs. Cooper was saying she would no longer be able to look after Henry.

  Callie pressed her cheek into Henry’s wispy hair and realized he’d fallen asleep. She laid him down and tucked the soft blanket around him. As tired as she was, there was no point in going back to bed. Besides, she could get so much done if he kept sleeping so she slipped quietly from the room that had once been hers, left the door open a crack, and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen to see if her dad had any coffee. She opened the cabinet next to the sink where her parents had always kept it, and there it was, in the same spot as always, a dark blue can of Maxwell House. The sight of the familiar can in its proper place gave Callie an odd feeling of comfort. As she reached for it, though, she became acutely aware of the emptiness of her parents’ house. The people she loved most in the world were no longer there and never would be again, to make coffee, to cradle warm cups in their hands, to chat over breakfast, to talk about the day ahead, and then hurry out the door to school, to work, with a kiss and a promise... . Love you! Keep the faith! See you tonight! Their lovely voices echoed through her mind. Callie looked out the kitchen window of her childhood home and tears filled her eyes. She had never felt more alone.

  2

  Linden Finch rolled up the windows of his old Ford pickup and climbed out. He was late getting home, but the summer storm that the weatherman had promised was right on time. A sudden gust of wind swayed the trees ominously and hastened his step. Two yellow Labs that had been chasing squirrels and lazing on the porch all day spied his arrival, rose from their slumber, stretched, and trotted happily across the yard to greet him. Linden knelt down to say hello. “How was your day?” he asked softly. They responded by wiggling all around him, licking his face, and beating his head with their tails. A rumble in the distance caused Linden to stand and look at the wall of threatening clouds that was forming across the meadow. As he did, a ragged streak of hot white light divided the sky. Out of a boyhood habit, he began to silently count the seconds from light to sound but only reached “one-Mississippi” when he heard the rumble again. He hurried to the barn and clicked the latch for two Randall cows that were lowing impatiently at the gate. They nudged their warm noses into his chest as they trundled by into the safety of their stalls and then continued their expectant lowing. A little mule followed them and moseyed into its own stall. Linden flipped up the switch inside the door, and the barn filled with a warm, cheerful light. The dogs plowed their snouts through the hay on the floor while Linden fed and watered the cows and the little mule, talking softly to them the whole time. The younger dog lifted his nose onto a bale of hay and snorted at Maude, the orange tiger cat that was slumbering peacefully there. She opened one eye and studied him indifferently while Harold, her silky dark gray counterpart, yawned and stretched on the bale above her. Linden hurried outside to check the henhouse. As usual, all of the ladies were already nestled down for the night, so he quietly closed the door and latche
d it.

  Fat drops of rain began to splatter on the dry earth as he ducked back into the barn. He looked up into the rafters at the old speckled owl, and it blinked back at him. Linden switched off the light and called the dogs to his side, and together they peered out into the yard. As if on cue, the skies opened up. Linden quickly calculated the distance between the barn and the porch and how wet they were going to get. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and dashed across the yard. The dogs followed gleefully, splashing through every puddle they could find along the way.

  In the shelter of the kitchen Linden pulled off his wet shirt, hung it over the back of a chair, reached for a dish towel, dried his hair with it, and then toweled off the two dogs that were still wiggling around him. He threw the towel on the washer, opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, and headed for the pantry in the back of the kitchen. The dogs followed and plopped down obediently as he measured a cup of kibble into each of their bowls. Linden hesitated, and Springer stared longingly at his food while Kat watched Linden. He nodded to her and, for Springer’s sake, said the word, “Okay!” Springer lunged at his bowl as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, but Kat made a vain attempt to be more ladylike. Linden shook his head. He slipped the beer bottle into the metal bottle opener mounted on the doorjamb, pulled on it, caught the cap, and stepped back out onto the porch to watch the storm. He dropped into one of the old wicker chairs, ran his hand through his wet hair, and breathed in the rain-soaked air. As the storm rumbled by, he remembered seeing the lights on in the Wyeth place and wondered if something had happened. Mr. Wyeth had been in a nursing home for six months now, but Linden had recently heard that his health had taken a turn for the worse.