.
- - CONCLUSION - -
.
After over fifty years of combined law enforcement experience, Alex Eames and Bobby Goren were wary when Olivia wished to continue blogging after the previous year's book tour. They warned her about online predators and bullying, but she had pleaded with them, asking if there was anything they could do to keep it safe. They agreed on a trial period followed by reassessment, with strict rules implemented: no facial photos of herself or other children, and she must ask permission to post photographs of adults. No personal information would be permitted. They would review her entries before she posted and screen any comments before she could reply, even to people she knew.
She was permitted to continue under the same rules when the trial period ended successfully. They were surprisedthat so far comments had been benign-but Ana Serrano pointed out that this was possibly due to the stark red banner under the "From Two Worlds" header (showing vintage engravings of the Eiffel Tower and the Charter Oak side-by-side), which warned readers in stern white block Arial font that the author's parents were connected with law enforcement and all comments could-and would be-traced if anything untoward was written.
They came to savor and cherish the entries in both the original blog and Olivia's follow-on, not only for the experience of reading their child's independent observations of her new world but also to chronicle their progress as parents and as a family, from their tentative steps after bringing her home to her growth during four months on the road to the events leading up to the adoption. Even the pain of Bruno's death and the turmoil of moving took on a sheen of wistful nostalgia when seen through Olivia's poignant tributes.
Randall's progress was also followed in her blog. However, they cautioned her that, since they had no permission from his parents, she shouldn't use his actual name or specific details about his physical appearance or family history.
"And don't write about anything that makes him look foolish or ignorant," Bobby concluded gently. "He might think we were disrespecting him like his father did."
Olivia scowled. She'd already heard enough hearsay from Sterling Shaw. "I won't do that. And I'll call him 'Evan,'" she declared and introduced him in her next entry. Her entries about Randall's new experiences became milestones in their own right, and the review policy became doubly useful since anyone who already knew Randall tended to use his real name when commenting.
So some of Randall's tales remained untold except in Olivia's carefully concealed Hannah Dale journal, where she complained bitterly in indignantly written entries about a litany of "stupid rules" set for "real boys." "'Real boys' don't read Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden, even though there are boys in Trixie's books," she set down one evening. "And they're not 'real boys,' but 'pansies' if they're gay. Mama had to explain to Randall that the word was rude!"
Alex and Bobby agreed that they would treat Randall as they had treated Olivia, to feel as if he had always been part of the family, with family chores and activities, but also given the freedom to follow his habits and comforting rituals. So, gradually, chatter about his enjoyment of Bobby's vintage mystery books or comments about his favorite detective series, including his newest pick, Monk, crept into her blog. She never did get him hooked on Molly of Denali, but he would watch it with her, with a book in hand, without complaint.
The entries they read with the most pleasure concerned Olivia's efforts to makeRandall feel at home during the following two weeks. Acutely aware of how unusual this laid-back household must be to him-it had certainly been a shock to her following Luisa Carvallo's prim-and-proper upbringing based on Marcel Pepin's exacting standards, despite her mother's more liberal ideas-Olivia took care to soothe bumps and head off obstacles as her parents did. When he balked when one meal item touched another, she suggested separate bowls and helped out when he washed the additional containers. (By the following weekend, Alex had ordered and received a set of divided plates that solved the problem.) She spent less time with Ana the first week, instead taking daily steps to accustom Randall to the neighborhood. Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren were the first of his new friends, followed by odd Mrs. Krentz, the neighborhood "tree lady," and genial Bess Atherton.
The Dark Crystal, her chief delight, was initially anathema to Randall. Fearing it loud and rowdy like the concert a foster mother had forced him to attend, he had cloistered himself in Shard's office with a book on Saturday night. Outgoing Olivia mourned being absent on the dais as "Trot," clad in her "picture hat" and the middy dress septuagenarian Viola Perrino had made for her after she grew out of the original middy which once belonged to Viola's mother; the lively atmosphere suited her outgoing personality. Randall had only expressed horror at "strangers staring at me."
"They're our friends, not strangers," Olivia tried to explain, but his mistrust remained, so she tried another tack.
During the first half of the game, she coaxed him just outside the kitchen door so he could gauge the sound level and watch the routine. He didn't know that Shard and TJ despised restaurants that forced patrons to shout over music to converse with one another and used it only as low-volume, low-key ambiance. Groups and singers who played on Wednesdays and Sundays were variable in volume, but the Crystal was a generally laid-back venue; the loudest a band got was a hot trumpet solo in a jazz set or a tribute band doing "Shout."
Although they had talked about bringing Randall home because "Bobby would understand him," it was immediately obvious that the boy gravitated toward women, a condition even Bobby found understandable: he was still wary of most men due to his critical father. Taking tips from her parents, Olivia introduced him to the female staff first: Tilde, one of TJs preps, who was cheerful and bouncy, and Sharon, the head server, who was practical and friendly, leaving brisk, sassy Carmella at the bar for last. Next, the children approached the quieter two men-Shan, TJ's other prep worker, and Farouk, the cleaner-before ending with Mickey, the second server and maitre d', who exuded self-confidence like smoke from a volcano. The final steps were easier still since Randall stopped to watch in fascination each time they passed scholarly-looking TJ creating a meal; they spent some time watching as he deftly worked through orders. He was so soft-spoken that Randall soon warmed to him. Extroverted Shard took longer, but his smile and warm, deep voice eventually converted the boy.
By Tuesday, always a more subdued night, Randall was willing to occupy the furthest corner of the dais that was the Wizard and Princess Ozma's domain, wearing headphones and playing a game on the little handheld unit Alex had bought him. At first, he was distracted from the screen only by Bobby's magic tricks, but as he listened to the trivia crowd chat and watched them interact, his natural curiosity emerged, and they caught him covertly observing the players. Occasionally one or two, including Alex's puckish cousin Phil Cochran and his wife Becky, red-headed tech whiz Tim Stratton, and attorney Emery Moretti, would approach to introduce themselves.
On the four-block walk home, he admitted, "It isn't so bad," and out of his eyeshot, Olivia gave a triumphant fist pump.
Bobby paused his reading of Friday's Tunnel to Olivia as the first week ended-they had not yet convinced Randall that being read to was not "baby"-and regarded her mildly. "You don't have to take full responsibility for Randall. Your mother and I feel like we aren't pulling our weight."
"Yes, you are! Besides, I don't mind," Olivia said. It was a warm night, so she wore shorts and a tank top, as Alex did, and a small fan moved the air across her bed. "He still misses his maman, but every day he seems happier, don't you think, Papa? And he's almost stopped mentioning those daft things his father told him. Almost. I'll let him do more for himself next week. I promise."
"You're a very patient sister," he told her, and she gathered her stuffed fox in her arms and continued listening to the story.
. . . . .
***September 3, 2024***
"Why do I haveta talk to her?" Randall demanded darkly.
He was a little over a week into his residence and so rattled by the scheduled event of the day that Bobby had permitted him to sit in the library while he worked on lecture notes. Randall had reluctantly accepted the offer of a tamer alternative to Mindhunter and was reading Psychology for Kids in an armchair in the corner, his dangling feet dancing unconsciously. The windows were open, and from the back parlor, Bandit responded enthusiastically to the steady chirp of the sparrows outside. Sam was sprawled at Randall's feet, asleep. Upstairs, Alex and Olivia were sorting through school clothing.
"It's for your protection, Randall," Bobby said, recalling Olivia's equally bitter resentment of having to talk to a Connecticut social worker. "Remember the 'sports people'? And the others? If you'd stayed with them long enough, your social worker would have visited, and you could have told them your concerns."
"There was a social worker when I stayed with the Carstairs," the boy sighed. "He wasn't any help."
"Many kids need social services, but there aren't enough people to do the job. It isn't fair, but that's how it is. The social workers give most of their attention to kids who are in danger. They have to prioritize someone who's being physically abused first."
"The other families...weren't bad, I guess. None of them ever beat me or touched me funny."
"Good!" was Bobby's emphatic reply.
"Olivia said she's nice," ventured Randall.
"Ruth Dunbar? Yes. She was very understanding of our situation with Olivia. You might find her a little stern, but she has to be. Since you like detective stories, think of her as a police officer. It's her job to protect you. When you speak with her, tell her the truth. That's why she's here-to listen to you and confirm that we're doing what we need to do."
"But you are," Randall insisted, his eyes making contact with Bobby's, then wavering sideways.
"When you don't meet people's eyes," Olivia had told him privately, "people think you're lying. Papa says it's a social convention. But it's hard for you, so people don't understand."
Randall was trying his best, but looking at people directly intimidated him. He would flash back to his father's exasperated face, unnerving him more.
"Do you think she'll mind that I'm weird?"
Bobby sighed, his eyes grieved, and rolled his desk chair to where Randall sat. "Buddy," unconsciously using the nickname his Uncle Sal had called him as a boy when he took his curious nephew to the magic shop, "we're a couple of neurodivergent people in a neurotypical world. We are...ourselves. Our world makes sense to us. They're the ones who see us as 'weird.'" But society, by and large, is based on neurotypical behavior. So we have to navigate their world without losing our sense of ourselves. It's hard sometimes." He gave Randall a confiding smile. "It took me years to accept that. I'd prefer your experience to be different."
"Hear, hear," said an approving woman's voice from the doorway, and they looked up to see Ruth Dunbar standing between Alex and Olivia. The slight Black woman, whose sharp-featured oval face was brightened with expressive eyes, was dressed in the same red "power suit" as she had the first time she met the new family. This time, however, instead of wearing a disapproving face framed in dark, loosely waved hair, one resulting from being forced into a situation she had disliked, this time Dunbar was smiling. Sam scrambled to his feet, wagging his tail, and Dunbar patted his head as she walked to Randall's side. He'd remembered his manners and risen from his chair as Bobby had done, looking her over apprehensively.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Randall," she said, offering her hand to shake, and her smile widened just a touch when she saw Randall shyly glance from one family member to the other for assurance before he met her eyes tentatively and clasped her hand. "I hope we can be friends."
. . . . .
"So, mother-of-two," her sister Elizabeth teased Alex, "how are you dealing?"
"I'm beat," Alex admitted. It was two days after Ruth Dunbar's visit, and she was leaning back in her office chair at the big combination desk/shelving unit they'd purchased once she accepted the advisory job for the mayor's office, her work files neatly cataloged to her left and the Big Brothers/Big Sisters fundraising material on her right. Abbi Diaz and Viola Perrino chiefly worked on the latter now, meeting in the attic room that had been drywalled and floored, then fitted with window A/C and a box fan for summer. On Alex's computer monitor, Liz's face almost mirrored her sister's-a little older, her cheeks plumper, her jaw more like her father's, whereas Alex's still held the sharper features of the Cochran side of the family.
"But I'd say 'yes' again," Alex added with a smile. "You'd think two active children in the house wouldn't be much different from one, but it is. It's been a big learning curve with Randall, but only because he's always moving and thinking."
"Sounds like a brother-in-law I know," Liz chaffed.
Now Alex laughed. "Remarkably similar."
"Has DCF visited yet?"
"Ruth came Tuesday. She said Randall was very shy with her, but she understood. She's trying to get us a stipend for Dr. Allyson-we'll adjust the budget if we have to, and I can draw on my savings. Bobby's taking a couple of consultation jobs from Boston as well."
"Did you try the chore chart that Jack and Patty suggested?"
"Yes! It fits perfectly with Randall's passion for written lists. The kids now have competitions to see who gets their chores done first." Alex arched her eyebrows. "Even though Randall vows he hates competition!
"And I found a way to burn off some of his excess energy, not to mention a sport Randall does like. He's been running with me every morning, and he loves it. He certainly makes me try harder!"
"Sounds like he's gotten much more comfortable with all of you."
A wistful smile crossed Alex's lips. "Abbi said this morning that he's like a garden that's been neglected, the plants all drooping, and then you apply some care and they come alive and stand straight and tall."
"Like the garden in Olivia's favorite book?"
Alex realized she'd been caught out in sentimentality. She lifted her chin and finished her thought. "When school starts, I'm hoping he can find other children who enjoy running for fun."
"Have you decided what to do about school?"
"We had thought of enrolling him at Rochambeau, but after Bobby and I left Randall and Olivia at Big Brothers on Wednesday-"
"I thought he didn't want to go!"
"You know Bobby's persuasive techniques-it was all very gentle, but he sealed the deal when he mentioned that Roy was a big reader. Randall insisted he'd never met another boy who liked books! Russ told us later that Randall and Roy got on 'like a house afire,' then Roy introduced him to the other kids, and he decided they weren't so bad after all. And apparently, Olivia lectured them all beforehand about Randall's aversion to loud noises. Russ laughed when he told us the story because he described Olivia 'standing there like a country schoolmarm,' you know that pose of hers, with the crossed arms-"
"You mean the Alex stance?" Liz teased her.
Alex coughed pointedly and continued, "-facing all those older kids, and they managed to restrain their enthusiasm. Even Rafe Sanchez kept his voice down. She's practically Randall's campaign manager.
"As for Randall, I think Liv was on the money: his biggest problem is that before his father was sent away, he made Randall believe there was something wrong with him because he didn't meet his dad's standards." Alex's mouth set in a hard line. "I would so much like to tell that man to his face what I think of him."
"Like you did with Madame Pepin?" Liz chuckled.
"Since it's his son, I'd give him much worse!"
You are gone on this kid, little sis, Lizzie was thinking, but she only commented, "I should think he'd be easy since you did train on Bobby for years."
Alex laughed, then continued, "In the meantime, we drove to Wilton-they started school this week-and talked with Randall's favorite teacher, Wilhemina Deenie. She's extraordinary, Liz. She has a shoestring budget like every other public school teacher and isn't trained in special ed, but she worked with Randall and a couple of the other 'problem children'-her principal's words, not hers-in her class. She has an inexpensive exercise bike at the back of the classroom. When Randall or the other boy and girl were restless, she let them pedal on the bike to 'get the itch out of their feet,' as she put it. One of her students made a pretty donation container out of an oversized pickle jar so kids and their parents or visitors can give money to get classroom extras, and I saw Bobby stuff a fifty in it before we left.
"Now Bobby's talking about getting him a bicycle desk so that he can read or do homework and pedal at the same time-"
"Allie," her sister now said anxiously, "Randall's only a foster child. Once she's well, will his mother allow him to keep these things you keep buying for him?"
"I can use it myself if Rosalind doesn't want it. I'm getting fat sitting at my desk all day working on my BLE contributions." But, as she spoke, Alex appeared uneasy; she abandoned her desk chair to check out in the hallway, even though she knew Bobby and the kids were safely in the library downstairs. When she returned to the room, she closed and locked the door.
Sitting before the screen, she told her sister in a hushed voice, "It's not going to happen, Liz. Randall's mother is in much worse shape than even Liv Benson knew. Bobby called St. Vincent's about her-to see if Randall could visit, as he's been begging to. We're trying to negotiate for sometime soon; they say her body fails a little more every day."
"Poor kid," Lizzie breathed.
"We need advance notice," Alex said, "to prepare him for how she'll look."
"And afterward?" Lizzie asked, and Alex knew immediately which "afterward" she referred to.
A determined look blossomed in Alex's eyes. "He's not leaving here, Liz. Not unless he has a safe place to land."
. . . . .
***September 6, 2024***
When the explosion came, it was unexpected, profound, and struck the entire household.
Bobby was working in the library, at the old desk from his former attic office; it faced the window and the safe he kept for classified documents. If he wanted a respite from his lecture material on the pathology of serial killers, he could spin the office chair in a half-circle and make himself comfortable to work on "Bruno's book."
Some kind soul at Hastings House had digitized Volpe's Korean War journal and notes into rich text format, then performed basic spellchecking; now Bobby was preparing to take a break from the consultation work he'd accepted from Marc Thuringer in the Boston FBI field office. Instead, he would continue comparing the OCR copy of Bruno's manuscript against the photocopied originals and adding any notations. In June, the originals had gone west to California in Leo Volpe's possession, and he smiled wryly thinking about it because, although Olivia Benson had once teased that "Olivia Two" had a crush on Noah, Leo almost surely had one on Min; he'd become her most faithful blog commenter.
Alex was closeted in her office contending with what she called "a bullheaded elderly former conservative who had 'got religion'" and was now lobbying for any cause that would improve his standing among his more liberal peers. His latest hobbyhorse was a proposal to make "party drugs" acceptable for recreational use so long as the user remained at home or in someone's home. Alex had seen too many "party drugs" lead to violence and psychiatric confinement, so was strenuously suggesting that Mr. Wilmot spend some time in a drug rehab clinic before he made determinations about narcotics policy. She had some ABBA and other rock from that era playing low through her cell phone to soothe her battered psyche.
Bandit had his head under his wing for an afternoon nap, and Sam was asleep in Bobby's office.
Olivia had kept her word when she'd promised Bobby she'd let Randall "do more for himself" that second week. She began practicing her tennis serves again and resumed her daily late afternoon visits with Ana, whose school year had already started. They were in the same grade, so for both, it would be the last year of middle school (for Olivia, her final year in the lower school at St. Gregory's). But when Randall asked if he could come with her that first Monday, she had no reason to object. Good-natured Carlos drew him away on some pretense so the girls could have privacy, and he ended up sitting in the little kitchen of the Dovecote talking to Abbi and refreshing the rusty Spanish he had lost when his grandmother died. Abbi Diaz became his fast friend that day, and, because Bobby had told him solemnly that he had "adopted" her as a sister, Randall began referring to her as "Aunt Abbi," and Olivia followed suit.
Olivia was finding "letting go" more difficult than she expected. When Randall first arrived at their home, she understood his need for constant companionship because he felt like a stranger, and his bookcase headboard contained only the six books he'd valiantly defended. Now, she reasoned, he had free run of the old juvenile mysteries Bobby had collected that were shelved in the back parlor. Or he could play with Sam or the little hand-held video game Alex had bought him or watch television with permission, but Randall, after exhausting his chances to accompany Bobby or Alex at whatever they were doing, still relied on her. She had yet to figure out a tactful way to encourage him to be more independent.
It was the Friday before school began. Randall had shadowed Alex all morning; when she finally patted his shoulder and said she had a conference call that afternoon, he automatically gravitated to Olivia's room because the doors to the library were closed, meaning that Bobby was working on something confidential.
While she usually remained downstairs during the daytime because "it's too quiet up there," on that still warm afternoon Olivia was sitting curled up on her bed, in shorts and a t-shirt and barefoot, rereading one of her favorite books, The Wind in the Willows. She was fond of Mole and Ratty, but tended to ignore Toad, whom she considered a brat, so was enjoying "Dulce Domem," her favorite chapter about Christmas at Mole's burrow. Her sage green-painted room reflected her interests: an overflow of books crammed the bookcase headboard, bookcase nightstand, and two taller bookcases; a few other volumes lay on the top shelf of the desk under her front window. A half-finished watercolor rested on the desk itself; a dreamy poster of a little girl in bedclothes floating among the stars was mounted on one wall; photos of her biological parents peeked from the top of her bureau; the kitsune-illustrated adoption poem Alex had bought her in California hung in a gold frame directly over the bed; and a blue corduroy beanbag chair was set in front of the bookcases.
It was into this serene haven that Randall bounced without knocking.
"Olivia, let's go outside and play with Sam!"
"You didn't knock," she said automatically, not looking up from her book. "And no, thank you."
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "But please-"
"You could ask Mama if it's okay for you and Sam to go by yourselves. I don't feel like playing," she said indolently, holding her book in her right hand and petting the stuffed fox with her left. "It's still too warm. That's why I did my tennis practice this morning. And the last time I saw Sam, he was lying in front of Papa's fan. You shouldn't bother him. He's hot, even though we had the groomer thin his coat. Why don't you read instead? We could go in the shed and read-that would be outside."
"I don't want to read," he said obstinately, already unaccustomed to her refusing him, frowning.
"You don't want to read? You must be a change child and not Randall," Olivia teased lightly. She had still not torn her eyes from her book nor stopped meditatively stroking the fox, so she didn't notice him step closer to the bed.
Randall accused, "I bet you like that stupid fox more than me."
Olivia sighed, and for the first time, she looked up to see Randall's scowl. "I don't. But he sure is quieter than you are."
"Of course, because it's just a stuffed animal," he said cynically.
Olivia beetled her brows, irritated. "He's not."
"It! It!" Randall retorted and grabbed at Captain's tail. Olivia swiftly clutched at the fox's body.
. . . . .
When Olivia shrieked, two adults launched themselves from two office chairs simultaneously. A cascade of books tumbled from Bobby's work desk as the back of his chair slammed against the metal surface. Alex pushed hers backward with such force that it rolled into the closed Murphy bed and left a dent in a shelf. She had a shorter distance to cover, but his legs were longer, and they practically collided in Olivia's doorway, where the little girl was screaming, "Look what you've done! You're horrid, Randall! Go away!"
Randall stood not three feet away, his mouth ajar and eyes wide, his open right hand still extended.
The stuffed fox was between them on the hardwood floor, fluffy entrails spilling from between its rear legs. A few inches away lay the tail, with stray threads dangling from the raw end.
Olivia scrambled off the bed, swooping up fox, fluff, and tail. Her face was scarlet with fury, and she shouted, "Enfant stupide! I hate you! Get out of my room! Go away!"
Randall backed up one step. "B-but it's j-just a st-stuffed animal."
In tears, Olivia was so overwhelmed that her French overflowed. "Il ne l'est pas, il ne l'est pas! Regarde ce que tu as fait, petit idiot! Espèce de connard!"
"Mignon!" Bobby rebuked, and she froze-for he had not used her first name since she had decided, in Paris, that she wished to be known as Olivia and had never said either of her names in that tone of voice-then held up Captain, eyes brimming and lower lip trembling. "Papà, regarde!"
"I see that. But it's no reason to shout or use that language."
Randall watched Alex's face darken, but he repeated, as if in shock, "I-It's just a st-stuffed animal."
"It isn't your judgment to make," Alex said sternly. "Come here, please."
Randall opened his mouth, then hung his head and shuffled to Alex's side.
"Go to your room," she said, voice low but firm. "Sit at the side of the bed. And nothing else. No reading. No video game. I'll be in to talk to you presently."
"Yes, ma'am," he said miserably, leaving Olivia's room. Alex gave a deep sigh, casting a troubled look at a sobbing Olivia. She raised her eyebrows at Bobby, and he at her; then she resigned herself and retreated, while Bobby settled at the side of Olivia's bed. Still clutching the stuffed fox and its tail, tears streaming down her cheeks, she flopped on the mattress beside him, burrowing her head into his shirt front. He put his arm around her and held her as she wept a few more minutes, finishing with a deep, shuddering sigh.
"I think we addressed this possibility when we talked with Captain Benson," he stated ruefully as her body trembled with that final sob.
"I k-know," she said, sniffling. "But I didn't think...I thought he'd rip one of my books or maybe ruin something I m-made or maybe slap me, not...this!"
"If either Alex or I had thought Randall might physically hurt you, we would have thought twice about bringing him home," Bobby said quietly. "Tell me what happened."
When she had explained, she added, "You were right, Papa. I suppose he depended on me too much."
"It's a good thing to be a person who can be depended on, though. And while there's no excuse for Randall's behavior, there was no excuse for yours, either. You owe him an apology, Olivia. Nothing that happened deserved that kind of treatment."
"I can't!" she burst out. "I wouldn't have cared if it was my unicorn or my sheep. He could have ripped up one of my books." She held up the little stuffed fox together with its detached tail. "But it was Captain. He was from you, and now he's not perfect anymore."
Bobby could have said so much: how the act of carrying Captain with her on a four-month bus tour from Boston to Los Angeles and back, followed by a car trip to Michigan and another to Quebec, had rendered the fox, if not tattered because he was meticulously-cared for, but a little worn nevertheless, in the spots he was clutched lovingly every day. "I can hardly claim to be p-perfect myself, Min, so I can't expect that Captain would have...um...remained that way. Besides, his virtue is being here for you, not being perfect. I'm sure Viola can mend his tail."
"But Captain won't be the same as before. You gave him to me. He was the very first thing after you and Mama rescued me. He's special, Papa."
"Shhhh-" He rubbed between her shoulder blades, hoping to quell the hysteria that appeared to be winding up inside her. She hadn't had flashbacks to her past trauma in months, but he knew the fox was connected with the loss of her parents and her exile from Paris. "Olivia, I'm flattered that you love the gift I gave you so much. But Captain can't take precedence over a person. Look at it from Randall's point of view. For the past two weeks, he's been among people who listen to him-tr-truly listen. To Randall, it seemed only his mother and favorite teacher ever did that. We've...accepted him from the first, even with his smallest food aversions. Today you wanted to loosen the strings a little, but, to Randall, it felt like rejection."
She bit her lip.
"Besides, Captain's been through his hard knocks now, like the rest of us. Have you ever heard of kintsugi?"
She blotted her eyes with the handkerchief he handed her, then shook her head. "No. But I know you'll tell me."
Bobby smiled at her familiarity with his ways. "You know that porcelainware-what we call china-originally came from eastern Asia. The Chinese and the Japanese made some of the best: beautiful, exquisite pieces...with little scenes of everyday life or delicate flowers painted upon plates, vases, and bowls. They were fr-fragile and often broke. Today, we usually throw broken china away, but especially if it's a special item-um...of historic significance, an antique, or just a favorite possession-we might repair it, being as careful as we can to minimize the cracks.
"But Japanese people have a different philosophy about it. They repair the plate, but fill the cracks with gold. The practice is called kintsugi."
Olivia blinked. "But wouldn't that show the cracks?"
"That's the point. The metaphor is applied to real life. They believe...um...that a person having gone through tough times, having been 'broken' and then repaired, makes you st-stronger, adds to your character. Realizing that you survived being broken is a step toward helping you heal. Maybe...today will be a little kintsugi for all of us."
Olivia rested her head against his arm, teeth on her lower lip, thoughtfully petting the little fox's head.
As they talked, Alex crossed to Randall's room to knock and then push the door open. To her dismay, Randall had pulled one of the suitcases from the closet and was placing clothes in it.
"I asked you to sit at the side of the bed, Randall," she said gently.
"I know," he said, not meeting her eyes, "but I figured to save time by getting packed."
"Why?" she asked, coming from behind him, deftly removing the stack of underwear and socks from his hands and placing them back in the drawer. "You're not going anywhere." She paused. "Unless you want to leave? Is that it? Are things that bad for you here?" She asked it reluctantly, only to have Randall look abashed, then give a single shake of his head. "No one wants you to leave, Randall. You made a mistake. It was a hurtful mistake, but only a mistake. Will you help me understand why you tore Olivia's fox?"
His lower lip wobbled. "I was bored and wanted 'Livia to play with me. When she said she wanted to read...I...I got angry. I grabbed the tail, and she hung on, and it r-ripped." She heard a little flare of resentment rise in his voice. "But, Ms. Alex, it's just a stuffed animal. Why is a stuffed animal so important? It's just a toy. It's stupid."
She disliked his emphasis on "stupid," which she'd noticed was his catchword for anything he disliked, but laid a tender hand on his shoulder. "She just wanted some downtime before school begins. Min's like you; she loves school and throws herself into it completely, and she knows that beginning Monday she'll be busy until Thanksgiving." Randall's face flickered, and then he frowned again. "She's tried her best for the past two weeks to make you feel at home here, and you damaged the one thing that meant the most to her. It's no excuse for her behavior, but that fox is much more than a stuffed animal to Olivia."
He looked bewildered, insisting, an argumentative whine creeping into his voice now, "But it's not real. It's just a stuffed-"
Alex repeated patiently, "That fox has a special meaning to Olivia. It represents-" Alex wondered if there was a better way to convey the concept she wanted to illustrate, and then her eyes fell on Randall's six precious books-the ones he had lugged in his backpack and protected from a street marauder-a water-stained, dust-jacketless original Hardy Boys book, House on the Cliff; a newer copy of Mystery of Cabin Island; the Three Investigators' books Mystery of the Whispering Mummy and Mystery of the Vanishing Treasure; a Rick Brant book, Caves of Fear; and a wrinkled-covered 60's paperback of The Hound of the Baskervilles. She tried to banish the idea, then set her mouth and walked forward, scooping the six books from the headboard.
Given the tone of voice into which his discussion had degenerated, she expected Randall to protest and even fight back but was unprepared when he emitted a heartbreaking wail instead. "No! You can't take them; they're mine. Please!"
Every word out of her mouth tasted of ashes. "And Captain was Olivia's. The fox was as special to her as these books are to you."
He was weeping now, standing in front of her with his face contorted. She swallowed, almost whispering. "Just think about it, Randall, for a little while."
She could hear him sobbing even when she shut the door.
When Bobby left Olivia's room, Alex was sitting on the four-foot long old church pew they had rescued from a thrift shop that sat in front of the window in the upper hallway, staring straight ahead and chewing on her lower lip. Her left arm rested on the small stack of books next to her as she rubbed her right hand against her knee with a distressed motion. As his shadow fell across her, Alex looked up. "He kept saying, 'It's only a stuffed animal' and got snarky about it, and I didn't know a better way to get my point across-" She pursed her mouth hard. "I feel like a heel."
Bobby sat beside her. "I understand parenthood is one of the best ways to make an adult feel like a heel."
"I almost felt like I was slapping Eddie," she confessed.
"As if you or Liz would ever hit any child."
"I know. It doesn't mean I have to like it."
Bobby leaned back on the bench. "He's not Eddie, you know."
Alex smiled ruefully. "I know. He's so different, but...but he's started to mean as much to me. Besides, I'm sure Eddie did something just as naughty when he was young. I know I did. Did I ever tell you that one time I was so pissed with Jack for getting into things in my room that I threw his favorite Scout knife out with the trash? I had to do extra chores all that summer to repay my dad for buying him a new one."
"And I'll bet both Liz and your dad sat there feeling as badly as you do now."
"We used to tease Liz before Eddie was born that...that he was going to be the most spoilt child in the five boroughs because she would never punish her 'miracle baby.'" Alex gave a short sigh. "He turned out okay. But now I wonder...all those times my mother had to punish me...did she feel as shitty as I do now? Because I must have hurt her so damn much."
She tilted her head because his eyes were indulgent. "What?"
"Someone once called you an ice queen, but I know better. The Eames sisters, hard shell on the outside and all soft center."
She replied reproachfully, "I'm the soft center. Lizzie is a water balloon. Must you make today worse by referring to Nicole?"
"But she made Olivia. There had to be some spark of goodness there."
"Olivia," she repeated, still overwhelmed at the ferocious outburst. "I expected some tears or angry words, but she- It was like the geyser we saw at Yellowstone. I never imagined-"
"To her, Captain is a talisman of our family relationship. And what happens when a talisman is lost or broken? Does the world fall apart, too? When you're ten...or even when you're 46, the fear is always the same."
Alex ran the numbers in her head, and then they both were quiet, the silence punctuated only by the whirr of fans and faint sniffling from both children's rooms. "How long do you want to give him?"
"Just a couple of minutes longer. Enough time to think."
Precisely two minutes later, Bobby rose and offered Alex his hand. "Come on, Captain Eames. We can do this. Even though an interrogation might be easier."
Alex took a deep breath, then knocked on Randall's door.
When he didn't answer, she turned the knob to let them both in. Randall was huddled on the blue bedspread, wearing shoes despite "the rules," his head buried in his arms, still sniffling.
"Hey," Bobby said softly, and Randall raised his head. His face was flushed, and his eyes swollen. "It's okay, buddy."
But it was Alex who went forward, who perched on the side of the bed and said not a word about his sneakers, who stroked his untidy hair. "I'm sorry I had to do it that way, Randall. Do you understand now, sweetie, about Olivia's fox? About how important it is?"
Randall struggled to a seated position, then nodded, tears still dripping down his face behind his glasses. There was a big moist splotch on the rumpled spread. Alex reached around him and hugged him with her left arm, her free hand finding the box of tissues on his nightstand. Then she tenderly removed his glasses, laying them on her lap, and used the tissues to wipe his eyes.
"I d-don't m-mean to cr-cry," he stammered out. "I know i-i-it's baby, b-but-"
"No one is shamed for crying in this house," Bobby told him firmly, posting himself at the end of the bed. Randall fixed his gaze on him to determine the validity of that statement. When he realized Bobby was serious, he dropped his eyes again.
"And everything's okay," Alex soothed. "I understand. I said and did unkind things to my brother and sister when I was your age, too. I never meant them." Releasing him from the hug, she cleaned his glasses, then perched them carefully back on his nose, stroking his hair when she finished.
"So," she continued gently, "what do you think you need to do next?"
"I sh-should apologize to Olivia," Randall said, eyes fastened on his lap. "If she'll l-let me."
Bobby said mildly, "You might sweeten the apology with a peace offering."
Randall's eyes flickered upward and he bit his lip. "Like what?" he asked.
Bobby answered, "We're...pretty certain Mrs. Perrino, who made Olivia's middy dress, can repair the tail. But it might n-need to be taken to a 'doll hospital.' They repair all sorts of toys, not just dolls. There are a couple in the city. You could...um...offer to have it fixed."
"I-I don't th-think four dollars and fifty-two cents will p-pay for it," Randall stammered. "That's all I h-have."
Alex had bitten back a smile noticing that Bobby had been prompted by her story about Jack's Scout knife. "We could front you the money," she suggested. "Then you could help with extra chores to pay us back."
Randall looked wary. "What kind of chores?"
"Cleaning out the cars. Helping in the yard. Grooming Sam," Bobby suggested.
The boy nodded solemnly, scrubbing the underside of his nose with his fist.
"So what do you think? Would that work for you?" Bobby asked, stretching his hand out to shake.
"Yes, sir." Randall proffered his hand.
"You're a good man, Randall," Alex said, hugging him again, but sensed resistance, so she asked softly, "Do you want to hear Captain's story?"
Randall sniffled. "Sure."
"Olivia was very close to her mother and her nanny, too. She didn't see her father often-" Alex realized that an explanation of Marcel Pepin's complex family dynamics could wait till another time. "-but when she did, they had good times taught her to ski and swim and even bought her a dog. She loved both her parents so much, as much as you love your mom, and...all of a sudden they were gone after the car accident, just like when your mom suddenly didn't come home one weekend.
"Then her nanny, whom she'd known since she was a baby, had to leave because her sister was sick. The only place left for Min to stay when she wasn't at boarding school or camp would have been in a house with a woman who hated her."
"Like an evil stepmother?" he asked with wide eyes.
Alex ignored Bobby's nearly inaudible snort. "Something like that. But her maman, you see, had already worried about what might happen to Olivia if there was an accident. She made a will requesting that we become Olivia's guardians. I'm being honest with you, Randall, when I tell you that we...we worried. We'd never had a child. We were afraid that we wouldn't be good parents. But we couldn't leave Olivia with someone who hated her."
Bobby took up the tale. "We were at the airport, and she looked so lonely and frightened-"
"I didn't think Olivia was scared of anything."
"Olivia puts on a good front...and even adults get scared," Bobby assured. "I'd passed a gift shop on the way to the restroom. She'd just d-decided she wanted to be known as 'Olivia,' and I saw a spinner in the window with girls' chain bracelets, different names in cursive script. So I found...um...an 'Olivia' bracelet, then turned, and that fox was staring at me."
His face, animated with memory, turned sober. "When I was a boy, my mother was...sick. My dad was rarely home, and when he was, he and my mom quarreled. My brother coped by hanging out with wild boys. I'd saved a little stuffed dog from when I was younger. Some of his fur was worn off, and he had a missing eye. I called him 'Wolfie' and kept him hidden because my brother teased me about him and tried to throw him away once. Maybe it sounds 'baby' to you, but when the monsters in my life became too much, even when I was your age, it helped to sneak Wolfie from under the bed and hug him. I thought Min might want a Wolfie of her own."
Randall swallowed and stifled a sob. "I didn't know."
"You didn't. It was just a mistake," Alex whispered.
"I'm a mistake," he whispered fiercely. "That's what my dad said once-"
"He was wrong," they said, almost as one, and Randall blinked at them.
Alex added, "I don't get what your father said to you. Maybe he even thought he was helping, trying to 'toughen you up' so you wouldn't be bullied. But if he was trying to save you from being hurt, he hurt you anyway. You are not a 'mistake,' and there's nothing wrong with being yourself." Her eyes flicked at Bobby. "That was something I had to learn."
Randall gulped, not understanding the undercurrents of the exchange. "I guess now I need to say I'm sorry. C-can you come with me?"
"It will mean more to Olivia if you do it yourself," said Alex gently. "It'll be all right. You can do it. We know it, and we'll be right here."
"But what if she doesn't-"
Bobby squatted momentarily to face him. "Min has a good heart; she just let her t-temper get the better of her. You'll see."
Alex relaxed her hug, and, with his eyes fixed on Olivia's door, Randall rose resolutely and took slow steps across the bedroom and the hall. He looked back once to see them standing in the doorway, and Alex gave an encouraging nod and smile. After taking a long, shuddering breath, Randall knocked.
"Who is it?" Olivia's voice was close by.
"It's me, R-Randall. I came to ap-apologize."
She must have been standing behind the door because it opened immediately. She stood erect, her chin lifted, her face impassive, her still-swollen eyes frosty, with Captain the fox, his tail safety-pinned to his body, clutched pointedly in front of her.
"Bobby-" Alex said with a sigh from the doorway where they were watching.
"Wait...see what she does," he responded.
Randall didn't flinch at her theatrics. "I'm...I'm sorry, Olivia. I didn't know how sp-special Captain was. Your mom and dad told me the st-story." He trembled. "I'm sorry. I swear. I won't do anything like it...a-again. Ever. I promise."
Olivia's stern face crumbled as he bit his lip and his eyes filled, and she reached her left hand out to him. "Randall...don't cry. Please!"
Randall scrubbed his betraying eyes fiercely and stumbled on. "Your dad thinks Mrs. Perrino can fix Captain's t-tail. If not, we can take him to...a doll hospital? It's a place that fixes t-toys. Then I'll pay them back by doing ch-chores."
"What chores?" Olivia asked inquisitively, as he had.
"Yard work or in the car or brushing Sam."
"That won't be so bad," the little girl agreed. "Maybe I could help out."
Randall shook his head emphatically. "I'd have to do it myself or it wouldn't be r-right. B-But I'm sorry I d-d-didn't understand about your fox," he persisted, face still threatening showers. "Your mom made me understand."
Olivia gave Alex a surprised look. "What did Mama do?"
Randall choked. "She...took away my books."
Olivia's eyes opened wide in shock. "She-" Then she said to Alex, "Mama, you give him back his books right now! Please! That's not funny!"
"I didn't intend it to be funny," Alex said soberly. "I wanted him to understand about Captain. And his books are already back on his bed."
Randall's woebegone face vanished; instead, his mouth dropped open. "They're not gone?"
It was Alex's turn to be stunned. "What do you mean 'gone'?"
Randall turned his head away. Bobby's arm was around Alex's shoulder, and she felt his body vibrate. She glanced at him in time to see anger building in his face, for he had just realized why the boy was so upset.
"My d-dad," Randall stammered. "I was reading once and di-didn't d-do what he wanted fast enough. So he t-took the book I was r-reading and threw it in the d-dumpster."
"He-" Alex's face paled. "And you thought- Randall, no-"
She was at his side instantly, crouching, so they were face-to-face. "I would never...ever-" She put her hands on his shoulders, and he could see, with growing surprise, that her eyes were damp. "I swear to you, Randall, I will never throw away anything that is yours without your consent. If it's bad for you-a gun, a switchblade, drugs-I will take it away soyou won't get hurt. But I will never throw away books-not toys, not clothes...Randall, I didn't know. I'm so sorry you thought-."
He looked bewildered. "But I was the bad one. Why are you crying?"
"You made a mistake. But I did, too. If we do have to pay to have Olivia's fox repaired, I'll settle the bill. That will be my way of making it up to you."
"I need to apologize, too," Olivia said with a gulp. "You made me angry, but I shouldn't have said any of those things. I shouldn't have said I hated you or called you names in French. It was mean and rude, and it wasn't true. You're more important than Captain. Truly. And I was still being cross just now when I opened the door because I was still angry. But it wasn't nice. Papa was right." She looked at Bobby. "He said, 'Anger is a reaction, never a solution.' I'm sorry."
She punctuated the final two words by throwing her arms around Randall, hugging him so tightly that he had to pull back after a few seconds. Then she proposed, "Mama, may we call Mrs. Perrino right now and ask if she can mend Captain's tail?" When she grinned at Bobby, it was as if the sun had come out after a thunderstorm. "I can ask her...if she can use gold thread, Papa."
The expression on his face told her he understood. "Your choice, Min."
"Gold thread?" Alex was puzzled until Bobby winked at her. Later, his eyes said.
"But that would mean you could see where he was fixed!" Randall was confused.
"I'll call Mrs. Perrino-if that's all right." Olivia touched Randall's shoulder, then tipped her eyes to Bobby, "Papa can tell you about kintsugi."
. . . . .
Saturday morning they were awakened earlier than usual, and Randall whispered an inquiry as he and Olivia walked downstairs.
"Haircuts for the first day of school," Olivia said sagely.
Randall balked on the stairs. "I hate haircuts."
Olivia was puzzled. "Why? We go to The Clip Joint. Brenda usually cuts our hair. She's terribly jolly, and we all like her."
"A girl's going to cut my hair? Boys go to a barber, my dad-"
"Your 'dad said', I know. Randall, your dad wasn't an expert on anything, or he wouldn't be in prison. And he isn't a good father if he told you all that rot about your not being a real boy," Olivia said in a scornful voice.
"Olivia!" Alex warned as the girl's voice preceded her as they entered the kitchen.
"Why can't I say what's true? I know Randall's father is an adult, and I shouldn't criticize adults, but he told Randall lies. Randall isn't 'weird,' he just thinks differently, like Papa," the girl stormed as she flopped down on her chair, looking aggrieved. "And not playing sports doesn't mean he isn't a 'real boy'-what does that even mean?"
Randall stared at her with wondering eyes.
"Mahsi-choo," he said finally, having absorbed two weeks' worth of Olivia's favorite animated series, even if he didn't quite understand her fascination with it.
His response prompted a little smile. "Thank you for what?"
"Sticking up for me," he answered, abashed. "Especially after yesterday."
"I'm only telling the truth!" was the fierce reply, and neither Alex nor Bobby had the heart to scold her after that.
Over oatmeal, Bobby asked mildly, "Did you mention to Randall that after haircuts we eat out and then have ice cream?"
After the dishes were finished, the children beat them to the CRV while debating about who got the seat behind Alex because it had more legroom. Alex halted at the edge of the driveway to watch them negotiate.
"Do you think they'd mind at school," Alex asked aloud, "if we didn't cut his hair too short? I...like it the way it is, sort of tousled all the time, makes him look-"
"Boyish and innocent instead of cowed from being bullied by his father?" Bobby finished from behind her, and Alex nodded.
"Are you going to ask Brenda for a lock of his hair as a keepsake, too?" he bantered gently.
"Maybe," Alex said, looking up with a smile and a glint in her eye; his response was to step around her, pull her into his arms, and kiss her soundly.
Olivia watched with almost adult indulgence, but finally a protest sailed freely through the September breeze. "Mama, Papa, stop canoodling! We'll be late!"
Bobby broke the kiss with a mischievous expression and snapped a salute at her. "Yes, ma'am."
Alex laughed. "Canoodling? Where did that come from?"
"Mr. Volpe always said it," Olivia called from the open window, "whenever he saw you kiss." Then she eyed Randall as she clicked her seat belt. "They do that a lot."
He hitched his over his shoulder and buckled it, looking wistful. "Yeah, I noticed. I like it."
"Me, too," was her satisfied reply.
. . . . .
***September 14, 2024***
"...and that's the respirator," Randall concluded, looking through the window of the ICU. "Just like on the website you showed me."
He was cocooned between Bobby and Alex, waiting for final approval from Rosalind Shaw's attending physician. He had wanted to show off one of his new suits, but Bobby gently advised, "Your mother would want to see you, not your clothes," so the boy had on his favorite plaid shirt, blue jeans, and Chucks. Although Alex had combed his freshly trimmed hair, it was again wildly askew.
"That's right," Bobby told him, then looked over his shoulder.
Olivia sat quietly in an ugly grey bucket chair against the ICU wall, in the same lavender sundress and purple sandals as she'd worn the day Randall had entered their lives, since there had been a mid-September burst of heat, although she didn't look warm at the moment. She had Captain in close embrace, and the gold threads in the otherwise nearly invisible seam between the stuffed fox's body and his tail glinted in the fluorescent light. Alex, still fast in Randall's grip, wondered if she was thinking of her mother after the car accident, and her eyes telegraphed her concern to Bobby. Olivia was always so self-assured that her apprehension at being there was plain, and he released Randall's hand to join her.
Bobby and the children's therapist, Phyllis Allyson, had briefed Randall during the week on what to expect. His mother would not open her eyes or talk to him. There would be tubes and wires attached to her, but although the glowing monitors and respirator might appear "scary," they'd assured him every bit of equipment near his mother's bed was being used to keep her well and in no pain. Using photos, they explained the function of each piece of equipment and reminded him that she would be thin because she couldn't eat and was being fed through a tube.
"What do I say?" he asked, troubled. Alex noticed that his face was pale and pinched; she knew that all their preparation still had not been able to totally arm him against the reality visible through the window.
"Talk to her like you did when you came home from school," Bobby had advised. "Tell her how you are and about us, your new classes, and teachers-"
They hadn't been certain they could swing a St. Gregory's Academy tuition but had ventured an inquiry anyway. Sister Rosalind, the admissions officer, had spoken to Randall privately for twenty minutes and then become very brisk. "We have both a scholarship program and a reduced tuition program if all else fails. I'm sure we can fit him in. One of you fill out the forms online-scan the QR code on this card to get to them-and I'll call his school in Wilton and have them send us his records." She buzzed the secretary's office. "Anastasia, have Brother Michael come to my office, please."
If he got in, Olivia had already told him, Brother Michael would probably be his homeroom teacher because he was always assigned the restless kids.
"You mean the weird kids," said Randall gloomily, resigned to his fate until Brother Michael offered him his hand. He was portly and balding, with kind grey eyes, and Randall noticed immediately that the man had to make an effort to meet his eyes.
"I'm autistic," the instructor admitted. "It's difficult for me, but I try my best."
"I can tell her about Brother Michael," Randall said, loosing Alex's hand so he could pace a circle around the waiting area, "and how I'm going to learn ASL so I can be Kenny's homeroom buddy."
"That's a good topic," Alex said encouragingly. "She'll like that."
Dr. Malhotra opened the door to Rosalind's ICU room. "Are you ready to come in, Randall?"
Bobby stood up again, holding out a hand to the boy, only to have him ask, "Please, may Ms. Alex come in with me instead, Mr. G?"
"Of course," Bobby said, settling back down next to Olivia, and Alex smiled almost shyly. "I'd be honored, Randall." He had gravitated toward her since the first evening when she had settled at his bedside until he fell asleep again, but something more had been firmly cemented between them since the tempest with Olivia's stuffed fox. Bobby was now his sage, the person he talked to about books and profilers and being a boy, Olivia his playmate and staunchest defender, but Alex was his anchor.
He held her left hand tightly and then froze before they were three steps into the room. Rosalind Shaw's appearance would be daunting for any adult, as wired and intubated as she was, and, being nearly as slight as Alex, she looked tiny and almost skeletal in the bed, her limp dark hair sparse and oily. They could hardly tell that she was breathing. Alex's aversion to hospitals since her mother had died was very strong, but she squeezed Randall's hand tightly to encourage him even as her mouth tightened with stress.
"Hello, Mrs. Shaw," she said in her "company voice" as if the patient were sitting up in a chair waiting for them. "I've brought Randall to visit. My name is Alexandra Eames, and my husband, my little girl Olivia, and I are caring for him right now. He's a wonderful boy, and we're enjoying his company."
Olivia peeked through the blinds into Rosalind Shaw's ICU room. "Do you think she'll hear them, Papa? She looks so far away."
"Doctors aren't certain," Bobby replied quietly, standing behind her and rubbing between her shoulder blades, "but some people who have awakened from comas do report that they heard voices talking to them when they were unconscious."
Olivia only clutched the stuffed fox closer as she watched.
"Did Maman look like this?" she asked finally.
"They would have taken care of her just as carefully," he said softly and felt her shiver under his hands. "She wasn't in pain."
She almost could see Randall steel himself before he piped up, "Hi, Mommy!" after Alex's introduction; now words were tumbling out as they had the day he first talked with Olivia, telling the supine woman about his foster family-"It was Olivia's birthday yesterday, so now she's eleven just like me, and on Sunday we're driving to somewhere called Newport to have a picnic and fly kites!"-the wonderful house with all the books, and his new school.
He rested his hand on the small portion of her arm that he could reach as he continued; the skin was so dry that Alex saw him flinch at the touch, but he continued gamely, "Brother Michael said I move my hands so well he's going to teach me ASL-that's American Sign Language-so I can be Kenny Shepherd's homeroom buddy. Kenny doesn't talk, you see, Mommy, even though he's not deaf. He uses sign language instead and likes to have you sign back. I've learned some signs already. See-" and he tapped his thumb on his chin with his hand open and fingers spread. "That means 'Mother.' And this-" and he tapped his thumb to his forehead. "That means 'Father.'"
Alex had slipped to the door and talked to the nurse; a few minutes later, a different nurse handed her a small tube and made small circling motions with her hand. Alex showed Randall how to put a small bit of the lotion from the tube on his fingertips as he spoke so he could gently rub it into his mother's skin. "They've had several emergencies today," Alex explained, "and haven't had a chance to treat her arms. I'm sure she'd like it if you put the lotion on. Very gently now."
Randall glanced sideways at her pale face. "Are you okay, Ms. Alex?"
Alex admitted, "It reminds me of when my mother was in the hospital, that's all."
They stayed for a half hour. When Randall ran out of things to say, Alex told Rosalind about their house, Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren, and Milbury, stressing that Randall was with people who supported him. When the time came to leave, Randall swallowed hard and kissed that spot on his mother's arm that he could reach, then halted in the doorway and stared back at her with a long, hungering look. "Goodbye, Mommy. I love you."
Olivia took his hand as they walked silently back to the parking lot, and he didn't shake her off. In the car, she offered Randall her fox, but he refused. Finally, Alex ventured, "When we visit again, you'll know enough ASL to be able to tell your mom about helping Kenny."
She was driving as always, and Randall lifted his head to stare into the rearview mirror with a troubled look. "We don't hafta go back, Ms. Alex. Mommy isn't there anymore."
Bobby reminded him gently, "People in a coma don't respond-"
Randall returned in a controlled, very unchildlike voice, "She's...not...there. I said goodbye. I told her I loved her." Then he huddled in his seatbelt and turned his head away when Olivia touched his arm. She wrapped her arms around her fox and looked grieved.
The long ride home was made longer by the silence from the back of the CR-V. Alex and Bobby talked of inconsequential things simply to stave off the oppressive quiet: plans for a woodland hike when the leaves turned, their annual Thanksgiving trip. Randall ate very little supper, although steak and air-fried potatoes were two of his favorite dishes, withdrawing into a book later. He spoke little, and when he did, his voice was low and flat. They made sure he wasn't alone but did not press him. When it was time for the nightly Star Trek rerun, he joined Alex on the sofa, leaning on her, watching the screen with distant eyes.
At bedtime, Olivia tapped at Randall's door.
"Come in," he said heavily. Olivia noticed he had a book in his hands, but he was simply staring at the cover, not reading it.
"Papa finished Friday's Tunnel last night. I thought we might read Hatchet next. It's about a boy who's the only survivor of a plane crash. He has to survive in the forest with nothing but a hatchet. Wouldn't you like to hear? Leo recommended it to me, and he's twelve, so you know it's not baby."
He shrugged, and she added, "It's s'posed to be good."
Randall's mouth twitched. "Do you think your dad would read...? You said on the ride home from the city-that no one likes Mary. Why doesn't anyone like her? It's kinda a mystery, isn't it?"
Olivia blinked hard, understanding. Then she lowered her eyebrows and said in a sepulchral voice, "Oh, that's not the only odd thing at Misselthwaite Manor: Mary hears someone crying in the corridors, especially at night, but the servants tell her she's hearing things. Her uncle stays shut up in his study all day-when he's home-and speaks only to the housekeeper. And why would he lock up a walled garden for ten years-and bury the key?"
"Sounds like a good mystery to me." Randall put his book aside and followed her out of the room.
. . . . .
***September 29, 2024***
Can buzzing sound ominous?
Alex debated it for a long time afterward; all she knew that late September Sunday was that when her Fitbit vibrated for an incoming call, she reached for her phone with dread.
It could have been the hour, she considered. Nothing good happens at five in the morning, as April of 2023 had proven. The past nine days had been bleak as it was, Randall doggedly plodding through his schoolwork, each of his teachers keeping a weather eye out, and withdrawn at home. Brother Michael called on Friday to tell them that Kenny Shepherd was so distressed at Randall's continued low spirits that he had walked up to him on Friday morning and voluntarily hugged him.
"Hello," she whispered into her phone, hoping not to wake Bobby.
"Hi, Alex. Sorry to bother you this early," said Olivia Benson. Her voice sounded scratchy and low as if someone might be in the bedroom with her. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Alex's part.
"No bother. When?" Alex asked without preamble.
"St. Vincent's called about fifteen minutes ago."
Any hope of Bobby still being asleep was dashed when he rested his hand on her shoulder. "Is it Rosalind?"
She switched on the speakerphone function but lowered the volume before replying, "Yes," then expelled her breath. "Should we wake him up or let him sleep?"
Benson paused, then said carefully, "I can only give you the answer from my personal expert. I asked Noah once-after I was attacked by BX9-that if...if something happened to me on night shift, or if he were away, would he want whoever told him to wait or wake him? He picked the latter."
"What about her remains?" Bobby asked.
"St. Vincent's will probably cremate. There's a fee to have that done separately. I'll check on it."
"And Sterling Shaw?" They had discovered they could only address him by his full name as if he were a monstrous being who only existed in ancient legends.
"I'll have someone notify the prison. Or maybe just do it myself."
"All right, Liv," Alex said. "Thanks for letting us know."
"Call if you need me," Benson said.
Typically Liv, Alex thought. "Same," she said. "Go back to sleep."
They could almost hear her smiling. "Not me. I'm an early riser, even on Sundays, and it's almost time to get up. I'll have a cup of coffee and do some reading. Goodbye, you two. I'm sorry...that I put this on your shoulders."
"No. You gave us a gift. And we'd do it again," said Alex immediately. "Have a good day, Liv."
There was a nightlight in the hallway for the children's nocturnal bathroom visits, and now they could see the bedroom door open and a small figure silhouetted in the weak light. "Maman?"
Bobby huffed under his breath. Was she walking in her sleep again? Then the voice caught itself. "Mama? Papa? Are you awake?"
"Come in, Min," Bobby said kindly, and when she padded up, they realized she clutched the stuffed fox to her heart. "Did you have a nightmare?"
Alex switched on the lowest level of her bedside lamp. Olivia's eyes were enormous in the dim light. "It was Captain Benson, wasn't it? Or was that in my dream?"
"What did you dream?" he asked quietly.
"That...Randall was crying because his mother was-" Olivia sniffled. "That she was gone."
He pulled her close with his left arm. "She is."
"Captain Benson was just on the phone," Alex added. "The hospital called her."
Olivia pushed her face into Bobby's shoulder for a few minutes, and they knew she must be reliving the moment her school headmistress Anna Bradford-Smith told her that her parents had died.
Then she looked up, her face solemn. "We need to tell him right now. Noah told me once if anything happened to his mom, even in the middle of the night, he'd want to know." She paused, then declared firmly, "I know you both liked chasing criminals, and you miss it, but I'm glad you don't do it anymore. I couldn't be as brave as Noah."
Without another word, she squirmed from Bobby's embrace and waited for them at the bedroom door. They exchanged glances and followed her.
He'd always been restless. All Bobby's willpower had gone into standing motionless at military inspections; if necessary, he would substitute scraping his tongue against his teeth to keep his feet and fingers motion-free. His buddies in Narcotics teased him about it, especially in the short time Bobby had known him, glib Fin Tutuola. Alex became accustomed to his fidgets and pacing around their desks in MCS, and if he retreated to the FBI workout room a couple of times a day to hit a treadmill, neither Karin Hirahara nor Ben Siler had let it distract them. For Penelope Saltonstall, it never mattered so long as work was accomplished.
If he was restless during the week, he walked the neighborhood; if stressed, he'd drive somewhere walkable with distractions. Alex had accompanied him more frequently before she took the mayor's advisory position, but a few days earlier she'd had a Zoom meeting, so he'd hopped in the Mustang and driven to a sprawling antique mall in Waterbury. He enjoyed imagining who had used, worn, and played with the old items inside and, an hour later, would be home refreshed and quiescent.
The mall consisted of small booths owned by individuals who paid the antique mall owners to charge booth purchases to their accounts while taking a service cut. That Tuesday, a new booth with both current and vintage toys caught his eye. Knowing Randall's proclivities for mysteries and police stories, Bobby immediately spied, amid stuffed pigs and cats, monkeys and Labradors, a small German Shepherd dog with a faux leather collar sporting a sheriff's star.
When Randall first showed puzzlement at Olivia's reliance on her stuffed fox, Alex had said to Bobby with a smile, "I guess most little boys don't do that-I know Jack didn't. But Lizzie and I doted on our stuffed animals."
Bobby, remembering Wolfie, had admitted, "I'd be willing to bet more of them do-but they would never own up to it." So he took the chance. When he presented it to Randall at dinner that night, he explained lightly, "I figured you might like a police dog to add to your mystery collection."
Randall was more absorbed at that moment in keeping his peas separate from his mashed potatoes and nodded politely. But not even Olivia missed that his eyes brightened a little, even though he almost immediately abandoned the stuffed dog to the headboard of his bed.
The dim light from the hallway was still enough to illuminate Randall with his left arm cuddled around the dog-"Sonny," he'd told them offhandedly, after Dominick Carisi who had brought him to Olivia Benson's office-as they entered the bedroom. He was breathing slowly and deeply, cheek pillowed on his free hand. They hung back for a second, reluctant to take the next step.
Alex finally perched lightly at the edge of the bed. "Randall." Although he always made a face at the endearment, she added, "Sweetie. Please...wake up."
He blinked and squinted with myopic eyes. "Ms. Alex? What's..." A yawn broke his sentence. "It's still dark."
"I know," she whispered, just as he registered that Bobby and Olivia were also at his bedside. Alex saw him shiver, then stiffen. "My mother's dead, isn't she?"
"Yes," Alex said in a whisper, "I'm sorry." She touched his shoulder, but he pulled back.
"I told you when we left the hospital," he stated flatly. "I said she was gone. All that stuff...it just kept her alive. It didn't make her better."
Bobby knew it was fruitless but repeated nevertheless, "They held out hope for her."
"I knew she wasn't there. Does my dad know?" he asked abruptly.
"Captain Benson said she'd call the prison later today."
"So I'm alone now." His voice remained toneless, and Alex pondered her next move. She desperately wanted to scoop him into her arms, but she also wanted to respect his boundaries. Olivia stepped forward with a little gasp, but Bobby set a hand on her shoulder.
"We're still here," Alex said as calmly as possible. "We were hoping...that you'd...that you'd want to stay with us."
Randall shrank around the stuffed dog, visibly mounting a shell against them. "You don't have to. I know I'm just a foster kid, and I'm weird, and a lot of trouble, too, getting me into St. Greg's and the appointments with Dr. Allyson and...and...stuff... You can send me back any time."
Bobby released Olivia's shoulder. and before either of them could respond, she stepped forward and retorted, "You are not 'just a foster kid.'" And when Randall met her flashing eyes, she added intensely, "You're my brother now! I want you to stay."
"But I ripped the tail off your fox!" he retorted bitterly.
"I don't care. You're my brother now and more important than...than a stupid...old...fox!" And Olivia threw Captain to the floor, between Alex's feet.
Randall's mouth fell open, then he began to cry in harsh, gasping, terrifying sobs. Alex pulled him into her arms, hugging him fiercely, her own tears spilling over as Olivia turned back to wrap her arms around Bobby, who rocked her back and forth.
"You realize," Bobby commented dryly after a few minutes, when the storm had seemed to subside, "we're probably going to flood the library if we keep this up."
Olivia knew he was trying to defuse the situation and said with a tearful hiccup, "We can't do that, Papa. My encyclopedia would get wet." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "Besides, where would you work?"
Randall, voice clogged with tears, added, "And my book would get ruined before I ever got to read it."
Bobby answered, blotting his eyes with his fingers, "When that time comes, Randall, I'll have an autographed copy for you."
"If you want to stay with us," Alex told him, tipping up his chin and meeting his eyes, "we'll do our best to make it happen."
"We'll call DCF tomorrow to start the paperwork," Bobby added.
"That will mean a lot more inspections," Olivia warned him, "and I had ever so many."
Randall set his jaw. "I don't care," he said, echoing Olivia a few minutes earlier, took a breath, and added, "I'll look 'em in the eye if they want."
. . . . .
Once news of Rosalind's death spread, there were shoulders to cry on and hugs were freely given. Abbi Diaz brought freshly-baked pupusas. Shard and TJ provided dinner. The neighbors paid condolence calls, Russ Jenkins called from Big Brothers, Olivia Benson and Noah made a video call. Randall spent the afternoon reading with Sam's head in his lap, where a gentle touch on his shoulder, a kiss, and one of Olivia's watercolors provided support. At dinner there was a stack of printed e-mails from his homeroom class; Brother Michael, notified of the children's absence the next day, had contacted every student. Almost all had replied-Kenny Shepherd attached a drawing: a slightly crooked but endearing chibi-style rabbit hugging a puffy heart with "I'm sorry" printed underneath.
"Kenny loves rabbits," Randall had explained soberly. "He has two, Peter and Cottontail. Peter is spotted and Cottontail is white with lop ears. Kenny only draws rabbits for people he likes." He lifted two fists at chin level, one in front of the other, and waggled the index and middle fingers up and down. "That's ASL for rabbit. He taught me that."
"The people who love you are here," Alex told him with a kiss. "Always."
Later, after the children were tucked in and they slipped into bed, she said thoughtfully, "Well, Agent Goren, you know what this means."
"You're a ringmaster with a permanent circus of three, Captain Eames?" he hazarded with a wry smile.
"Oh...I knew that the day Liv sent us home with him," she said thoughtfully, but her eyes were bright. "I'm up for anything that our circus brings. But we need to shop for a larger car. Two adults, two kids, a collie, and a birdcage won't travel in a CR-V any longer-even with a roof rack."
"Alexandra Eames, soccer mom," Bobby said fondly, only to have her make a face at him. "We'll call Lewis in the morning and see what he can recommend."
"And Sterling Shaw?"
Bobby sighed as he put his arm around her. "A problem to tackle on another day." He kissed her cheek. "All four of us."
.
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The next story should be "Quiver"
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