Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart, #3)(8)

I ruffled a hand through Dillon’s hair and smacked a kiss to his temple before I set him on his feet and headed for my oldest son.

“Hey there, handsome man.” My heart leapt as I took him in where he sat in the swath of light that blazed in through the window behind him. He had a book on his lap, five others spread out on the cushions around him—those words Benjamin’s own escape.

My eyes moved over him, taking in his super skinny legs and arms, the joints of the right side of his body set at an odd angle from the contractures he’d dealt with his entire life, his knees and shoulders knobby and his mouth permanently twisted on that right side.

He looked so frail sitting there. Fragile. But I’d never met anyone quite as strong.

He struggled to push himself up higher against the pillow rested against the wall.

I knelt down in front of him and nudged his chin with my knuckle.

Redness climbed to his cheeks. “Mmmmom, I’m nnnot a baby,” he said, though he was grinning and trying to hide his angel-smile that was brighter than the sun that shined like a halo on his head. “Sttop it.”

His speech was slurred, elongated and lurching as his tongue grappled to form the words.

Sometimes it was difficult to understand him, but to me, they were the most beautiful sounds on the earth considering I’d been told he would probably never talk.

“Never,” I told him, pinching his chin instead.

“You’re embarrrrassing.” Only he was grinning and playfully swatting at me.

“What are you talking about? Being embarrassing is my job. I’m your mom, remember?” I drew out.

“How could I forrrget?” he slurred, a glint in his eyes.

“Punk,” I teased him.

He gestured at himself. “Total troublemaker.”

“Hey, what have I told you? You can be anything you want to be, you just have to set your mind to it. Work hard enough for it, and it’s yours.” I tried to keep a straight face when I said it.

He laughed from his belly, his head flopping back a little bit. “I donnn’t think that’s what you meant.”

Dillon leaned on the window seat, poking that adorable, inquisitive face in between us. “Hey, I thought troublemaking was bad? I think you’re givin’ bad, bad advice, Mom. You better think twice.”

Light laughter danced on my tongue, and I hooked my arm around his waist and drew him closer. “You’re right. Troublemaking is bad. I take it all back. A troublemaker is something you can’t be, no matter how hard you work for it.”

Bad boys were just . . . well . . . bad. They were a terrible idea for everyone involved.

Dillon giggled, holding his shaking belly. “But what if that’s what I really wanna be?”

“No way.”

Benjamin was grinning, watching our interaction, my sweet little man turning serious, his eyes lighting with pride.

“And you gggot the job?” he asked.

“I did. Pretty amazing, right? I told you everything was going to come together exactly like we needed it to.” I tapped his chin in emphasis.

He’d been worried over our reason for returning to the place he’d only heard about in stories.

His disability had been a good excuse not to visit, my parents always coming out to see us since traveling truly was a bit of a trial.

But he knew.

It was crazy how insightful that he was, the boy so smart, his intelligence extending into the realm of knowing. I wondered if it was because he had to spend so much time on the outside looking in, an observer, excluded from conversations because people often assumed that he wasn’t smart.

Immediately, he’d picked up on the fact we were making this move because of him.

For him.

Not only had I been told Benjamin might not talk, I’d also been told that he might not walk, either.

Diagnosed with cerebral palsy, my son had endured seven different surgeries and a series of castings for years to help with his contractures.

He’d suffered through intense pain, but he’d worked so hard and made incredible strides.

The day he’d taken his first step with his walker, I’d fallen to my knees, unable to stand beneath the swelling of gratitude that had hit me like a landslide.

It was what he’d wanted most.

To run and play with other children, to be normal like the other boys who he hoped one day would call him friend, even though I spent every day of his life trying to instill in him that he was normal in his own, beautiful way.

Or that maybe none of us were normal. We were all different. Special.

But I understood the need to run free. Wild and alive. Who didn’t want the best life for their child?

He’d progressed so far that he no longer had the walker and now used forearm crutches.

So, when his therapist in Idaho had mentioned a new two-year study in Charleston, I’d made the decision to betray the promise I’d made to myself that I would never come back here.

Hatchett’s specialized in experimental treatments that had shown major strides in treating children with cerebral palsy.

Considering we were basically broke, and I could never afford the type of care they were offering, I had to take the chance.

My parents weren’t really in all that better of a situation than I was financially. My father had made some bad investments through the years that had eaten through our family’s wealth. But at least they still had the house and had offered us a home, and I figured I could do my part with fixing up around the place.