Under Her Care(16)

“Wow, that’s some messed-up stuff right there,” he says, and coming from him, that’s impressive, given everything he sees in his line of work.

“It’s not the only piece.” I push that aside and slide the next hospital note over to him. “This is another one that looks like it’s part of an intake made on admission to the inpatient ward of White Memorial. At the top of it, someone writes in psychosis as a rule-out for the diagnosis. Less than five percent of kids have a psychotic episode. All of this stuff that I’m pointing out”—I motion to the papers splayed out in front of us on the table—“I’m doing it because none of it is anything that we’d typically see in a child with autism spectrum disorder.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” I nod my head determinedly. “That’s why it’s so alarming, especially when we only have a few of the pieces of the reports. Am I missing anything?”

“You’ve got everything that I do.”

“Where’d you get all this?”

“Genevieve. There’s no way we could get these kinds of medical records without a serious subpoena, and even then, we’d be pushing it. At least in this stage of the game. She brought in a folder filled with his stuff the first time we met. One of the ladies up front made copies.”

“Will you see if she has any missing parts?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s the biggest red flag.”

“There’s more?” His eyes grow wide.

I nod. It’s a lot to take in, and I give him another moment before going on. “Mason has psychiatric issues and seizures that Genevieve’s never mentioned to you or listed in his medical history. That’s really odd.” I lean forward in my seat. “And on top of that, Mason has a severe intellectual disability too.”

“Okay, I know that’s important because you’re telling it to me, but you’re telling it to me like I’m supposed to know what it means, and I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“A person is considered intellectually disabled if they have a reduced ability to understand information and learn new skills.”

“Still, what’s that mean? He has trouble reading? He can’t do math?” He looks like I’m speaking another language.

“It’s what we used to call mental retardation, but we don’t call it that anymore since people finally wised up to how offensive it was and stopped using it. We call it having an intellectual disability now, and they range from mild to profound. Most people are in the mild range.”

“But you said Mason is severe, didn’t you?”

“I did, and yes, he is.”

“On top of everything this kid’s dealing with, he’s also intellectually disabled? That’s what you’re telling me?” I nod. He takes a second to think about it before adding, “What a tough break.”

I can’t help agreeing, but it’s not the most important point in all of this. We haven’t even gotten there yet. I bring us back full circle. “Here’s the big thing about Mason’s intellectual disability that you need to understand—it puts his mental age at about four years old.”

He nods slowly, waiting to understand the significance of what I’ve just said, but there’s no recognition in his eyes.

I lean forward again and drop my voice low. “Let me put it to you this way. Would you let your four-year-old son wander down by the creek by himself?”





THEN



It’s at my feet.

Growing. Spreading. Stop. It.

I don’t like the water. Not when it’s this deep.

Too deep for me but not for you.

That’s what she always says.

But I don’t like it. She doesn’t either but she won’t say. Just like me. Don’t be like her.

I never will. I won’t. I promise.

Pinky-promise hook. Not my finger. Or my feet.

Sticky feet.

Little lights like Mary had a little lamb. Fleece as white as snow.

Catch them if you can. Carry them in your hand.

Your hand.

Don’t hold me. Let go.

You have to do this by yourself. Just you.

I don’t want to.

She. Never listens.

Not to me. Not to nobody. Not to somebody else.

I wish he was here.

Daddy where’d you go? Why’d you take the light?

Twinkle twinkle little star. Don’t you wonder where you are?





EIGHT


CASEY WALKER



Genevieve’s house is even prettier than the pictures in Southern Living, where it’s featured every spring alongside Brett Favre’s sprawling estate in Sumrall, Mississippi. Detective Layne and I stand awkwardly in the living room, taking it all in. He insisted on confronting Genevieve about the inconsistencies in her story about what happened down at the creek after we reviewed the troubling information in Mason’s reports.

“We don’t sleep on things like this,” he said as we headed out the café door, and I followed him here.

It’s not like being a first-time visitor in Genevieve’s house, since every room has appeared on her blog at least twice, and she regularly posts pictures of it on Instagram. I didn’t follow her before this, but I’ve been monitoring her social media like a hawk. Everything she posts goes viral. The world is alive with her story.