Free The Forgotten Child by Lorhainne Eckhart Page A

different, they’re easier, just ask my mother.”
    He truly didn’t see anything was wrong. “Trevor doesn’t talk, he avoids eye contact, sits lost in his own world and uses a one word vocabulary of maybe fifty words. He has full-blown tantrums on the floor, pounding and screaming. And I don’t know what’s going to set him off. Could be the wrong food, something was moved or a stranger comes visit. Trips to stores are a nightmare and my anxiety level goes through the roof because I’m anticipating what he’s going to do. He’s urinated on the floor in the middle of the grocery store; he had a meltdown in the check out lane and runs his fingers over the conveyor belt where you put your food during checkout. Storekeepers get mad. If I grab his hand to get him to stop, he might scream. Depends on the day, what he’s eaten and what’s happened before we get to the store. I never know what will set him off.” Brad tilted his head, tapped his forefinger against his lips. “You can’t reason with him. And the way he stares, he doesn’t appear to understand. He plays alone and will not play with Katy no matter how much we try; he moves away if she invades his space. I turn the television on; he loves it. It’s like he’s consumed by it and even then, he can’t sit still. He’ll stand in front it jumping, laughing and giggling, engrossed in the rainbow of colors flashing over the screen. I’m betting if you took Trevor to a family gathering or big social event, it’d most likely be a nightmare. His behavior’s odd. People get weirded out because they don’t know what to do. And I’m pretty sure he picks up on everyone’s anxiety. There are safety issues with Trevor beyond the scope of a typical three year old. I always worry while in town if Trevor will dart out into the street. He doesn’t recognize cars, traffic or even people around him. He touched the hot stove last week and burned his finger. He never cried; no reaction. Brad, I started researching his symptoms. The internet is full of information and what I discovered were symptoms of autism.
    Brad rose and paced, running his fingers through his hair.
    “ Autistic children are not all the same, they have different symptoms. I’ve read about therapy for autistic children—therapy tailored for each individual child.”
    Even in this dim light, Emily glimpsed the color rising in his cheeks. Brad wasn’t just pacing and she could feel the adrenaline cut through the space between them. “I need some air.”
    “ Brad, wait!”
    “ No Em, back off.” He kept going, down the stairs toward the barn, as she could almost feel the rage burning through him.
    He knew. She’d gotten through. Now the real work begins.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Thirteen
     
    Bright red numbers flashed 4:39 a.m. on the bedside clock. The rooster crowed. She heard a rustling coming from downstairs. Emily slipped out of bed, pulled on her brown housecoat, the one she kept draped at the foot of her bed. Guided by the hall nightlight, Emily tiptoed to the stairs.
    A silhouette of light trickled from the kitchen.
    Emily held the cedar handrail as she crept barefoot down the stairs. Brad held the glass carafe from the coffee maker as he fumbled for the coffee in the cupboard. He reeked of booze and wore the same brown plaid shirt from yesterday. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, his chin. His short hair stuck up clumps and tufts. She touched his hand and gently took the carafe. He stared straight ahead, and then turned like a man defeated and walked like the living dead to the table and sat in his chair. He stuck out his heavy work boots, coated with mud. Emily spied the trail he’d tracked from the back door through the kitchen.
    Emily scooped coffee into the basket, poured water in the coffee maker and turned it on. What could she say to ease his turmoil? When enough coffee filled the pot, Emily poured out two cups, adding milk and sugar to his. He never looked up when she placed