"She'd like to pay," I said breezily, as Ashley stood at the end of the counter confused, arm outstretched, coin in her palm.

"No need," the man replied, brushing us off.

"For the last thirty minutes, I've been telling her she could pay for the candy. Would you like to take her money," I remarked politely, "or should I call the manager."

"No need to get snippy," he said gruffly. He grabbed the quarter, knocking it to the floor in his haste. If I hadn't been on the verge of screaming, I might have enjoyed watching him scramble on his hands and knees to retrieve it.

The service deteriorated from there.

He set Ashley's change on the counter, unwilling to risk touching her. I handed it to her gently. He then proceeded to sling my beans onto the popcorn and almost stabbed me in the eye with the mop.

He filled my request for extra change for the soda machine by nearly throwing silver at me.

I took Ashley by the hand, led her to the bank of cold drinks, and lifted her to reach the coin slot. She inserted the money painstakingly, and cried out gleefully at the violent sound of cans crashing to the bottom.

Only when we sat on a bench near the sliding doors did I realize I was shaking with fury. I put the ice cold Dr. Pepper to my forehead and shook my head in dismay.

Ashley grabbed my arm. "Some people are stupid," I said.

To my surprise, she nodded vehemently, almost spilling her grape soda.

I laughed. "You're a pretty smart kid, you know." She stopped nodding but matched my wide smile.

"We're going to be great friends," I said, draping my arm around her shoulder.

She scooted closer to me and snuggled into the crook of my arm. "I could use a friend," I added softly.

The trip back to Children First passed uneventfully. No one fought, and Jean talked about an upcoming cruise with her mother instead of children's disabilities.

I helped unpack groceries in the classroom before saying goodbye to Patrice and the kids. When I hugged her, Ashley had trouble letting go, but Patrice distracted her with the promise of her peppermint.

Leaving, I couldn't exit the way I'd entered because a janitor, busily mopping the floor, had erected detour signs. The yellow placards directed me through a succession of hallways that eventually led to the parking lot.

I was in the car with my hand on the gear shift before it occurred to me. While cutting through the administrative offices of Children First, I'd passed blithely by a door that said Wendy Henderson, PhD. Could she be Dr. W?

16.

I shot out of the car and into the building. Out of breath, I knocked lightly on Dr. Wendy Henderson's door.

As the doctor worked on a computer, she never raised her eyes from its screen. "Be with you in a moment," she called out in a soft, preoccupied voice.

She finished her task with a solid, "There," moved her reading glasses to the top of her reddish-brown crown of hair, and finally met my gaze. "Yes?"

"Does anyone ever call you Dr. Wendy?"

"All the time." She smiled pleasantly. "May I help with something?"

"I hope so. Did Lauren Fairchild have thirteen appointments with you?"

The smile faded. "I'm sure I don't know the exact number of visits. May I ask why this concerns you?"

"My name is Kristin Ashe. Could I come in and talk for a few minutes about Lauren?"

She hesitated. "I suppose."

I walked in and shook her limp hand, careful not to press tightly against her three diamond rings. She dusted her fingers after I released them and straightened the cuff of the white silk blouse that protruded from her navy blue business suit. "What can I do for you?"

"I assume you've met Patrice Elliott." I began as I sat in a high-back chair across from her desk.

"Lauren's sister, yes."

"I'm not sure how much you know, but Patrice asked me to find out why Lauren committed suicide."

Dr. Wendy's pencil-line eyebrows arched a millimeter higher. "I see. Might I ask where I fit into all of this?"

"I'm trying to reconstruct the last days of her life, to get a feel for what she was going through. Your name, or rather the abbreviation Dr. W showed up in her calendar quite a few times."

"Ah."

"I thought Lauren might have been sick, ora"" I paused and grinned sheepishly. "Or having an affair."

"You can rest assured the latter was not the case," she said, bristling.

"No, no, I'm sure of that," I fumbled nervously. "I've spent some time with Jean and the kids, and she spoke highly of you, but she didn't say what you do here. What is your role at Children First?"

"That's a good question." Her features softened. "My official title is Director of Special Services. I coordinate care with the team of professionals: occupational, physical, and speech therapists, for example."

"Do you work with the families?"

"Certainly. Most parents fail to realize a disability exists until their children reach an age when they should be able to do certain things, like walk or crawl or talk, and they can't. The way the family deals with this discovery will affect them for years to come. One of my professional strengths is in teaching parents to bury their child."

I gulped, and she noticed.

"At first blush, it sounds cruel, I know. Nonetheless, they must bury the child they had hoped for, travel through the stages of grief and, over time, come to accept their child for who he or she is. If they don't go through this process, they will endure a lifetime of disappointment."

"Isn't this, er, burial thing a little hard to do."

"Assuredly. It can be as traumatic as a death, but most parents rebound and learn to accept a child who is different, one who will require more care but is still a wonderful human being. Our programs at Children First are quite extensive. We teach families to work as a team and instruct them to be grateful for small advances. We also encourage parents to learn sign language and physical therapy methods, when appropriate. We provide tips on how to keep the strain and fatigue from ruining a marriage. We offer home visits, sending therapists out to work with parents and children together, and we give the family assignments. Twice a year, we sponsor Siblings Day. We invite brothers and sisters to take part in disability awareness exercises. Our goal is to help them understand their brother's or sister's plight. The healthy children spend the day in blindfolds or with slats on their legs."

"Does it work?"

She peered at me, slightly irritated, as if I had interrupted a presentation she usually delivered as a monologue. "Excuse me?"

"Do the siblings resent the disabled children less?"

Dr. W looked at me carefully. "Sometimes, but not always. A disability can destroy a family, and we can't always prevent that."

"Things have changed a lot, haven't they? None of this was available when I was growing up."

"Do you have a disabled sibling?"

In a thin, splitting voice, I replied, "My younger brother had, has, epilepsy, learning disabilities, and mental illness."

She nodded sympathetically. "How is he getting along?"

"Not too well. He's been in a coma at Denver Health for almost two weeks. He didn't take his medicine, and he had nonstop seizures." I paused. "I'm not doing so well either. My sister thinks he's responsible for all his problems."

"That's a common response. How do you feel?"

"I'm beginning to realize I know almost nothing about epilepsy. I can't recall my parents ever sitting down and explaining what was wrong with David."

"Many illnesses and disabilities are shrouded in secrecy and shame, epilepsy in particular."

"Why?"

"Society, as a whole, is intolerant. There's little room for anything different. Along come people who are disabled, who don't look or act 'normal,' and the first reaction is fear, followed by pity. We do what we can to educate people, beginning with members of the family, but we have a tough row to hoe. Often, despite all our support and intervention, parents give up their disabled children for adoption or institutionalization."

"Where do these kids go after they leave your preschool program?"

"In most cases, they're mainstreamed into the public schools, although there's considerable debate about doing that."

"What happens after they finish high school?"

"Unfortunately, it's over. Society has yet to develop an effective lifetime care program. Some individuals are ready to live on their own at eighteen, others at thirty, many never will be, but there are few provisions for that. You'll find pockets of excellent programs for the disabled, but no widespread, systematic approach, and the problem is compounded if the individual has multiple disabilities. You mentioned your brother's mental illness."

I nodded.

"That often proves to be the most difficult, if for no other reason than the patient is high-functioning in other areas or for periods of time. Families develop unrealistic expectations, often waiting for the mentally ill person to 'snap' out of it. There is a misperception that mood swings or depression can be controlled by sheer willpower. On a small scale, perhaps. In full-blown, clinical cases, absolutely not."

"Don't you get discouraged?"

"Frequently, but then a special child or adult comes along and raises my hopes. Lauren Fairchild was that kind of person."

"What did the two of you talk about?"

"Primarily, we planned an Ideal Care Program for Ashley."

"What's that?"

"A program that assumes there's no limit to the amount of money and resources available."

"But Lauren didn't have any money."

"I'm well aware of that, but she had plans for fundraisers, she had faith, and she adored her niece. That's all the criteria I needed to spend time with her."

"What did you tell her?"

"The same thing I tell all our clients: Disabled children today have the advantage of living in an age of technology and increasing mobility. I introduced Lauren to some of the state-of-the-art equipment that's been developed and encouraged her to read the latest literature. I also advised her to write to companies for more information and possible donations for Ashley."

"Did she follow through?"

"I assume so. She was a very determined woman. She seemed to understand, better than most, that disabilities last a lifetime, making it all the more imperative that each individual be given the tools to function at his or her highest potential. On one appointment, we discussed adult assisted-living programs."

"Wasn't it a little strange to talk about Ashley's care that far into the future?"

"Quite rare. Most family members can't see beyond next week but should be planning years in advance." She looked at me sternly. "I hope you'll be successful in your quest. It's a shame Lauren died. Her niece has lost a tireless advocate and a loving caregiver, an unusual combination."

After concluding her hollow memorial speech, Dr. Wendy made a point of studying the wall clock behind me.

I took the hint.

I rose, thanked her and, as an afterthought, asked, "Out of curiosity, how much would an Ideal Care Program cost for Ashley?"

Dr. W cracked a forced, mirthless smile. "More than you or I will earn in a lifetime."

17.

From Children First, I headed to the hospital. On the eighth floor as I passed the nurse's station, I waved to Rose. She gestured back with a thumbs up sign.

I let out the breath I'd been holding but felt my stomach muscles tighten.

I shuffled toward David's area. Outside the glass cell, a teenage boy sat slumped in a wheelchair, shackled to the sides. I shot him darting glances and quickened my pace.

I burst into David's room and came close to bumping into Fran Green, who lounged at the end of his bed, her nose buried in a sports magazine.

I lightly tapped her shoulder. "Hey."

She started but beamed when she turned. "Kiddo, good to see you."

"What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd stop by and see how your kid brother's faring. Love to visit hospitals. Reminds me of my professional days. The nurses ain't too hard on the eyes, either."

I looked at her with an air of quiet amusement. "Thanks, Fran. Ia""

She cut me short. "Don't mention it. Gives me a chance to brush up on Fantasy Football."