The Visitor / Monica's Diary: Thursday, July 13 free porn video

Monica's Diary: Thursday, July 13 Sometimes life goes by so fast I simply cannot keep up. Here it is Thursday, and it seems a million things have happened. I can see now why so many people have those smart phones. There's no time to write down your experiences. The best you can do is video them while they're happening. After what transpired Monday morning, I thought I would use Monday night to explore my feelings. It's not every day that one of your children grows up before your eyes. When the opportunity came, however, I found I could not write about it. Maybe a part of me thinks if I don't record it in any way, I can forget about it, and we can all go on as if it never happened. I'll still have a baby boy, and he'll still need me for everything. Honestly, I think that's why I paid so much attention to Timothy. He was an excuse to avoid acknowledging what I didn't want to do anyway. Hannah had told me about how the coyotes had terrified Timothy on Sunday night, and his fear of the rattlesnake on Monday was more than evident. What was worse was the way he looked afterward, first with Hannah and then later when Nathan was recognizing Mark. Timothy looked defeated. His body language reminded me of an athlete that I had seen many years ago when Nathan and I were first married. This was before any of the children had come, and we still owned a TV. It was some kind of championship football game. I have no memory of who was playing; I just remember Nathan telling me it was a big deal. I watched the game for the opportunity to be close to him. I didn't follow what was happening on the screen as much as I did the emotions that I could feel flowing from Nathan's body to mine as I leaned against him on the couch in front of the set. At some point, just before the game ended, something dramatic happened, some great reversal that turned the contest upside down. Nathan was screaming and cheering and crushing me with his arms. In that instant, however, my attention was stolen from his euphoria by a camera shot of one of the players on the losing team. His shoulders sagged, and his body slumped, even though he was standing. His head bent forward on his chest. His hands grabbed his face mask. I thought he was going to pull the helmet off and throw it to the ground. I'd seen that happen before. But no, the face mask was merely scaffolding to hold his hands over his face and cover his eyes. This very strong, very athletic young man was obviously weeping with dejection over the futility of all his efforts to change the outcome of the game. That's how Timothy looked at the table, and it only got worse as the evening wore on. After our meal, Nathan took the boys outside to play catch. Elizabeth and Sarah went out to watch. Hannah went to her room to read. When Timothy went into his room, I thought I would write about what happened with Mark. Like I said, I couldn't. I must have sat there for an hour, but I couldn't think of anything but Timothy. Finally, I went to his room and knocked. "Yeah." "May I come in?" "Sure, why not." I found him sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to me. He was staring out the window, watching Nathan and the boys. "What are you up to?" I asked. "Been writing." "Letter to your mom?" "No." He raised a hand up over his shoulder and handed his diary back to me. "About Mark." I took the book, pulled the chair out from his little desk, and sat down to read. It wasn't long before the tears came. He must have heard my sniffling. He rolled over the top of his bed--not an easy thing to do in a long skirt--to sit facing me. "What's the matter?" he asked. He looked puzzled. "I don't know for sure," I said. "But I don't think I expected to feel this way until the kids started going off to college or getting married." "What's the big deal? The kid killed a snake. Probably happens every day, especially out here." "I just read your diary, Skyla, even you know better than that." "But I don't understand it. You and Hannah were the ones in charge. Hannah was the one that told Mark everything to do. I bet she could have taken the gun and made the shot as well as he did, probably better. If you had killed the snake with that hoe, or Hannah had killed it with a gun, would your husband have made as big a production out of it?" "He would have been proud of either or both of us. Last summer Hannah did kill a snake, and he told everyone in church about it, but it's not the same thing. Until this morning, Mark was nothing more than a little boy. In a critical moment, he stood in the gap. It was his idea, his courage, and his execution." Timothy shook his head. "No, he's still the same. He's still nine years old, still four and half feet tall, still can't do long division. What's changed?" "For the first time in his life, he did not automatically look to his mother or big sister to take care of him. He assumed responsibility for us. That's what a man does. That's what God created him to do. He has now experienced what God created him to be. That's the difference." "That sounds like something my old man would say." Timothy's tone was bitter. "Birds fly, Skyla." "What's that supposed to mean?" "When you think of birds, you think of feathers, you think of flight. When you think of women, you think of childbirth, of nursing babies, of raising children. When you think of men, you think of strength, courage, responsibility, and resourcefulness. Your father can't help saying what he says to you, any more than a bird can help flying. That's what he is; that's what he does, because that's his nature." I didn't actually finish what I was saying before we both heard the telephone ring. The look on his face told me that Timothy had a retort and was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to hear it. Nevertheless, I excused myself and went into the living room to answer the phone. I closed his door behind me. "Monica?" "Cynthia?" "How is my child?" "Alive and well; no aches, no pains. Ebenezer!" "Huh?" "He lost some hair and three teeth, but the swelling and bruising are all gone. His appetite is good, and he gets around fine. He doesn't seem to be in any physical pain." "No, that last thing you said; what was that?" "What? Oh, Ebenezer; it's from a Hebrew word that means hitherto hath the LORD helped us. After Samuel defeated the Philistines, he raised a monument to commemorate the victory and named it Ebenezer. I like to say that instead of 'knock on wood' or 'keeping my fingers crossed' to ascribe success to Providence rather than to luck." "Interesting." "Yes. You know, I thought that after the really good talk I had with your husband the Sunday night after we learned we could bring Timothy home with us, I would hear from you right away. Did something happen?" "Just our vacation." "Oh?" "Yeah, every summer Ken and Wes and Cretia and I all head out to Wyoming and Montana for a couple of weeks. We've been doing it for years." "Really?" "Yes, the Pucketts are in the Army like we are, and we've known them since their boys were children. You can imagine how much planning it takes to coordinate two families and their kids for two weeks of travel, sight-seeing, and camping." "Yes, I imagine it's a lot of work," I said. "Do you visit Yellowstone and Old Faithful and all of that?" "Cretia and I do, though Old Faithful isn't as faithful anymore, and we do more antiquing than anything else. The boys use the trip to scout and prepare for their hunting trip later in the year." "So, you all are going two different directions at once. That must be complicated." "And when this thing with Timothy came up, Ken thought at first we'd have to cancel this year." "I know you were worried sick about him," I said, remembering her hysteria over the phone. "Oh, no, not about him being in the hospital or anything. Once Ken told me about your call and how your family and church were going to take him in, we knew he was in good hands and we could relax and enjoy ourselves. I'm talking about the business of sending him to the boys' ranch in the first place." "I don't understand." "Well, see, Ken always had Timothy go hunting with him and Wes and his boys. When he was younger, Timothy went along, I guess, to get along, but recently, as his femininity has come out more and more, things were becoming awkward. Timothy hated being in the wild, hated camping, and was terrified of guns. It was after our vacation last summer that Ken had had enough and sent him to the boys' ranch. He thought that and his cover story about a private school would hush the whole thing up. Instead, Timothy runs away, goes to jail, and declares himself transgender. Ken thought he was ruined until you called." "Well, glad we could help," I said quietly. "Anyway, the reason I called was that next week is Vacation Bible School at our church, and I'll be busy with that, but Ken says I have time to squeeze in a flight to Amarillo and see Timothy for a day or so before I need to get Ken packed up for a TDY in Arkansas." "TDY?" "Temporary Duty. He's going to be overseeing some National Guard maneuvers." "Oh, okay, great; you're coming to visit. Wonderful!" "Now I'm sure I wouldn't be able to find my way out to your place in a rental, so I'll need you to pick me up at the airport. I can't wait to see my baby boy." "Okay, sure. Hang on, let me check Timothy's schedule." I went over to the desk and pulled out the file folder of papers Rachel had left us and brought it back to the phone. "Cynthia, turns out he has an appointment to see Kylie Wortman--that's one of his therapists--at 1 p.m. on Wednesday. Would that work out for you?" "I'm sure it would. I can be there by mid-morning, and we can have lunch together. Do you think this Kylie person would mind if I came to Timothy's session?" "I can't imagine why not. The first time Timothy went, she talked to all of my kids and me." "And maybe we'll have time for some shopping afterwards," Cynthia suggested. "I'm sure that would work out. We were planning on staying in town to go to church anyway." "Really? Church on Wednesday night?" "Prayer meeting." "There's a blast from the past." "Would all that be okay with you?" "Well, yes it would. I'll be able to meet everyone at once who is protecting my little boy." "Okay then. Now would you like to speak to Timothy?" "Sure, if it's no trouble." "None at all. Let me go get him." I laid the phone down and went and knocked on Timothy's door again. "What?" "I've got your mom on the phone. She'd like to speak with you." The door was jerked open and I was face to face with a frowning Timothy. "It just keeps getting better and better. What does she want?" "She wants to talk to you. We haven't had any contact in over two weeks. She's coming to visit us on Wednesday." "Is she bringing her husband?" which I thought was an odd way of putting it. "I don't think so." "Good," he said and brushed past me to the phone. I went out into the back yard to tell everyone about our soon to be arriving houseguest. That was Monday. Tuesday was a whirlwind. After breakfast we did school work as usual, but after lunch, we went all out to get the house in shape to receive a guest. Timothy complained. "I don't understand. Aren't we going to be gone all day?" He was bent over the bathtub scrubbing, and I had just come into the bathroom to check for cobwebs in the upper corners. "Well, yes," I answered, "but your mother will be spending the night with us and having breakfast in the morning. We don't want her to think that you are living in a pig sty. "Everything looks fine the way it is." "I'm sure it looks better than the jail did to you, but it has that full-of-kids-lived-in appearance. We want everything to be bright and shiny, like when you walk into a nice hotel room. Your mother will be expecting it. She would do the same for us, if we were visiting." "I've never seen her do all this." "Could that be because you were never involved in the housework in any way?" "I had to clean my room," he protested. "Which meant what? Making your bed and shoveling everything into the closet?" "I had to vacuum too!" I set my Swiffer down and leaned against the counter top. "Wait a minute, Skyla. Stop everything and listen." He got up off his knees, turned around, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. "What do you hear?" "Singing." Since we couldn't afford smart phones, the girls couldn't do their work with earplugs fastened to their heads and had to find other ways of ameliorating the drudgery. One after another, each would start a song and the others would pick it up. "Okay, what else?" "Sometimes a vacuum, sometimes a mop." "Listen right now. What do you hear?" "Sounds like somebody is trying to start a lawnmower." "That's it exactly. I told Mark and Josiah to go outside and cut the grass." We both listened as one or both of them pulled on the starter cord to fire up the little motor. They did it again and again. There was a pause of perhaps a minute, and then they tried again and again. "They need help," Timothy observed. "Hannah could get it started. It used to be her job to cut the grass when her father wasn't around. I could start it for them, and they could have the area we keep cut down done in no time. Or, you could go out there and start the lawn mower and have the job done in even less time than it will take them." "Is this some kind of test?" "Everything is always some kind of test, Skyla." "Meaning what, exactly." "Meaning that the Bible says that women are to be 'keepers at home' and are to 'guide the house'. I know that most women, most Christian women even, work outside the home these days for love or money, but the principle is still the same. A woman may leave the house, but God still holds her responsible for it and the care of the family in it. You've never had a part in making a nest, and I'm not saying making one is fun, easy, or fulfilling in and of itself. I am saying that all of this is an inescapable part of being a woman. Can you handle it?" "And what about them?" Timothy nodded in the direction of Mark and Josiah outside. "What about them?" I asked. "Are you just going to let them jerk that cord till they drop?" "No," I answered, "but I will give them time to figure it out on their own. There's a technique to everything. Out of respect for Mark, I'm going to give him time to see if he can find it. If it turns out it he can't, he knows he can always ask for help." "What about me? Am I going to be able to make myself look good for my mom?" I know I must have looked at him blankly, because his face assumed an impatient scowl. It's like his ears or brain came equipped with a filter that blocked out everything anyone said to him but the handful of words that he could use to his advantage. "I'm assuming you're going to shower," I paused to look at him a little more closely, "shave, comb your hair, and wear clean clothes." "You just hate me," he shouted. "Yes, I just hate you," I answered with a smile. "That's why I feed, clothe, and shelter you, out of pure unadulterated hatred." Timothy opened his mouth, inhaled deeply as if he were going to lash out again, but I interrupted him. "I told you before, you're not going to turn into a woman, ever; you're not even going to look like one for some time to come. I know you want to look just like Bailey, and maybe you will someday, but just remember how many surgical procedures it took for that individual to take on that appearance. One trip to the drug store isn't going to make any difference at all." "It's not fair," he muttered as he turned his back to me and went back to scrubbing. "Well, as somebody once said; 'fair has got nothing to do with it.' Life is hard and then you die. And don't forget to clean the grout." "What?" "Look at the tiles. See the lines between them?" He nodded. "They're supposed to be white." "But how?" I reached under the sink and removed a scouring pad. "This, a little cleanser, and a lot of your elbow grease." "But that'll take forever." "You have places to go? People to meet? Contracts to sign, that I don't know about?" His massive sigh deflated him into a sullen droop. "Here's an idea," I could not say it without a smile which I knew that if he could see would infuriate him. "Imagine you're Cinderella and I'm your wicked step- mother. That'll make it all better." The drive to the airport on Wednesday morning reminded me of our drive to the Street's home after we had gotten Timothy out of the hospital. The Suburban was full of tension. At first, I thought it all emanated from Timothy himself, because for some reason he was not pleased to see his mother. I quickly realized, however, that no one was talking, or dozing, or doing anything but staring out the widows of our vehicle. I was praying about how to talk to Timothy, when he interrupted our silence. "Can I please wait in the car while you guys pick up my mom?" "Skyla, it's your mother," I said. "It's not...that," he protested. His voice was choked. I glanced over and saw his eyes welling up with tears, yet again. "We all could, Mom," Hannah said. "What?" "It'll be safe. We've got Mark." I couldn't see him in the rear-view mirror, but I could well imagine my oldest son looking at my oldest daughter strangely. "But why?" I asked. "I don't think Skyla feels comfortable out in public yet," Hannah answered. "Skyla, you've been with us to church, and your mom knows all about you." I had glanced at Timothy again. He turned a frightened face from me to Hannah, his eyes begging his unexpected ally to argue his case. "That's just it," Hannah continued. "All of us at church love Skyla, but the people at the airport don't know him, much less love him. They'll see a boy in a skirt and think he's some kind of freak, and they'll laugh at him, or worse." Timothy was weeping full on now. I don't know if he was ashamed of what he was or ashamed of what he wasn't. I know that he believed he was a girl, but it was obvious even to him that he didn't believe it to the point of being able to ignore everyone else's reactions to him. My three daughters were rubbing his shoulder, patting his arm, or just touching him. There were tears in their eyes too. "It'll be okay, Sky, we won't let anything happen to you," Mark said. "Very well," I said. "Skyla, we're not here to destroy your life. You all may remain in the car while I go get Mrs. Harp and her luggage." "How are you going to know her?" Josiah asked. We all got still and looked at each other. We'd never met. I had no idea what Cynthia looked like, nor she me. "Can't you just hold up a sign with her name on it?" Elizabeth asked. "We can do that. Skyla, get the file folder out of my big bag and write your mom's name on it." He rummaged through the cloth carrier that I drag along with me when I have to have more than will fit in my purse. He found the file folder that contained all his appointment schedules, pulled it out, and handed it to Hannah. "I know your handwriting has to be better than mine," he said. She took it and solved the problem. We arrived in plenty of time for me to find a parking place close enough to enough airport activity to keep the children from being secluded. If anything were ever to happen, I wanted there to be plenty of witnesses. I removed a key from the glove box and handed it to Hannah. "In case you need the 'football', it's in the console." She nodded and promptly handed the key to Mark. I found the concourse and the gate and only had to wait a few minutes before the jetway opened and a couple dozen people hurried out to meet taxis, connections, friends, or relatives. Cynthia was easy to spot. She came into the gate area and simply stopped and looked around. In the second or two before she spotted my sign, I could see that she must have been dazzling in her youth. Doubtless, she turned heads now, sharing her son's hair color though not his height. She looked every inch the polished consort of an executive. When she saw my sign, Cynthia flashed a brilliant, if not curious smile, and immediately glided over. We hugged. "I am so glad to finally get to meet you," she said in a very sincere tone. "But where's my baby?" "Walk and talk," I said. "Do you have any luggage to pick up?" I noticed she was carrying a large shoulder bag and pulling a larger wheeled case behind her. "Just one," she answered, and off we went to retrieve it. "Skyla is in the car with my kids," I said as we wove our way through the people, shops, and vehicles of the terminal. "He does not yet have the courage to face the world as the person he wants to be." "Does he really look that bad?" Cynthia asked. "When he was younger, and we played dress up at home, I thought he looked quite fetching at times." "Really?" I asked. We had reached baggage claim and taken a position by the circular conveyor. "Oh yes. When he was very young, he could look like a little doll." "Well, he has this image of perfection in his mind, and he gets very depressed because he can't measure up to it right now. They butchered his hair in the ER. His clothes are, out of our necessity, quite plain, which troubles him to no end. He's always begging for makeup and a wig. Without all of that, he is literally terrified of being seen by people." "There it is," Cynthia said and grabbed a good-sized bag off the conveyor belt. It had wheels too, so I was able to pull it along behind me. "I guess it's a good thing I didn't press his father to join us. When Ken finally sees the real Skyla, I want him to be looking his very best." "Umm, one thing," I said as we got to the line of doors in the wall of glass bordering the pickup/drop off area of the terminal. We both stopped. "Yes." "Are you no longer pursuing the idea of reclaiming your son as such?" "Well," she said in a confidential tone. "I would never say this around Skyla's father, but it seems to me that Skyla has presented us with a fait accompli. The only option left to us is to make the best of it." "I understand," I said, and we proceeded to the parking lot. When we got to the Suburban, Mark and Josiah jumped out and dragged our luggage away and managed to get into the back of the vehicle. Cynthia went over to the front passenger seat where Timothy was sitting. She opened the door, reached in, and pulled him out of the car. He looked as embarrassed as your typical 15-year old boy being hugged and kissed by his mom in public. That she had her hands all over his head, examining first his hair and then his mouth, before feeling his arms and shoulders, only exacerbated his discomfort. While this was going on, I motioned to the children to get out of the car, so that I could introduce them to Cynthia. When I presented the girls, her reaction was effusive. "Oh, sisters," she said with a broad smile. "This is wonderful. To have three precious girls to show you the ropes and share confidences with, Skyla, you don't know how lucky you are!" Elizabeth and Sarah grinned. Hannah merely cocked her head sideways and gave Timothy a quizzical look. He turned an even deeper shade of red. Then she hugged them. "Thank you, thank you so much for taking care of my precious baby." This time it was the boys who looked at him in shock. Timothy could not meet their gaze. "And these are my two sons, Mark and Josiah," I said. "Boys," she said with barely a glance. Then she turned back to Timothy. "Before we eat, we have got to do something about, well, everything." As if on cue, Timothy produced the card that Pat had given him at our meeting with Bobbye. "This is one of my new friends," Timothy said. "He's supposed to be the best there is in Amarillo." "Box College?" Cynthia read aloud. "No, Mama, Beaux Collage," Timothy corrected. "He does everything there, please." "Do you think he could work us in without an appointment?" Cynthia asked. "He said he'd do anything to make me look pretty, and even if he couldn't work me in, he could recommend stuff for me. Please." I couldn't help glancing at the girls during this exchange. The expressions in their eyes mirrored my feelings exactly. The voice we were hearing coming out of Timothy's mouth was like nothing we had heard from him before. It was whiney and effeminate. Instead of being a sullen, rebellious teenager, he had devolved into something else. "Can we find this place?" Cynthia asked. "I can google it," Timothy replied, stretching out his hand. His mom handed over her cell phone, and Timothy immediately got to work with a well-practiced ease. In no time at all we were back in our vehicle and on our way to South Kentucky Street. The kids and I waited in the car while Cynthia led a very self-conscious Timothy behind her into the establishment. "Mama, why does Stinky talk like that?" Josiah asked, while we were waiting. "I can only imagine that that is the way he is accustomed to talking with his mother," I replied. "You and Mark both used to talk like that when you were much younger." Josiah shuddered visibly. Mark set his jaw and stared out the window. "But both of them grew up," Hannah stated. "Is that why Skyla's mom treats him that way, because he hasn't grown up?" Sarah asked. "It's only natural to love your babies," I said. "And it's only natural to want them to love you back." "No wonder Skyla's dad is mad at him," Elizabeth said. "Can you imagine how Daddy would feel if the boys acted like that?" "Easily," Hannah said. "I thought Sky was supposed to be a girl, or something," Mark objected. "Isn't it okay for him to act like that if he's a girl." "I'm sure there are girls who whine and wheedle and act childish," I said, turning around to face both Mark and Josiah. "Your sisters don't. We never expected them to, and we never permitted it." Our conversation ended when we saw Cynthia and Timothy come out of the salon. Apparently, she had been right about them not being able to work them in without an appointment. They were, however, carrying a couple of bags with them. "What did you get?" Elizabeth asked, her round eyes rounder with excitement. "Shampoo, conditioner, daily leave-in tonic to keep my hair moisturized and prevent split ends, body lotion and daytime and nighttime moisturizers for my complexion." "I thought Liv already gave you all that stuff?" Josiah asked. "That was for my purse." Here Timothy turned to his mom, "if I ever get one." "You do have one," Hannah stated. "We found you with one in the creek." "But the strap broke, and everything inside busted and leaked out and ruined it. I need another one really bad." "That reminds me," Cynthia said. "Where is the nearest department store?" "There's a Dillard's, a JC Penney, and a Sears in the mall on I-40," I said. "So it's a big one?" Cynthia asked. "Yes," I said. "Then we could eat lunch there too," Cynthia said. "This will be perfect." I looked over at Timothy. I was expecting to see fear, maybe even tears again. Instead, his eyes were full of excitement. Apparently, he saw this as his opportunity to buy enough stuff to make him into the person he believed himself to be. "Well, it's after eleven already," I said. "We're going to have to really rush to shop, eat, and make Skyla's appointment." "That's what being a girl is all about, right, daughter?" Cynthia asked. Timothy grinned and clapped his hands. And so off we tore. I had been to Westgate Mall only a few times. I had never brought the children. I was afraid to. I remembered what it was like to sortie to one mall or another when I was in college and before I was married. After marriage and children, money was scarce on a part-time pastor/part-time carpenter's earnings. The sorties became fewer and fewer and farther and farther between. My last time there, which was several years ago, was a revelation of sorts. I was only there to pick up some kind of tool for Nathan, and it could only be found in the Sears store at that mall. As Providence would have it, I'd parked where I would have to walk through quite a portion of the mall to get to Sears. As I did, I noticed something very unsettling. Living as far out and as simply as we did, I had more or less forgotten about all the many, many things there are that you absolutely, positively cannot do without. As I walked, I saw and heard and smelled everything that was new and modern and shiny and necessary, not to mention the cute, the sweet, and the beautiful. I physically felt lust welling up within me. I felt drawn as if by a giant human magnet to each shop as I walked by. I do not have to imagine how an ex-smoker or alcoholic or drug addict must feel when suddenly confronted by temptation after many years of abstinence. I felt a very real, very powerful yearning to be a part of the whole system of shopping and charging something new at every opportunity. It made me feel young, vital, up to date, and relevant. I realized then that it would be impossible for me to let my "conversation be without covetousness and be content with such things as ye have" if I constantly exposed myself to such things as I did not have. So, I purposely never went back. "Skyla," I said, after we had found a parking space, and I had shut off the engine, "I respected your reasons for not wanting to accompany me into the airport to pick up your mom. Now I ask that you respect mine for not wishing to go with you and your mother into the mall." "We can't go in?" Elizabeth and Sarah chorused in a tone of obvious disappointment. "But there's bound to be a food court," Cynthia said. "We could shop and eat and be on our way in no time." "Let's do this," I proposed. "You two shop. We'll get the food and have it ready for you when you come out, and you can eat on the way to Kylie Wortman's office." "Are you sure?" Cynthia's tone was incredulous. "Yeah, what are you afraid of?" Timothy asked. "It's almost 11:30. You'll only have an hour, so you'd better hurry," I pointed out. That settled it. They both bounced out of the car and rushed off. "We'll pick you up outside the main entrance," I shouted after them. "Why, Mom?" Hannah asked as we drove out of the parking lot in search of a grocery store. "I don't want to be like Timothy again," I said. "But you're already a girl; you can't be like Timothy," Josiah said and then added; "can you?" I think everyone in the car laughed. "Timothy wants what he wants, because he wants what he wants. He was never taught and has never learned to be content with the providence of God. I was just like that. Your father and I both were. We believed in hard work because that made money, and money meant that we could buy stuff. Neither of us had ever had much. Our families weren't poor, but we wanted more than that. We wanted to be able to have what we wanted when we wanted it. When we were first married, neither of us even thought about children, much less about raising them." "So, you used to be rich?" Sarah asked. "We had plastic beyond the dreams of avarice," I replied. "Then we came along and ruined everything?" Mark suggested. "No. The LORD came along and changed everything," I said. "How?" Elizabeth asked. "Well, first He saved your father, then He saved me. After that, God called him to preach in one tiny little church after another. At first, he was disappointed that he met with no success, meaning the churches stayed tiny, split, or fired him. Over the years, he learned, and taught me, that the LORD had not called him to success in this life but faithfulness--to be content with God's will for each day as it came." "But what does that have to do with going to the mall?" Hannah asked. "The more stuff I see, the more stuff I think I need, the more stuff I want. The Bible says; 'The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.' Now back in those days the word want meant lack or need instead of desire, like it does today. The LORD promises to supply all our need but admonishes us that 'having food and raiment let us be therewith content.' When we ask our Father to give us this day our daily bread, we are asking for what it says in Proverbs: 'give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me: Lest I be full, and deny thee, and say, who is the LORD? Or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God in vain.' In other words, I don't want to be in a situation where I want to want again." By this time, we'd reached the Natural Grocers on SW 34th. Hannah and I ran in and gathered up the meat, fruit, vegetables, bread, and water we would need and returned to the car. On the drive back to the mall, Hannah distributed everything item by item, and the kids built their lunches. It was getting close to one o'clock, when Cynthia and Timothy came out the main entrance, carrying a couple of shopping bags apiece. We had all eaten, prepared their sandwiches, and some of us had even dozed off. Cynthia looked angry; Timothy, embarrassed. His face was made up for someone way beyond his years. The closer he got to our vehicle the easier it became to see not only the foundation, powder, and blusher, but eyeshadow so vivid it made his eyelids look like garage doors, mascara that was already streaking, and lip gloss so heavy it brought to mind the rodeo clowns you see in Mesquite, Texas. Add to that the fact that he was wearing brand new shoes--heels no less--hose, and an outfit that looked more appropriate to a high school prom than a doctor's appointment, and you could see why he was miserable. He would stick out whenever or wherever he went short of a Halloween party. He did have a new purse, which was cute. "Boys," I said, waking them up, "help them with their packages." Both mother and son got into the car without a word, accepted their food, and began to eat, while I made our way to Timothy's one o'clock appointment. We were half way there before either of them spoke. "As soon as I get home, I'm writing a letter, or letters, to the management of those places," Cynthia said, glaring at the traffic ahead of us. "You had some difficulties?" I asked. "It's not like this is the first time something like this has ever happened in the history of the world. Skyla's not the first transgendered person to walk the earth. This sort of thing is on TV all the time, in movies, and all over the internet. How can people be so stupid." "What happened?" I asked. "Smirks, giggles, clerks elbowing each other in the ribs," Cynthia answered. Her tone was bitter, and she made no effort to hide it. "Some of them would even go and get other clerks to come and see. Little crowds gathered wherever we went." I glanced back at Timothy. The tears were streaming down his face, and my daughters were patting him. "I left Skyla in one shop for a makeover, while I dashed off to buy things he wouldn't have to try on," Cynthia continued. "When I got back, I found this, this harlequin." At that moment, I noticed that Cynthia was herself on the point of tears. "What's a harlequin?" Josiah asked. Cynthia jerked her head around toward him but said nothing. "It was a funny little character like you," Hannah said with a smile. "He appeared on stage back in the late 1500's to make people laugh with his grotesque makeup and outlandish costume." Both Josiah and Mark turned their heads to look at Timothy and immediately turned them away to look out the car windows. We drove on in silence for a while as the Harps finished their sandwiches. At some point before we got to South Austin Street, Hannah took some tissues out of her skirt and moistened them with the water she had left over from lunch. "Maybe we can repair some of this," she said and began dabbing at the racoon black that had accumulated below Timothy's eyes. "Don't take it all off," Timothy pleaded. "Just removing the clown part," Hannah answered. It was well past one o'clock, when we finally pulled into the parking lot of Kylie Wortman's little square building. "This can't be it," was Cynthia's reaction to her surroundings. "That's what we thought too," I replied. "Evidently the real money to be made off of transgenders comes from catering to them after the fact, not in determining if that is what they really are." Cynthia looked at me strangely but said nothing. When she got out of our vehicle, she immediately turned to fussing with Timothy's hair and pulling on his outfit here and there. I know she was trying to make him presentable, but all she succeeded in doing was to make him even more self-conscious than he had been. "We'll have to google a wig store when we're finished here. Your hair just ruins everything." He looked as if she had slapped him. "It's the von Trapp family singers again," I said as I led our little herd into the reception area. "I know we're late for Skyla's appointment, and I'm sorry. We had some stops to make and some unexpected shopping to do." The receptionist was the same lady we had seen on our previous visit. She took us all in at a glance, but her eyes settled on Timothy. Once again, he could not meet her smile but looked down at the floor. "Fairy god-mothers just aren't what they used to be," she said with a sigh and notified Kylie of our arrival. "My, my what have we here?" Kylie asked when she saw Timothy. "Makeup and a dress and hose and whoa, heels; what's the occasion?" "Skyla's mom came to visit and took her shopping," I said as we filed in and took our seats on the long sofa. This time there wasn't room for all of us, so my two boys remained standing. "You're Mrs. Harp," Kylie said, extending her hand. "Cynthia," she replied, taking Kylie's hand with a smile. "I hope it's alright that she came," I said. "More than alright," Kylie answered. "I was hoping to see one or both parents at some point." She glanced at the kids briefly then went on. "Say, since we only have an hour this session, actually less, why don't we let the kids amuse themselves as they will and the three of us just cut to the chase." She gestured to the adjoining rooms, and the children scattered to their interests. Timothy, however, after some obvious indecision, went off to the patio sun-room as he had before. Hannah watched him go and then followed. "So, Cynthia," Kylie said, turning to a blank sheet on her tablet, "Skyla tells me that she has experienced transgender feelings from as far back as she can remember. Can you shed some light on that?" "Well, like I told Monica, it did start very early on, when Timothy was in school." "Elementary school?" Kylie asked. "No, before that, not kindergarten, but pre-school." "How did these feelings manifest themselves?" "Instead of looking at me, or talking to me, or hugging me, my little guy began taking the strangest interest in my clothes. He would study my skirt and blouse and shoes. He was always feeling the fabric and running his hands over my shoes and hose. He liked feeling my different purses." "Did he find them erotic?" Kylie asked. "Oh my no! He was scarcely out of infancy. He did seem to love the feeling of my things against his skin." "That in itself is very common," Kylie observed. "Children, boys or girls, have such delicate skin at that age, that anything made of silk or nylon feels very pleasant to them. Not only that, since they are usually sleeping alone by that time, something of their mother's is quite a comfort to them in the night, whether they consciously recognize it or not." What Kylie said brought back memories of my own. Both Hannah and Mark, when each was very, very young, had liked sleeping on a pillow wrapped in one of my old nylon slips. Neither Elizabeth, Sarah, or Josiah had expressed any such desire, however. Perhaps that was because none of them had ever really slept alone but always with an older brother or sister. "When does it stop being normal?" Cynthia asked. "I don't really know," Kylie replied. "When did it stop being normal for your family?" "I guess when Timothy's father began noticing it." "And when was that?" "When Timothy would come to the table wearing something of mine," Cynthia said. "Examples." "Sometimes a little hat; there was a scarf and a silk shawl. One time he managed to pull a sweater off a hanger in my closet and wore that." "How did your husband react?" "At first, he was surprised. I think he may have even laughed, but as Timothy continued to do it, he stopped laughing. He would tell him to go take off whatever of mine he had on. In the beginning, Timothy obeyed. There came a time when Timothy would refuse, and Ken--that's my husband--would stand him up from the table, march him to our bedroom, remove the item, and march him back. Finally, there came a time when Timothy began to cry and beg to be allowed to wear the item. That's what changed everything." "How so?" "Ken just lost it at that point. He jerked Timothy up by the arm, dragged him into our bedroom, and spanked him with a belt." "How savage of him," Kylie stated. "Yes, I thought so too," Cynthia said. "My husband would brook no interference or even discussion of the subject, however. Naturally, Timothy was both terrified and heart-broken. I was left torn between my husband and my baby." "How did you resolve the conflict?" Kylie asked. "I sided with Ken publicly, for the sake of peace in the family, but I did everything within my power to comfort Timothy." "And what form did this comfort take?" "I just assured him that his mommy loved him, and he could wear anything of mine he wanted to when Daddy was gone, and it would be our little secret." "And what was Skyla's reaction?" "Ecstasy. I never saw my baby so happy." Cynthia was smiling, and I could see that her memory of the event brought her great happiness as well. "Can you remember how old Skyla was at this time?" "Well, like I said, pre-school; four, maybe five." "And how long did you and Skyla dress up without her father's knowledge?" "From then until now, I guess," Cynthia replied. "Skyla got more private about it in the last few years but has never had cause to be ashamed around me." "And how far did this dressing up go?" "What do you mean?" "Was it just putting on an item here and there, or was it a complete change of wardrobe?" "Oh it was everything. From time to time I would buy little outfits that matched Skyla's size." "Underthings as well?" Kylie asked. Throughout this interview, as at the last one, her hand holding her pen never stopped making notes on the legal pad before her. "Yes." "Makeup?" "Yes, though Skyla never needed much as a child, not like now." "Did Skyla ever go out in public dressed as a girl?" "Only a few times, when her father was on deployment, we would go to a movie or out to dinner somewhere. We made sure we never interacted with anyone." The interview went on from there with Kylie asking ever more probing questions and Cynthia giving ever more revealing answers. Timothy had not simply "felt" like a girl from as far back as he could remember, his feelings had been completely indulged by his mother, which made it harder and harder for him to come to grips with the world of his father. My reaction to what I heard was to wonder why Cynthia had chosen to undermine the authority of her husband. Timothy had been born male. His father quite naturally wanted his son to grow into manhood. She had prevented that. I did not doubt that she loved Timothy, as much as any mother loved any child, but I wondered that she never saw the danger in what she was doing. I expected at some point during the interview that Kylie would ask Cynthia why she had not ever stopped playing dress up with her son; why she had never once encouraged him to pursue manliness. I wanted to know if she was in this way striking back at her husband for some hurt he had inflicted upon her. But none of these questions ever came up. It was as if the causes of Timothy's gender dysphoria were irrelevant. When the interview ended, and we began gathering everyone together to get loaded into the Suburban, I felt a terrible sense of depression. I realized that Kylie didn't care what the cause of Timothy's condition was, because she had no interest in correcting it. That he was male and that there were literally thousands of physical differences, going all the way to the sub-cellular level, between him and any woman was a matter of complete indifference. Cynthia's effemination of her son was apparently equivalent in every way to the two x chromosomes in every cell of the female body. "I must say, that was exhausting," Cynthia said, when we had all finally found our places in the car. "Yes," I said, fumbling for my keys, "honest self-examination can be quite a workout." "Do you think she can be trusted?" Cynthia asked. I had just inserted my car key and turned to look at her. "Trusted?" "I just want what's best for my baby, but I'm always afraid that people will misunderstand and turn us in, and we'll get charged with child abuse or something. That would ruin everything; my marriage, Ken's career, not to mention the scandal at church." "I don't think you have to worry about anything like that now--a few years ago maybe--but now I think the powers that be are all on your side." At this point Cynthia turned around to say something to Timothy, but her words were replaced by a look of surprise. I saw her expression and also turned to look at him. The racoon circles were gone, and both the blusher and the lip gloss had been drastically toned down. He still looked like Timothy to me, but at least he no longer appeared to be screaming for the wrong kind of attention. "Oh, Skyla, you look so much better," Cynthia gushed. "Did you do that yourself?" "No. While you all were talking to Wortman, Hannah did it there in the sun room," he said, smiling. "But how?" Cynthia asked. "I didn't see you take any cosmetics in with you." "Well, you know," Hannah said. "They always say 'less is more', and I just thought if we made less of a statement, there would be less to regret." When she saw that Cynthia did not understand, she added; "All I did was take off a few layers of everything. Like you, he's an Autumn in skin tone, and they made him up for a different season entirely." "Of course, you're right; I don't know why I didn't see that myself first thing," Cynthia said in an approving tone. She turned back to Timothy. "See how lucky you are, to have your own live-in beautician." "Yeah," Timothy said. "How did you know all that, anyway? You don't wear makeup." "You lie down with dogs; you get up with fleas," Hannah answered. "What?" Timothy asked for all of us. "What's that?" Hannah asked as she pointed at a vehicle that was turning north onto South Austin. "It's a jeep," he answered. "What kind?" she asked. "Looks like a JK Sport." "Is that the best kind?" "No, that would be the Rubicon. It's got the 33-inch tires, not those pizza cutters, and an 84.1:1 crawl ratio. It can go anywhere." "How did you know that? You don't own a jeep." Timothy stared at Hannah with all the comprehension of a mule looking at a new gate. "I live in the world of women," she continued. "We talk. We hear stuff. We see things. We remember. You live in the world of men, who talk and hear stuff and see things and remember." Both Timothy and his mother were silent for a while. What Hannah had said was obviously true, but it was such an inconvenient truth that it made them both uncomfortable. It was Cynthia who finally roused herself to remind her son that he needed to google a wig store. He did and in short order, we were on our way once again. The first place we stopped, just off of I-40, simply ignored Timothy and his mom. Again, we waited for them in the car. Half an hour later, they both came out looking furious. "We were the only ones in the store," Cynthia said. "There were two or three clerks, and all they did was visit with each other. We went over to the wigs. It was obvious we were there to shop, but they never paid us any attention." When we pulled into the next shop, on SW 6th, I made a suggestion; "Cynthia, why don't you just go in by yourself. That way there would be no, for lack of a better word, distractions." Once again, she looked at me curiously before responding. "Could I take Hannah?" "Why would you need her?" "We want long hair, like a teen would wear. I would look ridiculous asking for something like that." I looked to Hannah. "As long as I don't have to lie," she said. "We'll just say you're a friend of my daughter who's come along to help pick out something appropriate. Please, I really trust your fashion sense." Hannah looked back to me, and I nodded. They went into the store together, and Timothy remained with us. He looked sad, depressed even. "I'm sorry you have to go through this," I said. Timothy jerked his head away from the window and glared at me. "You always say that, but I know what you really mean. You're not sorry for my pain; you're just sorry that I'm transgender and am pursuing my reality." "It's the same thing, Skyla. Your 'reality,' as you call it, is nothing but pain. You are going to have to undergo one surgery or procedure after another to look like you want to, and until you do, you are going to have to undergo the humiliations that you have suffered today and in the past. Even then it won't end. You think you can live without your father in your life, and maybe you will, but he is not the only person who has ever known you. How many relatives know you as nothing but Timothy; how many friends of your family; how many people at your church in Austin? Do you really want to have to explain yourself--justify yourself--to everyone who will find out about this, for the rest of your life?" "I don't have to explain myself to Liv and Rachel and Bobbye, or my new friends." "And that's the world you want to live in?" I asked. "The LGBT world is not the world of women; it's an artificial construct--like a holographic projection maybe--but it's not real." "And what is?" he demanded. "You think the way you guys live is real--in that jungle, cut off from everything and everybody--and for what? Do you think your life matters to anyone? You think you're making some kind of difference to anything? You're the ones hiding from reality." "You probably have a point, Skyla," I said. "But if we had not pursued our reality, it would not have intersected with your reality, and then where would you be?" "You'd be dead, Stinky," Josiah said angrily. Both Timothy and I looked around to see all the eyes of the children upon him, and they were angry. I think this must have been the first time he and I had had one of our "discussions" in front of the children. Even the exchanges he had had with Hannah had been, as far as I could recall, just between them. Now, as far as the children were concerned, he was attacking their mother, and they did not like it. He fell silent after that. We all did and waited to see what his mother and Hannah would bring back. When they came out of the store, I did not at first recognize Hannah. It wasn't just the color of her hair. It was also not quite as fine. I could almost believe that she had spent some time back-combing, or even back-brushing it, it looked so full. She made a pretty picture. "What do you think, Timothy?" Cynthia said when they reached the car. Her voice was as full of as much excitement as her eyes. "Isn't she just adorable?" Hannah's sisters were as excited as Cynthia and immediately jumped out of our vehicle to see the wig close up, to ooh and ahh, and to touch it. My boys looked at each other wondering what the big deal was. I don't think they noticed the change in shade. Timothy noticed everything, especially the way his mother and the girls made over Hannah. His face rapidly went from excitement to confusion to disappointment to impatience. It got worse when everyone got inside the Suburban and Cynthia recounted the event. "It went just perfectly," Cynthia said. "I told them my child had been in an accident and that we desperately needed a wig. Hannah posed as a friend of about the same size and coloring. They fixed us right up. Didn't she turn out fabulously! Now if we could just outfit her with the right clothes and the tiniest touch of makeup, wouldn't she be the belle of the ball." I could not help noticing that from the store to our car, Cynthia had been constantly touching, stroking, and otherwise playing with the wig. Even in the car, she was twisted about to Hannah in the row behind us arranging and framing the way the wig outlined her face. When I looked at Hannah, she cut her eyes over to Timothy. His head was down, and he was staring out the window at the parking lot. "Well," I said. "Shall we see how it looks on Skyla?" Cynthia twitched, as though something suddenly had occurred to her. "Oh yes, yes, of course," she said. The excitement we were all feeling from her exuberance faded as she got out of the car and opened Timothy's door. Hannah lifted the wig from her head, unpinned her own hair, and shook it out in obvious relief. She handed the bobby pins to Cynthia, who proceeded to pin up Timothy's ragged remnants. "You know, now that we have a wig, we really should just take you to a barber and have him shave all this ugliness off," Cynthia said brusquely. "Now what? What are you crying about? Mama loves you; you know that." Then she hugged him. It was well after four o'clock when we left the parking lot. If it had been just us, with no shopping to do, we probably would have spent the afternoon before prayer meeting at the Chupco's and taken supper with them. Cynthia, however, insisted that she take us all out to dinner someplace nice. The place she picked was a wine bar and deli on South Polk, downtown. It seems she was tired of eating steak every time she was out with her husband. There were so many of us, and we seemed so out of place, for more than one reason, that they suggested to the point of insistence that we take our meals out on their shaded patio. My boys each had some kind of hamburger. The rest of us each had a different kind of salad. There was a lot of cross tasting. Timothy had fish and chips. The only difficulty came when Cynthia offered him some of her wine. "Do you think that's wise?" I asked. "Oh we do it all the time at home," Cynthia replied, "well, when Ken's away." "She probably thinks it's a sin, mom," Timothy said, playing with his new hair. "To them, everything's a sin." "Oh no!" Cynthia spoke as if to assure me. "The Bible condemns drunkenness but not drinking." "That's not what I meant," I said. "What you do with your child in your own home is between you, your husband, and your God. I was thinking of Family and Protective Services. Transgenderism is okay with them, but from what we have read so far, underage drinking is still a no-no, and Skyla could be removed not only from your family, but from ours as well." "Whoops! Hadn't thought of that." Cynthia then poured what she had placed in Timothy's glass into her own. Though we took our time over our meal, we were still the first to arrive at church that evening. "Wow," Cynthia said, when we pulled up. "You actually go to a little brown church in the wild wood. Is that a bell?" "They're so far back in the sticks, they have to haul light in, in trucks," Timothy said. "And there's so few of them that if the rapture came, they'd never be missed." "I'm sure we're one of the tinier villages in God's kingdom," I said, "but all it takes is two or three." We may have had a dozen people at prayer meeting that night, not counting ourselves. Quite naturally Timothy's new look attracted a great deal of attention, which just as naturally, made Timothy very uncomfortable and reduced his replies to nods and monosyllables. Everyone was even more surprised to meet Cynthia and, the women anyway, were eager to hear the story of Timothy from her perspective. This desire was frustrated first by the arrival of Nathan directly from his work and by the start of the service itself. Of course, Nathan knew all about our plans for the day and was as interested as I to meet one of the keys to the mystery living with us. He assured her that we were all thankful to God to be allowed into her child's life and that we were all bound and determined that no more harm should come to him. He also shook her hand and said that no matter how things turned out, we would always love him. It was about then that the service began, so we all went in and sat down. Since our family occupies almost an entire pew, Cynthia elected to seat herself and Timothy in the row in front of us. I passed out our Bibles from my cloth carrier and then looked over to Cynthia and back to Nathan. He immediately fetched one for her from the book table. She took it, smiling indulgently, and glanced at her son, who rolled his eyes in a like-I-know-right expression. Pastor Chupco presented a short little 30-minute devotion on prayer, read a couple of missionary letters, and asked if there were any prayer requests. After that we prayed. It had been a long and busy day. Since only the men pray out loud, the rest of us are left to sit quietly with our eyes closed. It is then that we realize what the disciples experienced in Gethsemane. On the eve of the greatest event in history, while our Savior was sweating the blood that was soon to be shed for His people, they fell asleep. It is a rare prayer meeting that I don't have to battle the same temptation. Talking to the other women in the congregation, I know that I am not alone in this. I was not surprised then, when the pastor ended the meeting with his prayer, to find that Cynthia had fallen asleep. I don't know if Timothy had done likewise or not, or if he had simply awakened on the final 'amen.' In the event, he became aware that his mother was quite unconscious, which became to him quite an embarrassment. He shook her a couple of times, calling out; "Mom, Mom" under his breath. When she finally roused, it was only to be as embarrassed as her son. I could tell she wanted to be away from everyone as quickly as possible. "Sometimes prayer meeting is the only break in the day a mother gets," I said, after we had gotten most of our two families into our vehicle. The boys had chosen to stay with Nathan and come home with him, when he left a little later. It was sometime on the way home the thought came to me that we had never discussed where Cynthia would actually sleep. Logically, Timothy would give up his room for the night and sleep on the sofa. But would he? On the one hand, he seemed so entitled. On the other, he had what appeared to be conflicting emotions about his mother. He hadn't seemed at all enthusiastic about the prospect of her visit, but after her arrival, he behaved like a puppy trying to please its mistress. The question was resolved in a way that surprised me. We had each grabbed one of the shopping bags and carried them into the house. The girls turned to brushing their teeth and taking showers. I was trying to find a place to put all of Cynthia's luggage, when Timothy brought his mom into his room. "This is where you'll sleep," he said. "Is this the guest room," Cynthia asked, looking around. "It was Mark and Josiah's room, but they've moved to the attic, and now it's mine." "Where will you be sleeping?" "I guess on the sofa," he said, pulling a drawer out of his little dresser, and removing his nightgown. "Oh no," Cynthia replied. "I can't put my baby out of her room. I'll take the sofa. It's only for one night." "Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the earth," Timothy quoted. "What?" Cynthia sounded as surprised as I was at that moment. "The Bible says I'm supposed to honor you because you're my mother." Cynthia's mouth dropped open, and a look of confusion appeared on her face. Then she hugged her son, and I could have, but he walked out immediately. Cynthia turned to me, and we hugged. "Skyla's never said anything like that before, not from the Bible." "It's the first time I've heard it as well," I said. "Thank you." "Little steps, I guess." As much as I would have liked to sit down on Timothy's bed and talk with Cynthia, I was wiped out. Within the hour, all of us had showered and gotten ready for bed. When the guys arrived, Nathan took a cold shower, and the boys made straight for their attic. This morning, just as we were sitting down to breakfast, who should arrive but Rachel on another one of her surprise visits. "And how is our little girl today?" Rachel asked, cheery as always. "See for yourself," I said. I gestured across the room. Timothy had evidently gotten up before the rest of the children, retrieved his cosmetics, and gotten into the bathroom ahead of the crowd to make himself up. After his mother had awakened, he went into his room to change and put on his wig. With a regular skirt and top and makeup nowhere near as vivid as it had been prior to Hannah's ministrations, he was much less the theatrical spectacle. "Oh, Skyla, you are a vision of loveliness!" Rachel enthused, rushing over and giving him a hug. When she stepped back, she took hold of his hands and looked at both them and his feet. "Once we get you tanned and polished, you'll be going out every night. The boys will be on you like flies." I glanced over at Cynthia. The reaction I saw, and the gasp we all heard were of pure surprise. Until this moment, the logical outcome of her indulgence of Timothy's effeminacy had not occurred to her. To her mother's mind, he was an innocent little child and always would be, a child for her to dote upon and shape as she would, regardless of biology and the hormones that drive every male of every species. Rachel of course heard what the rest of us had and turned to Cynthia. "And who is this? I don't think I've met you here before." "This is Skyla's mother, Cynthia Harp," I said. "Cynthia, this Rachel Berry, Skyla's case worker from Family and Protective Services. She comes in and checks on us all from time to time." Cynthia rose to her feet while I was speaking, smiled weakly, and extended her hand. It was promptly bitten off. "You are not supposed to be here," Rachel stated flatly. She was no longer the bright and cheery facilitator of all things wonderful. The tone of her voice told everyone in the room that she spoke with the full authority of the State of Texas. "But she's his mom," I said, forgetting my pronouns. "They've not had any contact for weeks." "This woman and her husband are to have no contact whatsoever with this girl at all." Her tone, if anything, was even more forceful than before. "Skyla has been legally removed from them. There is no longer any recognized relationship between them. If Skyla should choose to see either or both of them, she must inform FPS, and we will determine the time, place, and duration of this meeting, which we will monitor." Had Cynthia just been informed of the death of her son, I don't know that she could have looked more horrified. The boys looked angry. Sarah was crying, and Elizabeth was holding her. Hannah had her head bowed and her eyes closed. Tears had filled Timothy's eyes and were streaking his makeup. "This can't be forever?" I asked. "Can it?" "When Skyla turns eighteen, she may do as she will with regard to those people. Until that time, she is our responsibility, and we shall use the full weight of the law to ensure her safety." Rachel had been addressing me. At this point, she turned to Cynthia. "I suggest you leave now, or I shall be forced to call the authorities, and have you arrested." "It's okay. It's okay," I said quickly. "Cynthia flew in yesterday. We spent the day shopping for clothes and things for Skyla. After breakfast, we're driving her to the airport to fly back to Austin." Rachel looked from me to Cynthia and back again, as though she were a judge decid