Chapter 12
The visitation room didn't look like a room where visits happened. It looked like a classroom someone had tried to make not look like a classroom. There were small plastic chairs and a low table with a box of crayons in the middle and a clock that ticked too loud. The walls were pale yellow and there was a window with a blind half-closed and a sign that said NO FOOD OR DRINK. My caseworker walked me in and her hand was light on my shoulder. She said they'd be right on the other side of the glass.
I sat at the table and stared at my leg. The bandage was clean and white now and my shorts covered part of it. The blue splint wasn't there. The nurse had kept it at the clinic and then someone put it in a bag. I kept thinking it would be on the chair next to me anyway. I could hear my own breathing before anyone else came in.
My dad came in with the visit supervisor. He wore a clean gray shirt and his hair was combed down flat. He smiled when he saw me and it was the same smile he used when he picked me up from school and wanted the teacher to think everything was fine. The supervisor was a woman with a clipboard who didn't sit. She stood near the door and said, "We've got thirty minutes. Take your time."
Dad pulled out the chair across from me. He didn't touch me right away. He folded his hands on the table like he was trying to keep them still.
"Hey, buddy," he said. His voice was soft. "You look good. You look strong."
I didn't know what to say. My hands were on my knees and I kept them there.
He looked at my leg, then back at my face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry you've been hurting. I never meant for you to hurt." He swallowed and his eyes got wet. "Those colors, that bright blue thing, I gave you that because you loved blue. Remember? You said blue was the fastest color. I wanted you to have something that was yours. Something that meant I was thinking about you. That was all it was. Love. Just love, buddy."
The clock ticked. The supervisor shifted by the door.
Dad leaned a little closer. "The people here, they don't understand us. They don't understand how we do things at home. I need you to help me help you come home. Can you tell them it was an accident? That you fell? You were running and you fell on the sidewalk. That's all they need to hear. Just say it was an accident and we can fix this. Say the colors were just for fun and you got hurt playing. Can you do that for me?"
I felt my chest get tight. I tried to breathe and couldn't get enough air at first. I stared at the crayons. My breath came in short and I had to stop and take a longer one. I heard it. He heard it too.
I had practiced what to say with my caseworker. She told me I could say anything or nothing. But when he asked, the words got stuck.
I looked down at my leg where it throbbed under the bandage. "If it was just colors," I said. My voice was small and I had to pause again to breathe. "Why does my leg still hurt? Why did it bleed so much?"
Dad's smile thinned. He reached across the table but didn't quite touch my hand. "Because you fell hard, buddy. You fell really hard. That's why it hurts. But it's going to heal. It heals fast when you're with family. You know that. You just have to tell them the right story. The accident story. Tell them dad's colors didn't hurt you. Tell them dad loves you."
He said it faster now. "Come on, just say it. Say it was an accident. Say 'I fell.' They'll let you come home today if you say it. Don't you want to come home?"
The supervisor took a step forward. Her voice was calm but firm. "Mr. Miller, let's keep this supportive. We talked about not asking him to change his statement."
Dad didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on me. "I'm not asking him to change anything, I'm asking him to tell the truth. Tell them, buddy. Tell them it was an accident. Just say the words."
I pulled my hands back into my lap. My breathing was loud again and I couldn't make it quiet.
The supervisor put her hand on the back of Dad's chair. "That's pressure," she said. "I'm going to have to end the visit early. This is being documented."
Dad sat back. His hands were shaking. "You're taking my kid away for a fall," he said to her, but he was still looking at me. "Buddy, you know me. You know I gave you those colors because I love you."
The supervisor looked at me. "Do you want to stay or go back with your caseworker?" she asked.
I didn't answer right away. I just kept breathing until it slowed down. Then I nodded toward the door where my caseworker waited. I didn't say the accident words. I didn't say he hurt me either. I just sat there with my leg hurting under the table.
My caseworker came in and helped me stand. Dad stayed in his chair. He didn't follow us. On the way out, I heard the supervisor writing on her clipboard, her pen scratching fast.
May you like
In the hallway, my caseworker knelt down so we were eye level. She didn't ask what I said. She just said, "You did exactly right. You asked a good question."
I looked back at the closed door of the visitation room. The bright blue was gone, but I could still see it in my head, on my leg, where it had covered everything.
