Page 41 of Reeves

A public place on my terms, far from Benjy and my parents and our quiet street in Bay St. Louis.

The phone is hot in my hand as I set it down. The seminar schedule glows on my computer screen, patient files stacked neatly beside my keyboard. The ordinary details of my day continue, but everything has shifted.

I try to focus on my notes again, but all I can think about is the drive to New Orleans this afternoon and what waits for me there.

The coffee mugslips through my fingers but catches on the edge of the counter instead of shattering. Small favors.

"Keep it together," I mutter, gripping the ceramic handle with more care.

I pull my messenger bag from the closet and methodically gather what I need for the seminar. I lay out a fresh notebook, some of my favorite pens, business cards, and my license. Each item checked off my mental list, giving me a sense of control when everything else is spinning out.

My seminar clothes wait on the bed. I picked dark jeans and a navy blazer over a gray V-neck T-shirt. Professional without trying too hard. I lay out a simple necklace besidethem, the silver pendant Benjy picked for me last Mother's Day.

Benjy.

The thought of him suddenly brings a wave of nausea, with Reeves all of a sudden circling us like a bird of prey.

In the shower, hot water pounds against my shoulders, but doesn't wash away the questions piling up. I keep telling myself to let it go and see where things go instead of trying to piece together all of the "what ifs.”

But I can't help myself.

I rinse conditioner from my hair, trying to focus on simple physical actions.

The clock on my bedside table reads 10:45 when I step out of the bathroom. Six hours and forty-five minutes until I see him.

Steam billows around me as I wipe fog from the bathroom mirror. My reflection appears gradually, but my eyes catch on the splash of bright color taped to the wall beside me.

Benjy's drawing, the one he made last week after we finished the treehouse repairs with Dad.

Four stick figures stand beside a brown square with a triangular roof. It’s me, with exaggerated curly hair, Mom with her silver bun, and Dad wearing what appears to be a tool belt. Benjy is in the middle, holding hands with me and my mom, his smile a wide half-circle of crayon.

Everything closes in on me.

This is Benjy's world. Four stick figures and a treehouse. Simple. Complete.

Reeves has missed five birthdays and five Christmases. That's over five years of watching those green eyes discover the world with wonder instead of wariness.

I touch the drawing gently.

By noon, I'm on the highway, every mile of asphalt bringing me closer to New Orleans.

The anxiety lodges physically between my ribs, a constant pressure that makes each breath more deliberate. The radio plays Counting Stars, by One Republic, which I don't really hear.

I rehearse opening lines in my head, then discard them all as inadequate.

His name is Benjamin. He's five.

The presenter droneson about proprioceptive feedback mechanisms in toddlers with developmental delays. The PowerPoint slides advance with excruciating slowness. I write another note in my margin, more to keep myself alert than because the information is revolutionary.

My phone sits face-down beside my notebook. I flip it over.

4:02 PM.

Eighty-eight minutes left of the seminar.

The woman beside me shifts in her chair. I force my attention back to the front of the room, where Dr. Baxter demonstrates a stabilization technique using a volunteer from the audience.

"Notice how the pressure needs to be firm but not restrictive," she explains. "We're looking for sensory input that grounds the patient without triggering a defensive response."