Chapter 3 - North Ridge
Police did not let Millicent drive Silas anywhere.
Obviously.
He came home with me.
The blue folder remained in her possession because the officers had no basis to seize it merely because I wanted to know what was inside.
The child’s belongings were different.
Millicent agreed, through gritted teeth, that officers could transfer them to my car or hold them until I retrieved them.
I took everything.
Silas sat in the back seat wrapped in his blue comforter despite the fact that it was seventy-one degrees outside.
At urgent care, a physician cleaned his scraped palms and a shallow abrasion beneath his chin.
No concussion symptoms.
No broken bones.
No significant injury.
He did not need imaging.
That was relief.
The emotional part was harder.
On the drive home, he asked:
“Am I bad?”
“No.”
“Grandma says there’s a school for kids who don’t listen.”
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
“What school?”
He looked through the window.
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say you were going there?”
“She said maybe.”
I almost asked twenty questions.
Stopped.
Officer Price had already told me:
“Try not to repeatedly interview him. We may involve a child specialist.”
So I said:
“You are sleeping at home tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Home.”
“Next day?”
“Home.”
He looked at me.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
At 7:18 that evening, my phone rang.
Unknown Pennsylvania number.
I answered.
“Mr. Fairmont?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Allison Grant. I’m intake director at North Ridge Child Development Center.”
My whole body went cold.
“Why are you calling?”
A pause.
“We have an intake scheduled for Silas Fairmont this evening.”
I sat down.
“No, you don’t.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry?”
“My son is six. I did not schedule anything.”
I heard papers moving.
“Are you Gideon Fairmont, Silas’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Are you his legal guardian?”
“Sole surviving parent.”
Silence.
Then Allison’s voice changed.
Professional.
Careful.
“We need to stop this conversation for a moment. I’m going to bring our clinical administrator onto the line.”
“Before you do, was my mother bringing him there?”
“I can confirm the intake contact is Millicent Fairmont.”
My vision narrowed.
“What kind of center are you?”
“We provide short-term residential behavioral assessments and family stabilization services for children.”
“Six-year-olds?”
“Our lower age threshold is six, depending on clinical criteria.”
“Did you speak to me?”
“I personally did not.”
“Did anyone?”
“I need to review the file.”
“What did she send you?”
“Mr. Fairmont, I’m not comfortable disclosing documents until we verify identities and our legal obligations.”
She was right.
I hated it.
“Fine.”
“Do not bring Silas here.”
I laughed once.
“He’s not coming.”
“We are placing an immediate hold on the intake.”
Good.
Then:
“Please have your attorney contact us Monday.”
Attorney.
The word made everything real.
After hanging up, I searched the program.
Licensed.
Real.
Not a dungeon.
Not a secret boot camp.
A twenty-one-day residential assessment for children with serious behavioral and family-regulation problems.
Could be appropriate in some circumstances.
Nothing in Silas’s life remotely justified it.
He had grief-related separation anxiety after Amanda’s death.
Occasional tantrums.
Nightmares.
Normal six-year-old problems with one unusually painful history.
My mother had apparently translated them into:
May you like
residential treatment.
I called my lawyer.
