Chapter 2
The clinic was twenty minutes from the lodge outside Aspen.
Richard rode in the back seat beside Noah.
Mark insisted on coming.
Richard allowed it because Noah was Mark’s child and because his attorney, Miriam Shaw, had already warned him by phone not to start behaving as if fatherhood transferred through anger.
Claudia stayed behind.
At the clinic, the doctor found mild cold exposure but no frostbite.
That was the good news.
The rest was harder.
Noah was underweight for his recent growth pattern.
His shoes, when Mark finally produced them from a bag, were nearly a size too small.
There were irritated patches behind his knees.
Nothing by itself proved severe neglect.
Together, they concerned the doctor.
“When was his last pediatric visit?” she asked.
Mark answered too quickly.
“October.”
The doctor checked the information Mark provided.
“No. His last appointment in this system was April.”
Mark frowned.
“We use another doctor in Chicago.”
“Which practice?”
Mark hesitated.
Richard watched him.
For the past five months, Mark had repeatedly told Richard that Noah was receiving specialized care after struggling with the death of his mother.
Occupational therapy.
Behavioral therapy.
A private preschool program.
Richard had paid every invoice routed through Mark without question.
He had told himself money was one way to make his grandson’s life easier.
Now the boy sitting beside him had shoes that hurt his feet.
The doctor asked Noah whether he went to school.
Noah shook his head.
“Not anymore.”
Mark rubbed his forehead.
“He was having adjustment problems.”
Richard remembered the explanation Mark had given him.
The school recommended a temporary withdrawal.
Richard had accepted it.
“Who recommended that?”
Mark looked at him.
“Can we not do this here?”
Richard did not raise his voice.
“Who?”
Mark said, “Claudia and I decided.”
That was not what Richard had been told.
The doctor documented everything and explained that the circumstances at the lodge, combined with the child’s condition, required reporting concerns through the appropriate child-welfare channels.
Mark became angry.
“You’re reporting us because my son got dirty?”
Richard stood between him and the doctor.
“Enough.”
On the drive back, Noah fell asleep under Richard’s overcoat.
Mark stared out the window.
Richard asked, “When did he stop going to preschool?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“You told me last Tuesday he was still attending.”
“I didn’t want another lecture.”
Richard studied his son.
Mark had been difficult as a teenager, restless in his twenties, ambitious without patience in his thirties.
But Richard had never thought him cruel.
That assumption was becoming harder to maintain.
“Where are Noah’s clothes?”
“In storage.”
“Why?”
“We’re reorganizing the house.”
“All of them?”
Mark said nothing.
Richard looked down at Noah.
Five months of expensive therapy invoices.
No therapy Mark could immediately name.
Private-school tuition for a child no longer attending.
May you like
New-clothing reimbursements for a boy wearing torn pants.
Richard had spent months receiving bills for a life Noah did not appear to be living.
