Page 30 of Before You Can Blink (Rust Canyon #4)
Jett
October
My ears were ringing so badly I feared I might suffer permanent hearing damage soon. Wincing as another shrill cry pierced straight through my skull, I gritted my teeth against the fresh wave of pain.
The headache, otherwise known as my son, was throwing an all-out fit. Red-faced and screaming at the top of his lungs, he stomped his feet repeatedly, fists clenched tight.
“I’m calling Caroline,” Daisy declared, exasperated.
“No.” I shook my aching head. “He’s never going to speak for himself if we keep bringing Penny in to interpret.”
“So, you’d have him suffer?” she cried.
“There’s nothing physically wrong with him, Daze.”
When the kid wouldn’t even utter the simplest words, such as mama or dada, Doc Stevens had run every test under the sun to determine if there might be a reason our three-year-old refused to talk. Not one of them turned up any legitimate cause as to why he remained mute.
Though I had my suspicions.
Between his older sister and Wade and Caroline’s daughter, there was no need for him to vocalize his wants and needs because they were quick to do it for him. While the girls meant well, they didn’t realize they were doing more harm than good.
In my mind, the only way to nip this in the bud after it had already gone too far was to cut Tripp off cold turkey. If Aspen and Penny stopped speaking for him, he’d be forced to do it for himself. At least, that was the hope.
I crouched before my wailing son. When I gripped his arms, he began to fight against me, and his hollering increased in volume.
“Tripp, bud, you’re a big boy. And big boys use their words.”
Daisy snorted behind me. “Good luck trying to reason with a toddler having a temper tantrum. Let me know how that works out for you.”
I shot her a glare over my shoulder. “Do you have any better ideas?”
Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering something about bull-headed men under her breath.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I returned my attention to Tripp.
Drool leaked from his open mouth, mixing with the snot that ran freely from his nose.
His collared shirt—a reminder that we were headed to church this Sunday morning—was soaked through, the now-translucent fabric clinging to his sweaty form.
At my wits’ end, I begged, “Tripp, please. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll do what I can to try and fix it.”
He wrenched out of my hold, plopping onto his butt before promptly regaining his feet to resume his stomping.
“Tripp!” a young voice I knew all too well called out from behind me .
Penny ran past me to wrap her arms around my inconsolable son, whose sobs tapered off to hiccups in an instant.
My gaze lifted to find Daisy leaning against the far wall, both arms crossed over her chest as the look on her face practically dared me to argue with her decision to call in reinforcements—ones I’d told her weren’t necessary.
Penny assessed Tripp, and even though he’d calmed to sniffles, his feet still pounded against the hardwood beneath them.
“His shoes,” the little girl declared.
“What?”
Penny sighed, as if my request for clarification annoyed her. “His shoes hurt.”
Daisy stepped forward, dropped to a knee, and eased the footwear off. Tripp’s toes were curled up inside his socks, and he whimpered as he tried to straighten them. Frowning, my wife lifted the shoe and placed Tripp’s foot atop the sole.
I felt like the biggest asshole on the planet when I saw that the shoe stopped about an inch before his foot. Our boy had been in pain, and I’d had no clue. While at the same time, adamant that we deny him the comfort of the one person who seemed to be able to read him without words.
Much as I hated to admit it, Penny knew Tripp better than any of us—even his parents—and had kinda saved the day.
The next time he needed her, I wouldn’t hesitate to make that call.