Across the splash pad the loud thunk of a drum stick to a bucket steals my attention. My eyes dart to the street musician. Oh, no. We’re gonna have to move. David hates anything loud. The sinking feeling in my gut takes a nosedive when I notice the portable PA system next to the drummer. A man picks up a microphone. Reverb sends a piercing screech into the crowd, drawing stares but my focus zeros in on David. Shit.
His cry comes quick. A pained shriek.
Instinctively, I move to cover David’s ears, but he bolts out of my reach.
His foot catches on the uneven concrete and he falls backward, his little body slamming to the hard surface. The street performers play in earnest, the sound even louder. David’s eyes clench shut and more wails escape his lips.
I attempt to scoop him off the ground but he thrashes out, his movements full of pain and fear. He backs up further into the splash pad water.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” I repeat but it’s a lie. He won’t let me near him, screaming each time my hand grazes his skin. The damn sunscreen makes it impossible to get a good hold.
People stare. Concerned mutters surround us. I feel the heat of strangers’ stares. Judging. Irritated. Completely ignorant to the shit my son’s been through and the challenges he’s overcome.
The terror in his shouts wreaks havoc on my emotions. I just need to get him away from here. The sounds. The crowd. He’s on the tip of a meltdown. I see it coming like a speeding train, but there’s no emergency brake. The only thing to do is move him somewhere quiet and ride it out.
“Sir. Back away from the child.”
The sharp command draws my gaze from David’s cries. A police officer approaches, his hand at his holstered weapon and eyes trained on me. A few people point. Others pull out cameras. All the while, the water patterns change and a two-foot fountain of water erupts from the ground near David’s head, landing in his open mouth. Suffocating his cries.
“Sir! Stop!”
I lunge for David, yanking him out of danger, but his body is still slick with sunscreen and this time when he thrashes, he slips from my arms. Falling before I can pull him to my chest, he twists on the way down and smacks his face against the ground. Blood pools and his scream pierces my ears. Oh, God. No!
“Sir. I said, step away!”
Something hard and sharp smacks against the back of my knees, then my face is flattened into a one-inch pool of dirty water. A knee jabs into my back, the air knocked from my lungs. The officer yanks my arms back and the cold metal of cuffs goes around my wrists.
“You have the right . . .” The cop’s words are lost in the chaos, or maybe it’s just that my mind blocks them out. Pain shoots up my spine but I don’t stop struggling. Not when David’s just out of reach. I have to save my son.
Thirty
Cora
“Stop!” I scream, dropping the food and racing toward a scene I can’t quite comprehend. Isaac, in cuffs, struggling against a police officer. David, wailing, bleeding and kicking anyone who tries to get close. “Stop! Move away! He has sensory issues! Back away! Please.” Frantically, I yank back the strangers by their arms until I’m standing over David. It’s so much louder than when I left, and the sounds only add to the overwhelmingness of the situation. I point at the musicians. “Someone get that band to stop! Please.”
A concerned looking woman meets my gaze. I don’t know how or why, but she seems to comprehend the severity of this situation. “I’ll stop them.” She takes off toward the street performers.
I want to comfort David, but I’m almost certain my touch will make matters worse, so instead I stand like a guard dog ready to pounce on anyone who dares come too close.
“Ma’am. Is this your child?” the police officer says from where he’s pinned Isaac to the ground.
“No.” My chest heaves with a rush of adrenaline. “David’s his son!” My God. What the hell happened? I was only gone a few minutes.
“He’s the dad?” The officer’s brows shoot high.
“Yeah, and can you please tell me what he did to end up in handcuffs?” The music stops playing, but the stares continue. In fact, we’ve gathered an even larger crowd of spectators. Phones held high, they’re capturing the show. Only this isn’t a film. This is real life. My publicist will probably crucify me, but I can’t find it in myself to care.
The cop shakes his head in disbelief. “This man was attempting to abduct that child.”
“That’s his son,” I say again, accusation thick in my tone.
He looks between David and Isaac. The strongest resemblance is in their eyes, which is impossible to discern with David rocking, blood flowing from his nose, and Isaac pressed to the ground. “I’ll need to see some identification.”
“Okay, then.” My hands go to my hips and I grate my teeth. He’s got to be kidding me! “How ’bout you uncuff the innocent father and allow him to get it for you?”
“Listen, lady.” The cop narrows his stare. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Which is what? Attacking a parent?”
“The kid was fighting him. Screaming.” His gaze bounces between David and Isaac, some of his earlier bravado faltering. “We had reports.” The cop takes the keys from the chain attached to his belt and heaves out a breath as he reaches for Isaac’s handcuffs. “Sir, I’m going to release you, but if you make any sudden movements or refuse to comply with directions, I’ll have to put these on again. You understand?”
“Yeah. Got it,” Isaac grinds out from between clenched teeth. I can’t meet his eyes. I’m afraid of the anger, hurt, or embarrassment I might find. I’m so outraged on his behalf and I don’t trust my reaction.
Isaac drags his body from the ground to sit upright, his clothes soaked and clinging to his body. He scoots over to David, his touch gentle against the boy’s back as he whispers calming words to his son. David continues to rock, but he doesn’t fight against Isaac.
Peeling his own shirt over his head, Isaac bunches the fabric and wipes the blood from David’s face. He cradles his son with his body, cocooning him from prying eyes and holding the makeshift gauze to David’s face. With each sway from David, Isaac scoots them away from the splashing shoots of water.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” the cop says, uncompassionate and apparently not willing to concede.
Isaac lifts his chin, his glare one of a protective parent.
“I’ll get it,” I say, rushing over to where Isaac’s backpack sits on the ground. It’s soaked through, having tipped sideways into a puddle at the edge of the splash pad.
“Middle zipper,” Isaac says quietly.
I find his wallet, pull out his license, and hand it over to the cop. “There. Satisfied?”
“I’m gonna call this in and make sure everything checks out. Then you folks can be on your way.”
Oh, help me, Jesus. The nerve! “How about next time you start with seeking the truth before jumping to conclusions?” I can’t help myself. The anger in my body boils over. It needs to lash out somewhere.
“Ma’am, I’m just doing my job.”