Overcomer - The Journey by Judy Colella (novels to improve english .txt) 📖

only a bit questionable at the time, was looking more and more suspicious, especially in light of Charlie… no, Cian’s apparent ignorance of barbed wire.

The folder with Cian’s x-rays and photos of the injuries was still on his desk; he took a closer look at everything. The deep wounds were not, he suddenly realized, consistent with her explanation – that Cian had thrown himself into the barbed wire because his foster sister had rejected his advances.

Two things were wrong about that – first of all, nothing in the boy’s behavior indicated a person who was (as Letitia claimed) egotistical, so it made no sense that he would make improper advances toward Letitia’s daughter. Next, someone with a psychosis strong enough to impel him to engage in such violence against himself wouldn’t look so…so desperate, so confused. The story Cian had told him was a world away from the usual characteristics of the personality described by Letitia Pettijohn.

On the physical end of things, the way the wounds were distributed didn’t fit. Even multiple contacts with barbed wire would show some evidence of deep punctures and consistent, parallel wounds, no matter how often he’d done this during the past couple of years as his foster mother claimed. The cuts instead crossed one another, a configuration that tracked with someone being beaten with a whip or, as the boy claimed, a wire, and he could see no evidence of piercing that would fit with forceful contact with the razor-sharp points of the barbs. The presence of minute flecks of metal, while at first might seem consistent, were not. Only something fine, like steel wool, would have left that kind of residue, not contact with barbed wire. The only way metal would have flaked off into the wounds would be if it were rusty. He’d check on that immediately.

Further, neither his legs nor arms had so much as a scratch, which they would if he’d been injured the way she described. However, there was evidence of older, deep soft-tissue damage, which fit perfectly with what Cian had said about being struck with various hard objects, including fists.

He picked up his phone and called Radiology.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Lee. Are you calling about Charlie’s MRI?”

The doctor found himself cringing. “Er, yes. I just have a quick question – did any metal fragments or evidence of rust show up in the scan?”

The sound of computer keys being tapped for several seconds. “Okay, let’s see… uh… no. Nothing at all like that. Just what was in the initial report – that traces of something metallic but extremely small presented. We can have this sent to your computer right now if you like. The technician is done processing the scan.”

“Thanks. I’ll – thanks.” He hung up, feeling cold. So no rusty metal? A barbed wire fence that had been in use for even two years would have developed some, and had the boy hurt himself this badly on it, lots of that would have crumbled off into the wounds. Yet there was nothing.

Leaning back, Dr. Lee closed his eyes as a headache started, but he made himself return to his earlier train of thought.

Who had told Cian he was ugly? No way had he been making that up, and besides, why would he even say such a thing? Dr. Lee wasn’t a psychologist, but he’d studied enough psychology to know that while a delusional individual who might be paranoid about losing his looks or not being appreciated might claim he’d been called ugly, he would never take it to such an extreme. What had the boy said? That he expected his looks to make others sick? But more than what he’d said was how he had said it. He’d spoken in a matter-of-fact way, no histrionics, no martyr-complex mannerism. Cian had to have a genuine, unshakable belief that he was hideous, and must have felt that way for a long, long time.

Perhaps the biggest point, the one that should have raised an immediate red flag, was why no one else seemed to know about any of this. The healed scars, the bruising, the horrid self-image… wouldn’t someone at school have noticed and reported it? Yet Mrs. Pettijohn had said nothing about working with the school psychologist, even though, as she claimed, this had been going on for years.

“I’m a fool.” Closing the folder, Dr. Lee took out a pad of sticky notes and scribbled a reminder to himself to contact the school district to see if any reports had been filed that would back up even one of Mrs. Pettijohn’s claims about her foster son.

If his suspicions about what this boy had suffered was even one-tenth true, he could be looking at one of the worst cases of child abuse he’d ever encountered. Slamming a hand on his desk, furious with himself, he stood. It was time to have a talk with Letitia Pettijohn.

He found her sitting on the large green sofa in the waiting area, looking prim but not at all concerned. More proof.

She looked up as he approached, took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at dry eyes. “How is he, Doctor Lee?”

Where are the tears? It had occurred to him that if the boy had been telling the truth, returning him to her care would be idiotic. Still, unless he could find solid proof that the extensive injuries had been at her hands, Cian would be sent home with her as soon as he was better. For that reason, he couldn’t let this woman know what her foster son had told him.

Instead of accusations, he’d have to give an award-winning performance and pretend he believed her story. “Your foster son is stable. I just have a few more questions for you, if it’s okay. He’ll be fine, by the way.”

“Oh, good. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t, you know.”

The doctor nodded and sat on a chair adjacent to the sofa so he could watch her reactions at close range. “He seems a little confused. I’m afraid the pain medication may have caused him to imagine things, maybe mix up reality with fevered dreams.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, he claims to be extremely ugly, but of course we both know nothing could be farther from the truth!” He forced a genial laugh, but never took his eyes off her face. “People say the craziest things when they’re on opioids.”

“Ugly! I’d say it must be whatever you’ve got him on!” She shook her head, lips in a firm line.

“And that’s not the worst, I assure you. He says he believes he’s stupid! I’ll have to try a lower dosage of those pain meds.”

Mrs. Pettijohn put a hand to her bosom. “Stupid! That boy? Why, he’s smart as a whip! I wish my own two would apply theirselves to their studies the way he does.”

She had not, he noticed, used his name. “You call him ‘Charlie,’ right?”

She sighed. “Well, he doesn’t like it much when I do – says it’s… unacceptable. But I can’t seem to pronounce his real name right.”

How clever… He hadn't missed the way she’d glanced down at her lap when she’d said “unacceptable,” perhaps to hide the subterfuge.

“So what did you want to ask me, Dr. Lee?”

“Oh, nothing much. I noticed there were no cuts or scratches on any other parts of his body – only on his back, and a few on his sides and the back of his arms. I had to wonder how that’s possible if he was thrashing around in barbed wire.”

She dabbed at her eyes again, sighed, and sat forward. “Now, I told you before – he wasn’t in barbed wire, Dr. Lee – it was a fence of it. Like I said, all he did was throw hisself backwards against it and then, when he tried to free hisself, caused a whole bunch of damage until he got off. Then he did it again, three or four times.”

That was it – had Cian done as she’d described, most of his wounds would have been horizontal, may of them deep punctures, not long, unbroken vertical gashes. Only something like the electrical wire the boy had mentioned could do that. Problem was, proof was needed that she’d been responsible. He’d have to go out there and see for himself if there was a barbed wire fence, take photos, and then go to the police. If they asked for a possible motive he’d be at a loss, but those who dealt with child abuse would probably know how to find out.

Getting to his feet, he forced another smile. “That cleared things up. Thank you for listening to my questions, Mrs. Pettijohn. I appreciate that you’re upset and hope I didn’t upset you any further.”

“Not at all, Dr. Lee. I know you have to get to the bottom of such cases, and I don’t mind in the least.” She gave him a smile that made him want to smack her. “Thanks so much for taking care of my boy.”

“No problem.” He wanted to get as far away from this woman as possible. “He’s strong and should mend quickly. As soon as I determine a long-term course of treatment for when he’s released, and there’s no risk of infection, I can estimate how much longer he’ll be here.”

Extending a hand, she bobbed her head and pushed to her feet. “Thanks again, Dr. Lee.”

“You’re most welcome.” Not wanting to touch her to shake hands, he turned away, acting as if he hadn’t seen her gesture, and headed for his office.

      As soon as the schools opened on Monday, he’d be making some calls.

 

********

 

Outside the front entrance, Letitia took her cell phone from her purse. Several people were waiting for rides, so she went a short distance away to be sure no one could hear her. She tapped her son’s name on the list of recent calls, pacing as she waited for him to answered.

“Mom! I’m in class – the teacher’s gonna take my phone away!”

“Not if you explain that your Mamma’s calling from the hospital. Now shut your mouth and listen.” She lowered her voice, glancing around. “You need to get home as fast as those fat little legs of yours can get you there.”

“Why – ”

“Hush! Go to the shed, put on the gardening gloves, and haul that barbed wire roll out. Get the sledge hammer and knock the posts it’s on into the ground between that gap in the fence on the left side of the house, and make sure it looks like someone fell onto it, okay?”

“What? Ma, that’s a awful lot to ask – ”

She clenched her teeth. “Do it! Then get your ass back to school. Tell them you had to leave for a little while to pick me up from here, okay?”

“But I only got a learner’s permit, ma. They ain’t gonna believe you’d let me drive the car without – ”

“I’ll call ‘em! Just get home!” She hung up and called the school. Halfway through the recorded list of options, she pressed “0” and was put through to the operator.

“This is Buddy Pettijohn’s mama,” she told the woman who answered. “He needs to leave school to come pick me up at the hospital. His… cousin was staying with us, and the other day he got hurt real bad and went to the hospital. I took the bus here this morning to see him, but the next bus don’t come for quite a while and I’m feeling a bit light-headed. So I’m giving Buddy permission to use the family car to come get me. I don’t drive.”

The school had never been notified about her foster-son, and if they found out, an investigation would be started to as to why he wasn’t in school with her other two children. That would lead to problems she wasn’t prepared to handle. As it was, she’d been a fool to tell the doctor the truth about the boy being her foster son, but it didn’t occur to her until