Left Neglected Read Online Free PDF Page A

risk, I put Lucy down and grab Charlie by the hand.
    “Ow, too tight!”
    “Too bad.”
    He pulls on my arm as hard as he can, leaning away from me, trying to get away, like an excited Doberman on a leash. My hand is now sweaty, and he’s beginning to slip out. I squeeze tighter. He pulls harder.
    “Hold my hand, too,” whines Lucy.
    “I can’t, honey, come on.”
    “I want to hold hands!” she shrieks, not moving, balancing on the edge of a tantrum. I think fast.
    “Hold Charlie’s.”
    Charlie licks the entire palm of his free hand and offers it to her.
    “Gross!” Lucy squeals.
    “Fine, here.”
    I slide the two backpacks and Charlie’s coat to my elbow, and with a kid in each hand, I drag us into Welmont Elementary.
    The gym is overheated and set with the usual cast of characters. The girls are sitting against the wall, reading, socializing, or just sitting and watching the boys, who are playing basketball and running all over the place. As soon as I let go of his hand, Charlie takes off. I don’t have the will to holler after him for a proper good-bye.
    “Have a good day, my Lucy Goose.”
    “Bye, Mommy.”
    I kiss her on her beautiful head and dump the backpacks onto the pile of book bags on the floor. There are no mothers or fathers lingering around in here. I don’t know the other drop-off parents. I know some of the kids’ names and might know which parent belongs to which kid. Like that woman is Hilary’s mom. Most are flying in and flying out, no time for small talk. Without knowing much about any of them, I relate to these parents completely.
    The only parent I know at Before the Bell by name is Heidi, Ben’s mom, who is on her way out as well. Always in scrubs and purple Crocs, Heidi is some kind of nurse. I know her name because Ben and Charlie are friends, because she sometimes drops Charlie home after soccer, and because she has an approachable energy and a sincere smile that has many times in the last year communicated a world of empathy.
    I have kids, too. I know.
    I have a job, too. I know.
    I’m running late, too. I know.
    I know.
    “How are you?” Heidi asks as we make our way down the hallway.
    “Good, you?”
    “Good. I haven’t seen you with Linus in a while. He must be getting so big.”
    “Oh my God, Linus!”
    Without offering any explanation, I sprint away from Heidi down the hall, out of the school, and down the front steps to my running car, which, thank God, is still there. I can hear poor Linus wailing before I even touch the door.
    Bunny is on the floor, and the DVD is sitting idle on the menu screen, but my mother’s ears and heart know his cry isn’t about a stuffed lovie or a red Muppet. Once the video ended and Linus came out of its magical trance, he must’ve realized he was trapped and alone in the car. Abandoned. The number one primal fear for any baby his age is abandonment. His red face and hairline are soaked with tears.
    “Linus, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
    I unbuckle him as fast as I can while he screams. I pick him up, hug him, and rub his back. He smears a gob of snot onto the collar of my shirt.
    “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”
    It’s not working. In fact, the intensity and volume of his sobs are escalating. He’s not willing to forgive me so easily, and I don’t blame him one bit. But if I can’t console him, I might as well get him to day care. I pin his distraught body back into the car seat, place Bunny on his lap, hit Play on the DVD player, and drive while he screams murder to Sunny Horizons.
    I hand a still-heaving Linus, Bunny, and diaper bag over to one of the day care assistant teachers, a kind young Brazilian woman new to Sunny Horizons.
    “Linus, shhh, you’re okay. Linus, please, honey, you’re okay,” I say, trying one last time to convince him. I hate to leave him like this.
    “He’ll be fine, Mrs. Nickerson. It’s better if you just go.”
    Back in the car, I exhale. Finally, I’m on my way to work. The