“Polly, please,” I interrupted.
“Polly,” Rose corrected with a small grin. “I’m not expectin’ you to make all those calls, I’ve already contacted them. There are few providers with a mark next to their name who’ve indicated apreferenceto speak with a doctor, rather than acoordinator.” Rose pointed to herself, then let her drawl slip a little more. “I didn’t tell ’em I was an ER nurse for a decade before this. Better to let ’em think I’m one of them backwoods folks who was raised on moonshine and mud.”
My mouth gaped. “Did someone actually say that to you?”
Rose’s eyes flashed. “Not in so many words, bless their hearts.”
Looking at the list, I saw only a handful of names with a star next to their names, which seemed much more manageable, but I frowned just the same at the thought of talking to these providers. I didn’t want to bring her into my family drama, but I could handle talking to elitist jerks. I’d spent over twenty years placating the biggest jerk of them all.
“When will you start hiring advocates?” I asked Rose.
Rose glanced at her shut office door, then leaned closer to me. “We haven’t started the hirin’ process, yet. The school board has to approve my proposal first and they were deadlocked at the last meeting: three said yes, three said no.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“Not out loud. Brad Goldenstein, that’s the school board president, found a loophole that the grant funds could be used for anythin’ the state considers a disability, including orthopedic disabilities. He announced this last month, when lo and behold, a proposal of his own materialized out of thin air. It had some small upgrades to equipment for students with physical disabilities, but he proposed that the majority of the funds should go to resurfacing the high school and middle school basketball courts and football fields. Mind you, he’s got four sons—all of whom play basketball and football. He tried to explain it away, saying it would reduce injury. And while I don’t oppose anything like that, only three percent of the students in the district have orthopedic disabilities. But forty percent of our students, which is above the US average, have a plan for a mental health diagnosis.”
“The rest of the board didn’t see through him?” I asked Rose.
Rose’s face took on a sour expression. “It’s really only two of the members who are the holdouts besides Mr. Goldenstein, but he, is the stickiest of ’em. One school board member is for sure in Goldenstein’s pocket, and the other member took the opinion of Dr. Dixon over any of us who work in special education. When Dr. Dixon spoke in favor of Mr. Goldenstein’s proposal at the last school board meetin’, the vote was split three to three.”
I wanted to tell Rose that sticky wasn’t the right word. Smarmy, slimy, and sleazy were what came to mind.
“Any idea why Dr. Dixon would be in favor of this Brad Goldenstein’s proposal?”
Rose chuckled sadly. “Dr. Dixon plays golf with Mr. Goldenstein weekly and somehow managed to snag tickets to every Vols game this year.” Rose leaned forward and patted my hand. “That’s University of Tennessee football, hun. I forget you’re practically a Yankee.”
I actually knew that reference, but let it go. “With Dr. Dixon retiring, how do you see my role in this?”
Excitement danced in her eyes. “What we really need, is someone who can advocate for these program upgrades to the school board. We need someone who won’t roll over to Goldenstein’s demands. I ’reckon if we can even turn one vote in our favor at the next school board meetin’, our proposal will get the green light.”
What kind of political nightmare had I walked into? I suddenly felt caught. Rose didn’t want someone who would roll over to any demand. I had a lot of practice placating smarmy, elitist pricks, but standing up to them was a new development.
“When’s the next school board meeting?”
“It’s the first Friday in August so about three more weeks.”
It was an awful lot to take on. I know I needed the money, but was I really what the school district needed?
Then, I pictured Max crying in the backseat of my car, pleading with me to take him home every morning when I dropped him off for kindergarten. I recalled the frustration I felt when his school attributed his behavior as “normal” school adjustment for his age, telling me he was smart so there was no problem. How good it felt to finally meet with a doctor at Max’s IOP program who understood what we were going through, who helped Max regain some control, only to be met with a brick wall at his school when he was discharged from his IOP. I wondered if things would have been different for us, if there were someone like Rose at his school.
I was nodding before I even realized it. “It sounds like we have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
The next hour flew by; Rose and I made plans to meet again later this week. I was truly excited by something at work for the first time in years. It felt like I could make a difference not only for my son, but also for kids with similar struggles.
Pulling into the driveway, I saw Jace and Ryla sitting in one of the spare garage bays, door open. Ryla waved happily to me. As I got out of the car, I noticed Jace was sitting strangely: sitting on bent knees, his arms were straight, and his palms flat on the garage floor. I squinted as I walked closer. It looked like there was something . . . oh my God! There was something looped around his neck!
Hurrying closer, I saw that yes, there was indeed one of Ryla’s jump ropes tied around Jace’s neck and the other end was held by my daughter. Panic gripped me as I took in Jace’s tongue, which was hanging out of his mouth, and his chest was moving up and down in short pants.
“Ryla! Did you tie that around Jace’s neck? Jace, are you ok?”
Jace merely looked at me, calm as ever, despite being strangled by my daughter.
Ryla shook her head at me. “This isn’t Jace, Mom. This is Kevin.”
“Ruff!” Jace . . .barked.
