Save Her, Abigail Osborne [ebook reader for surface pro txt] 📗

in the hospital. If Cecelia died, could Sam forgive her for killing his mother?

2

It was spite that made her do it.

Friday Night Dinner was a requirement in the Cavendish family. Each week they were obligated to convene at Cavendish Manor, the stately home that housed Sam’s parents Cecelia and Alistair, where Flora was treated to four courses of rich, decadent food along with generous helpings of thinly veiled criticisms and disparaging remarks. Over time she had learnt to deflect or ignore Cecelia’s subtle but persistent attacks. But still reeling from her day at work, she had returned fire with the only arrow she had in her quiver. One she knew would not miss its mark. If only she could explain to Sam about Linda, to explain why she had lashed out.

Linda’s face filled her mind once more and tears pricked her eyes.

From the first day since she had opened Harper’s Art Centre for Autism, Flora had had to force herself to leave each day. She would find art supplies that just had to be organised. As she held each brush and pencil, she would relive the tiny steps of progress in each child who had used it. She had opened the centre to give children with autism a place to thrive, to grow and meet others like themselves. It didn’t suit every child: some with severe social anxiety couldn’t cope with the sensory overload of being around other people. But for many of the children she worked with she was able to help them to use art to communicate. It was fulfilling, emotional and she loved every minute of it. That was until today, when she met Linda.

On the first Friday of every month Flora ran an introductory session where parents could bring their children to see what facilities were on offer and how their children interacted in the sessions. Generally, the fathers came to see what their money was being spent on, whilst the mothers were normally brimming with hope that they might finally find a way to connect with their child.

Flora made her way around the room, stopping to interact with each child. Some were hesitant at first, picking up their paint brush as if it was a bomb, whilst others confidently flicked paint onto their canvas. There was always mess, which horrified the mothers, but Flora quickly assured them that they could make as much mess as they want. It was important to her that the children had the freedom to express themselves in whichever way they chose.

Whilst the rain lashed at the windows, Flora had been with a bespectacled and skinny young boy named Oliver. Oliver had decided to paint with his elbows much to his mother’s disgust. She kept trying to wipe the paint off his elbows and shove a paintbrush into his hand. A red tinge coloured his cheeks and Flora could see a ‘meltdown’ building.

‘Oliver! Cut it out,’ Oliver’s mother whispered sternly, looking around red-faced to check no one else was watching. Flora hastened to intervene when she saw the boy’s hands reach for the scissors to begin cutting, believing his was following the instructions to ‘cut it out’. Gently, she encouraged Alison, Oliver’s mother to let him paint with his elbows and suggested that they both joined in. Flora hid a smile at the horror on Alison’s face as her son began to smear dollops of red paint on her elbows. It was just as Flora was applying yellow paint to her own elbow to reassure Alison, that the door to the centre had flown open.

A woman hurtled through the door, windswept and soaked through. She looked like she had tried to fight the elements and lost. Behind her stood a small boy with black hair plastered to his face and terrified brown eyes. Cleaning herself up, Flora had approached them with a warm smile. The woman was using her sleeve to wipe furiously at the rain trickling down her face, smoothing down her black bob that framed an angular face. Her son stood resolutely behind her, hiding from the room. Skin darker than his mother’s, he was striking, with his piercing and intelligent brown eyes and caramel skin. He couldn’t have been more than nine years old, but it was already possible to see he had the makings of a handsome man.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Flora.

‘We’re here for the introductory session. The bloody bus didn’t turn up, so we had to leg it.’ The woman’s jaw was tensed, and she squared her shoulders. She had the posture of a someone used to fighting for their right to exist. Some of the other parents were looking over at the bedraggled woman with obvious distaste, already making snap judgements. Flora bristled and shot them a pointed look that had them return their focus to their own children. Turning to the pair, she tried to smile as widely as possible.

‘Not a problem. Let’s get you dried off and then I can show you around.’ She gestured to them to follow her. ‘Sorry I didn’t catch your name?’

‘I’m Linda. This is Ethan.’ She pointed over her shoulder to her hidden son. Flora’s heart went out to him when she saw the unadulterated terror in his eyes. His little body was quaking where he stood, his knuckles white from gripping his mother’s coat so tightly.

‘Right, Ethan and Linda. My name is Flora. We are going to go to the room over there to take off your coat and hang it up to dry. Then I will show you the different rooms in the centre. Then, if you would like to, Ethan, you can try painting or drawing.’

Flora was always careful of her words when she was at work. It was so important to be clear and unambiguous. She’d learnt the hard way on her placement at university when she had told a girl she had been working with to ‘go and wash your hands in the toilet.’ She had found the girl washing her