Every Fifteen Minutes

by Lisa Scottoline

  Eric shut off the water, thinking. Like any married couple, he and Caitlin knew each other’s secrets, and many of hers concerned being a mother. Caitlin’s own mother, Teresa, whom she used to ironically call Mother Teresa, had been a cool and distant mom, and Caitlin had always worried that she wasn’t maternal. She’d felt guilty that she enjoyed being a prosecutor, and she’d always doubted that her postpartum depression was truly hormonal. She hadn’t wanted to stay home when Hannah was born, not even for a month, and she quit nursing after two weeks.

  Eric opened the glass door of the shower, stepped out, and reached for a towel, drying himself off. He began to think he could be the natural primary custodian for Hannah. The fact that he was a father, not a mother, was simply beside the point, wasn’t it? What defined a man? A father? Did he have the balls to quit the hospital and work only at home? How much of his own self-worth was tied up in being chief at Havemeyer General? Would it affect his career? His status in the profession? His private clients?

  Eric tucked the towel around his waist, catching sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes were an intense blue, close together and sunk into his eye sockets; Caitlin always called them mournful, but he preferred to think of them as intense because it didn’t sound so symptomatic. His short blondish hair stuck up like a brush, even dripping wet, but she used to think that was cute. He had a strong nose, narrow with just a slight bump, and thin lips; she had liked his smile. He was tall and strong, with broad shoulders, pronounced shoulder caps, and fairly cut abs from running.

  You have the best body of all the husbands, Caitlin used to say.

  Eric realized that he couldn’t look at any of his features without reference to her. He didn’t know if that happened to every married guy, but he’d come to see himself only through her eyes. Caitlin had gone from being his girlfriend, to his best friend, to his wife, to the mother of his child. She was his only family and now he had to decide whether to take their only daughter from her; make her the every-other-weekend parent, the afterthought, the footnote, all the bad things he’d felt lately. He didn’t know if he could do it to her.

  He left the bathroom, securing the towel around his waist because he hadn’t had a chance to put up curtains. He’d discovered this was a problem in his second week in the new house, surprised to catch the older woman across the street watching him through binoculars. Caitlin used to tell him that old ladies always had a thing for him, but he shooed that thought away. Then he flashed on poor Mrs. Teichner and her grandson, but he put that thought out of his mind, too.

  He walked barefoot down the narrow hallway, with its hardwood floors and eggshell-colored walls, trying to imagine how the house would work with Hannah here, full-time. It was a charming carriage house in Devon, with weathered brown shingles and forest-green shutters, only ten minutes away from his old house, in the same school district. It had two bedrooms roughly the same size; one facing north for him and the other facing south for Hannah. She loved it and never got homesick, even overnight, which they did only on weekends, so she wouldn’t be shuffled hither and yon during the school week. Here, she played in the same playground, went for ice cream at the same Baskin-Robbins, and picked out books at the same local library, Wayne Memorial, and bookstore, either the Barnes & Noble in Valley Forge or their favorite indie, Children’s Book World.

  He stopped in the threshold of Hannah’s bedroom, assessing it with new eyes. It was a good size and held a double bed, a white dresser and bookshelf, and a matching white desk, situated next to a large window that overlooked the backyard. It was sunny and inviting in daytime, but right now it looked unfinished and unwelcoming; there was no headboard on the bed, nor any curtains on the windows. He had bought her a plain beige blanket, unlike the flowery quilt she had at home; the walls were the same white as throughout the apartment, although Hannah’s room at home was a girly pink, her favorite color. If Hannah was going to be here full-time, he would have to warm the room up.

  Eric felt a surge of new energy. He had painted to earn money in high school, and he could turn this bedroom into a pink palace. He checked his watch, and it was ten o’clock, so Home Depot was still open. Then he could run over to one of the big box stores and buy a lot of pink things—a comforter, some pillows, stuffed animals and games, more books, some pink flowery curtains.

  His thoughts clicked away, and a vision came together in his mind. Hannah had also been talking about missing Peachy, their gray tabby cat who had died last year. Maybe it was time to go to the shelter and rescue a new kitten. Unlike Caitlin, Eric loved animals and wasn’t embarrassed to say he was a cat man.

  His phone started to ring in the bathroom, and he hurried back down the hallway, dashed to the bathroom, and picked up his phone, its screen glowing in the dark. The number on the screen wasn’t one he recognized, but it wasn’t Kristine’s either. He picked up.

  “Dr. Parrish, it’s Max Jakubowski.” Max’s tone sounded urgent. “I met you at the hospital, with my grandmother.”

  “Sure, hello, Max.” Eric’s heart leapt to his throat, thinking the worst. “How is she? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine, she’s asleep, but we talked, like, about me. I decided, I would like to come and see you.”

  “Good.” Eric felt relieved. The boy was in crisis, and it was a good sign that he was asking for the help he needed. “When would you like to come in?”

  “Can it be as soon as possible? Did you say you see clients on weekends?”

  “Yes.

  “What about this weekend? Can I come tomorrow?”

  “I think so, let me check.” Eric thumbed to the calendar function on his phone. He was booked from nine o’clock until three, but he could start earlier. “You can be the first appointment, at eight o’clock. Does that work for you?”

  “Yes, totally, thank you so much.”

  “Good. You have the address on my card, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Make sure you use the driveway on the left, which is the office entrance.” Eric’s new office was a sunroom on the back of the carriage house he rented and, because it used to belong to an orthodontist, had its own separate entrance and driveway.

  “Yes, thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.”

  “Great. Good night. Give my best to your grandmother.”

  “I will, thanks.” Max sounded calmer. “Good night.”

  Eric hung up, then scrolled to the text function, where Kristine’s text was staring him in the face, unanswered. He deleted it and got dressed to go out. He couldn’t believe he was choosing Home Depot over Hot Medical Student.

  At this rate, he would never have sex again.

  Chapter Eight

  3. I lie easily and well.

  Circle one: Doesn’t apply to me. Partially applies to me. Fully applies to me.

  I can’t sleep. I’m too hyper. I’ve cleared the first, maybe the biggest, obstacle. It took time, but it’s working.

  The enemy has been engaged.

  I can’t settle down. I feel a thrill, a tingling, not excitement but more nervous, like anticipation, if darker.

  The clock by my bed reads 3:02 A.M., but I keep tossing and turning, shifting onto my right side, then my left. I get up to fiddle with the air-conditioning, twisting the knob to HI, then to LO. Why can’t they spell English?

  Idiots.

  I go online and play a video game, but I can’t focus, so I go back to bed. I’m bored with these losers and I don’t want to be WorthyAdversary tonight. I found myself a real-life game, and my character is about to destroy someone who needs to be taken down because he’s unworthy and weak, a lesser angel.

  I haven’t felt this good and bad in a long time, and lying here in the darkness, naked under the sheets, it feels like the cotton is burning into my skin, setting it tingling.

  Everything is inferior to this feeling, the beginning of a plan. It’s like the Friday night to the weekend that I’ve been waiting for.

  I turn over a
nd stuff the pillow under my neck, but still can’t calm down. Even though the room is dark and I am still, the night feels somehow alive, my body suspended, floating, flying, my nerves electrified, my heart pumping, my blood racing, adrenaline racing through my system, setting all of my neurons firing.

  Sizzle! Bam! Pop!

  I’m a video game.

  This is as excited as I get. Sociopaths have underactive amygdalas, the emotional center of the brain. You can go online and see for yourself, thermal MRIs of a sociopath’s brain show where the amygdala is supposed to be hot red and orange, a sociopath’s amygdala is dark, black, and cold, like permanent midnight.

  Works for me.

  Right now, my thoughts are running free, corkscrewing back in time, to the very beginning, to the very first time I felt this feeling.

  I remember it.

  I was seven years old, and my mother had a boyfriend over, and this one had a kid of his own, a fat-faced son named Jimmy. She put me in the backyard to play with him while they went inside the house and we knew what they were doing, even then I knew what she was doing, I heard the noises.

  By the way, it’s not my mother’s fault I’m a sociopath.

  And she can’t take the credit either.

  The fact is, I was born this way.

  I’ve always known I was different, right from the beginning, and so did my mother, that’s why she kept her distance. She was scared of me, I could see it in her eyes, and she could see it in mine, who I was, the truth.

  I never felt like anybody else, I always knew I was better. Smarter. Special. But I knew how to imitate them, how to make them think I was like them, and I was pretty good even way back when, like that day when Porky Pig Jimmy came to visit and I gave myself my first test.

  I left Porky to play in the backyard, went inside the house, and took his father’s blue plastic Bic lighter from the end table. The noises came from the bedroom so I knew my mother was still busy, and I took the plastic lighter, set fire to a newspaper on the couch, and slipped the lighter in Porky Pig’s Ninja Turtles backpack. Then I went out to the backyard, where Porky was writing his name in the dirt with a stick.

  It only took five minutes for mom and her boyfriend to come running out, half-dressed, puffing and panting, scared that the house almost burned down. At first my mother thought she left a cigarette burning, but the boyfriend figured out that it was a set fire and accused us.

  Of course I denied it, and so did Porky.

  But then the boyfriend realized his lighter was missing and went looking, and lo and behold, where did it turn up but behind old Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and whoever the other one was, I forget.

  What I remember is how fast the boyfriend grabbed Porky by the scruff of the neck and cracked him across the face, sending the kid flying backwards.

  I covered my face.

  So nobody could see me smile.

  That’s what I feel like right now.

  Awesome.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Eric opened the door to his waiting room to find Max Jakubowski sitting in one of the wooden chairs, hunched over his phone, scrolling the screen with his thumb. “Max? Good morning.”

  “Oh, hi.” Max looked up, slipped his phone quickly into his back pocket, and jumped to his sneakers, as if he were coming to attention.

  “Have trouble finding the office?”

  “No, used GPS.”

  “Good. Come on in.” Eric gestured Max through the open door to his office, and as the boy shuffled past, Eric thought he seemed more troubled than he’d been in the hospital. Max hung his head and had darkish circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept much. His forehead was knit under his bangs, and his mood seemed generally depressed.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Parrish.” Max stopped in the center of the office, his eyes grateful, if guarded. Up close, Eric could see that his pale, smooth skin had no trace of beginning stubble.

  “No problem. Please sit down.” Eric gestured him to the oversized forest-green chair across from his own.

  “Thanks.” Max eased onto the chair, bending from the knees sharply, as stiff as a stick figure. He had on loose jeans, another black T-shirt, and worn Converse sneakers. “I didn’t realize you were such a big deal at the hospital. I looked you up online.”

  “That’s me, a very big deal.” Eric smiled, trying to put him at ease.

  “So this is what a psychiatrist’s office looks like.” Max looked around, wheeling his scruffy head.

  “Don’t draw too many conclusions. It used to belong to an orthodontist.”

  Max smiled uncomfortably, still looking around, and Eric took a moment to scan the pale green walls, which had four panels of double-hung windows on three sides. On the right was his modern desk of tiger maple, which he kept uncluttered, a green-gray Aeron ergonomic chair, and a low walnut bookcase stuffed with his textbooks, professional journals, and the DSM. Atop the bookcase was a Keurig coffeemaker, next to a few clean mugs and stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff he used to check vitals. Three oversized chairs of a matching green-patterned fabric faced each other in the center of the room. He hadn’t had a chance to hang anything on the walls, but there wasn’t much wall space anyway. He kept his diplomas in his office at the hospital.

  “There’s no couch.”

  “That’s for something called psychoanalysis.” Eric smiled again. It was a common misconception. “We can sit here and talk.”

  “Oh.” Max gestured outside the window, where butterfly bushes shaded the room from direct sunlight, making shifting shadows. It was quiet outside, except for the chirping of some noisy blue jays and a rumble of a distant leaf blower. “I like the trees and all.”

  “I like that, too.”

  “Is that your family?” Max’s gaze fell on the bookcase, with its photographs of Caitlin and Hannah.

  “Yes.” Eric nodded, but didn’t elaborate. He used self-disclosure judiciously, mostly because he didn’t want to waste time. Not all psychiatrists kept personal photos in their offices, but since his private clients were never dangerous, he didn’t worry about his family’s safety.

  “So, what do I call you? Dr. Parrish, like at the hospital?”

  “Yes, Dr. Parrish is fine.” Eric lifted his computer tablet from the end table, then rested it in his lap. He always picked it up at the beginning of the session, so his clients wouldn’t attribute any significance to when he reached for it, later.

  “I have a note from my grandmother, to say I can come.”

  “That’s not necessary, you can consent to therapy on your own.”

  “She thought it was like school, and it has the check.” Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of stationery, which he handed to Eric, who skimmed it—Dr. Parrish, God bless you for taking care of my Max—written in a shaky hand that summoned a lump to Eric’s throat. A check was inside, and he set them both on the end table.

  “Perfect, thanks. I’m glad you decided to come.” Eric typed Max Jakubowski and the date on the notepad. Later he’d print the notes and put them in a patient file, which he kept locked in his home office. He never recorded his sessions.

  “My grandmother really wanted me to come. She likes you a lot.” Max clasped his hands together in his lap, his nervousness making him rigid.

  “I like her too. How is she today?”

  “Not great, to be honest. She was tired this morning. She usually tries to have some coffee around seven o’clock—she likes instant coffee, crystals or whatever—but not today. She got up but she went back to sleep without her coffee.” Max bit his lip. “It kinda worried me, like, I was thinking, it’s so weird to know that, well, one day I’ll go to wake her up and she won’t wake up, and like, that can happen anytime.”

  “That’s very difficult.”

  “Yeah, like, I don’t know if it’s better to know or not know. I can’t really believe it’s happening.”

  Eric thought of Laurie’s telling him that Mrs. Teich
ner had two weeks to live, but he didn’t share that. “I’m sure. It’s a very difficult thing to cope with.”

  “I know, and I had to come see you, but not because she says so. She doesn’t really know what’s going on, with me. I keep it from her.” Max paused, blinking. “I guess I have to tell you, I want to, it’s why I’m here, why I knew I would come, like, sooner or later. My symptoms are getting worse.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “I have OCD.”

  “Tell me about your OCD.” Eric used Max’s term, but wasn’t taking it at face value. He would have to know Max better before he made a diagnosis, and he’d have to learn the boy’s family history, to determine his biological vulnerabilities. Late adolescence and early adulthood was a dangerous time, especially for boys; it was around Max’s age that “first breaks” usually occurred, in that bipolarity and schizophrenia reared their ugly heads.

  “Dr. Parrish, I really need you to give me some meds. I’ve done the research, I know meds can help OCD. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, it is.” Eric encountered this all the time in practice; if a pill existed, patients wanted it. He wasn’t anti-meds, but he wasn’t about to order anything unless it was called for, especially with an adolescent.

  “Luvox and Paxil are good for OCD, I read. Is that what I’ll get?”

  “Before we talk about meds, let’s talk about your symptoms.” Eric usually prescribed an SSRI for OCD, like fluoxetine, which was FDA approved, or Celexa, Zoloft, and Luvox, but all of them came with black box warnings for adolescents, which meant they could result in suicidality.

  “What about my symptoms?”

  “Your OCD, as you say. How does it manifest itself?” Eric wanted to get Max talking, the goal in a first session. “Many people use the term OCD as slang. I need to know your symptoms.”

  “I have a thing I have to do, like, every fifteen minutes. I have to tap my head and say something and right on time.” Max frowned. “I researched myself online. It’s called rituals.”