by Julia Derek
I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “You’re welcome to borrow them from me. I don’t really need them when I’m at home writing. I can use the cane.” My mother had dropped off her own mother’s old cane for me to use.
He glared at me, the fork full of meatloaf and gravy-drenched mash frozen in midair. “It’s not funny. It hurts!”
I forced myself to get serious. “I’m sorry, honey. I know it must hurt. Thank God it wasn’t worse. You could have broken your leg like I did.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m never again playing any stupid sport. It’s such a waste of time.”
“And you don’t have to either.” I smiled at him. “Didn’t I tell you that if you didn’t like it after today, you could stop going?”
He huffed. “Yeah, I’m definitely not going back there again. I hate those idiots.”
I cocked a brow at him. “You hate all of them?”
“Yeah.” He avoided my gaze.
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “They are just idiots.” He shoved more food into his mouth and chewed for a little longer before swallowing this time.
“Well, you’ll never have to see those idiots again, either.” It dawned on me that he might have to see at least some of them in school still. “At least not during soccer practice. You’ve made it crystal clear to me that soccer is not for you.” I contemplated bringing up the fact that I wanted him to see the therapist I had called, but I figured tonight was not the right time for that. I had the distinct feeling that Shane wouldn’t be happy to hear I wanted him to see another shrink. He’d never been a fan of them. He would also realize that I had lied to him in regard to the doctor I’d left a message for. I had no doubt he’d remember the name of the doctor, as he was not only smart, but also had a very good memory. He wouldn’t like me having lied to him.
He didn’t answer, just kept eating his food until there was nothing left on the plate.
“Do you want more food?” I asked him. I wasn’t even half done with my own meal.
“No, thank you. Can I be excused?”
“Sure. Unless you want to have some ice cream for dessert? I have chunky chocolate Haagen-Dazs in the freezer.” I wiggled my brows at him suggestively.
The sound of anything sweet usually cheered him up when he was in a pissy mood like tonight.
“Nah, I’m stuffed. And I have to finish my homework.”
“Oh, okay. Go ahead and do that then.”
A little deflated, I watched him push out his chair and grab his plate, silverware, and empty glass. He brought it over to the sink in the kitchen counter, limping lightly. After he had rinsed off his stuff and stuck it in the dishwasher, he left the kitchen and walked down the hallway and into his room at the other end of the apartment.
I remained at the dinner table, eating my dinner. Or trying to eat might be a more accurate way of describing what I was doing; mostly, I was just shifting the food around on my plate. I wasn’t very hungry this evening.
It didn’t take long before it dawned on me why that was. I was suddenly filled with thoughts of Peter, and it made my stomach turn. More than six years had passed since his death, but to me it still felt like it had all happened yesterday, the pain of missing him was so all-encompassing. That is, when I allowed myself to think of my dead husband. I dealt with his memory by boxing in my feelings, keeping them separate from the rest of my brain. Most of the time that approach worked just fine. It had been the way Shane had limped over to the kitchen counter that had triggered the thoughts of Peter tonight, though.
Unlike his son, Peter had been a rather athletic man, who liked to play soccer and run in the woods. Where we’d lived in the edges of Long Island, there was a large park in which he had loved to run most days of the week. Once, when Shane was only four, he had played a game of soccer with some friends in that park. His team had won because Peter had scored the winning shot, but in order to do so, he had also tripped and twisted his ankle. It had taken him several days to recover during which he had moaned and complained worse than his toddler son did. Shane making his way over to the dishwasher had been just the way Peter had done it when he’d cleaned his side of the dinner table.
I pushed away my plate and limped over to the cupboard by the fridge and pulled out a bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon. I didn’t drink alcohol very often. The wine bottles in my house could remain there for many months, years even, before I got to them.
Usually, I only had some wine when I had friends over for dinner, or when the longing for my husband was too strong. Getting a little drunk was the most efficient way to soothe the pain. Tonight was definitely one of those nights when I could use some wine therapy.
I found a corkscrew in one of the drawers next to the sink and uncorked the bottle. Then I got a wine glass from a cupboard and filled it up with the thick, dark red liquid. I brought the bottle with me and walked into the living room where I curled up in a corner of the couch. Looking around the room, I searched for Macy only to remember that she was no longer with us. A horrific image of my son stabbing the cat in the country house flashed through my mind, but I managed to make it disintegrate before it could take root and add to my misery. I had nearly succeeded in convincing myself that Macy had just run away, not gotten rabies and turned crazy, forcing Shane to kill her. I much preferred the made-up version to the truth. I attributed the fact that Macy had only been with us a little over a year to my having dealt with losing her so well. There hadn’t been enough time for me to get attached to her. Well, that and the fact that I had been in the car accident had forced me to think of other things but dead pets.
I wasn’t in the mood to get another cat quite yet, though. Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I would get one before I was living on my own, and I couldn’t figure out why I felt that way. Perhaps it had something to do with Shane not being as much of an animal lover as I was, in particular of cats.
While I had grown up with both cats and dogs and couldn’t imagine a childhood without animals, neither Shane nor his father had been keen on pets. While Peter had been alive, we hadn’t had any animals, and it was only because a friend’s new boyfriend was allergic to cats that we had adopted Macy, a fully grown cat.
Now that I thought about it, Shane and Macy had never gotten along well. She had never leaped into his lap and curled up the way she had into mine. As a matter of fact, she tended to avoid Shane and Shane her. He rarely petted the cat, never played with it. I had asked him once if the cat bothered him, and he had just shrugged and shaken his head.
Since I found the gray and white ball of fur such great company when I felt lonely and watched TV in the evenings, I hadn’t thought much about it. Maybe there had been more animosity between Shane and Macy than I had suspected. If that was so, it would explain why Shane had reacted so strongly, so violently to Macy attacking him. It would also explain why Macy had launched herself on Shane and not me. The rabies had just served to unleash what was already brewing inside that furry little body.
Poor Macy, I thought and my heart ached for the animal almost as much as it did for how Peter had died.
I emptied my glass and filled it up again. I had a feeling that tonight I’d empty the wine bottle in record time.
18
The phone rang when I was in the middle of the last chapter of the book I was editing. I was so into the story that the sound of the ringing was jarring to my ears. Shuddering, I looked around the home office to see where I’d put my cell phone.
I was fairly convinced the call had gone to voicemail by the time I found it under some papers at the other side of the desk. It hadn’t.
I pressed the Talk key and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, my name is Dr. Karen Roth and I’d like to speak to Jennifer Hanson.”
“That’s me.” As I said those words, I quickly searched my mind for who Dr. Roth was. I knew I had heard the name before, but I couldn’t remember where or why. At the same time as the
woman’s comforting voice explained that I had left a message for her a few days earlier, it came to me. She was the child psychologist Dr. Wilkins wanted Shane to see.
“Oh yes, that’s right,” I said and straightened in the chair as though the woman could see me. “I did do that. I think, at the moment, we won’t be doing any therapy. My son and I figured out what the problem was, and he’s doing much better actually. I thought about Dr. Wilkins’s suggestion that Shane could use therapy to deal with having bumped into a dead person. I respectfully disagree it would be wise. I think having him talk about the issue again might trigger more trauma in him. See, I have a Master’s degree in psychology, so I’m not completely imagining this. Sometimes it’s better to just let things be.”
“Oh, okay. Well, if anything changes, you have my number.”
“I do have that. I’ll definitely get back to you if things change with him.”
I thanked her for calling, then hung up the call.
I really did feel it was a bad idea for Shane to be discussing what had happened out in the woods. Sometimes, you really did make things worse by talking about them over and over when what someone needed was just to forget. Children were more resilient than people gave them credit for, especially mental health professionals. Shane would be fine on his own. Well, under my guidance.
I returned to my work and had started on another manuscript by the time Shane returned from school.
The next couple of weeks moved along without anything interesting or unusual happening. My leg kept improving and I felt stronger. Fall fell over Northeast America at a steady pace, the days getting shorter and rain hitting the ground more than I would like, the skies gray and filled with giant clouds. Shane’s ankle healed quickly and he walked normally now. Instead of playing soccer, he had taken up playing the guitar with a man who gave lessons at his house. I thought it was a good idea, albeit a bit strange. Shane had never really been into playing instruments, but I was willing to give it a go if he thought he might enjoy it. Anything that would get him away from the computer and social media I encouraged.
It wasn’t until a Monday in early November that I found out what had happened to Dr. Wilkins. I read about it in the Uptown section of the NY Daily News.
Someone had broken into the psychologist’s Upper East Side apartment and stabbed him to death in the middle of the night. The police were still on the lookout for the perpetrator. It appeared like the motive for the break-in had been to kill the doctor, not to rob the apartment, as that seemed untouched.
A chill went through me as I kept reading the short article in the middle of the paper. The coroner estimated the murder to have taken place on Thursday night a week ago. The reason the body had been found four days later, on a Sunday afternoon, was because the therapist was single and it had been a weekend. The patients he was supposed to see on Friday hadn’t notified the police until Sunday that it appeared Dr. Wilkins was missing.
I stared at the words in the article, not actually seeing them any longer. Poor Dr. Wilkins. Why would anyone want to kill Dr. Wilkins? Could it be one of his patients who’d had a grudge against him? It had to be. People who dealt with mentally ill people must have a few of those in their lives, just like lawyers and detectives. Over the years, the few probably became several. Based on the framed certifications behind his chair in his office, Dr. Wilkins had been practicing psychology for decades.
I checked the article again to see if the name of the detective on the case was mentioned. I really wanted to talk to him or her, see if I could be of help.
There wasn’t a name in the article, so I had to call the police and ask them to find out for me.
Five minutes later I had learned that the detective handling the case was Detective Ivan Morales. The operator had given me all his contact information. She told me he would be happy to talk to me.
I called him and he picked up on the second ring.
“Ivan Morales,” a male, steady-sounding voice said with just a trace of an accent.
“Hello, my name is Jennifer Hanson and I was one of Dr. Wilkins’s patients. I was told you’re handling his murder case?”
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”
“Well, I was just calling to see if I could assist in the investigation. I knew Dr. Wilkins well. I used to see him a lot a few years ago, and I also went to see him a few weeks ago for a session.”
“Okay, thank you. Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to see Dr. Wilkins dead?”
“Um, not off the top of my head. Do you have any suspects?”
“No, not at the moment. But the investigation has barely started. We’re certainly going to go through the doctor’s patient load to see if there’s anyone in particular we should consider a threat. We do believe this was personal. So you can’t think of anyone like that right now?”
“Unfortunately not, but I’ll keep thinking and maybe I’ll come up with someone. I just saw the article about Dr. Wilkins’s murder in the paper, and I felt compelled to do something. It’s so awful. He was such a nice, kind man, a great therapist. I know he dealt with a lot of crazy people, but I still can’t see why anyone would want to kill him.”
“Yes, he had a good reputation in his field. Well, thanks for calling. If you do think of anything you believe might be helpful, please don’t hesitate to call me again. I’m sorry, but could you please tell me your name again?”
“Of course. It’s Jennifer Hanson.” I gave him my phone number as well, then we disconnected the call.
I felt a little silly having contacted the detective now. I hadn’t been particularly helpful, had I? Why had I thought I would make a difference in the investigation? It wasn’t like I knew what was going on with Dr. Wilkins’s other patients. I was well aware that he wasn’t allowed to discuss other patients, so what had I been thinking? Detective Morales had been exceedingly polite with me when he must have thought I was only wasting his time.
I shook my head and went to fill up my coffee cup.
19
November 15th was Shane’s thirteenth birthday, which fell on a Saturday this year. During the day, I had taken him and three friends of his to McDonalds, which happened to be Shane’s favorite place to eat. A few hours later, when the celebration was over, I took him shopping for a new laptop like I had promised he would get for his next birthday.
We found the right one for him after only half an hour, a MacBook Pro on which he could play his video games as well as edit all his photos. I had known all along that was what he had wanted, so I took him straight to the store where there was a sale on all Mac computers.
When we got back home later, Shane and I had dinner. This was the seventh birthday we spent without Peter joining us. Even though it had been many years now since he’d died, I couldn’t help but miss him as much as ever. The sound of his deep voice. The way he smelled faintly of soap and aftershave. His distinctly male, protective presence.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Shane asked, looking at me thoughtfully with those pretty eyes of his, blinking slowly.
I shook my head, snapping back to reality. I had allowed myself to float away on cushy dream clouds filled with Peter, what he might have been like today had he been alive. Would he have grays in his thick head of dark brown hair? He’d be forty-two now, so it was possible. If that were the case, it would only have made him more handsome, lent him an air of distinction.
I reached out and ran a knuckle over Shane’s cheek. “I’m sorry, honey. I just got to thinking of—” I caught myself before I could spell out what had gone through my head, tell Shane just how much I missed his dad. All that would accomplish would be for Shane to feel worse than he already did about what he had done to his father.
He had been six and a half at the time of the shooting, and from what I had been able to understand, he had very strong memories of the event. There was no need to increase the pain and guilt associated with those by bringing up Peter’s name and how I wished he was with us today.
According to the therapist Shane had been seeing, Shane experienced lots of guilt for what he had done.
“—of the latest book I’m editing,” I finished the sentence. “It’s been on my mind for days. It’s so very good! I think this author might well have a bestseller on her hands.”
Shane nodded. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a thriller about a man who feels trapped in a loveless marriage, and how he acts out because of this. Not a children’s book exactly,” I added with a half smile. Lovestruck had expanded recently, adding a thriller line.
“Does he kill people?” Shane asked, looking sincerely interested in the answer.
I stared at him. “Um, yeah, in fact he does. What made you think of that?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Does he see a therapist about feeling trapped in his marriage?”
“Yes, he does. How did you figure that out?”
He grinned big. “I’m a genius, Mom. Did you already forget that?”
I laughed. “No, of course not.”
The grin on Shane’s face disappeared as quickly as it had gotten there. “Did he kill his own therapist?”
I could feel my eyebrows furrow. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because therapists can be real annoying sometimes.”
I tilted my head. “They can? How so?”
Shane looked away from me and out the window that displayed a dreary sky filled with rain-heavy clouds. “They ask so many questions. Get mixed up in stuff that’s really none of their business.”
I stared at him in silence for a few seconds. “It sounds like you have experience with this behavior. Are you telling me your therapist did this to you?”
Shane insisted on glancing out the window.
I grabbed his wrist. “Shane. Please look at me.”
Reluctantly, he turned his head slowly toward me. “What part?”
Irritation grew inside me. Why was he acting so weird? So flippant? It wasn’t like him. I inhaled quietly through my nostrils to calm down; snapping at Shane didn’t improve any situation. I needed to remain composed. “Did your therapist ask you too many questions?”
