by Lisa Preston
“You have three big brothers, don’t you?”
Greer nodded and drummed his heels on the sofa.
“Which brother brought the fish home?”
Maybe that wasn’t a puke stain on the floor. Maybe it was part of the design in the pattern. Warm earthy colors. The rug looked soft, but maybe it would feel itchy if he just plopped right down on it, face-first.
“Was it Ben who brought fish home?”
Greer looked at the man. Ben almost never fished. This man knew nothing about his family, hadn’t paid attention to anything Momma and Papa must have told him, not even the basic stuff.
“Was it Frankie?”
His brothers’ and sisters’ names were always called out in order. They were born one a year, pretty much boy-girl-boy-girl-boy. First there’d been Adam, who died as a baby, then Ben, Clara, Doug, Emma, and Frankie. Almost twenty years after Frankie, when Momma was going to have Greer, they’d known he’d have a G name. They’d thought he’d be a girl.
He was so glad he’d been born a boy.
“Did Frankie bring fish home, Greer?”
Frankie fished even less than Ben. Frankie lived in the city and traveled with his guitar all the time. And it still irked Greer that in guessing who brought trout—one didn’t say fish, but the kind: trout—Dr. MacLean had skipped right from Ben to Frankie.
He scowled. “It was Doug.”
“Why did it bother you for Doug to bring fish home?”
“It was trout.”
“Your mother told me you got upset when Doug brought trout home.”
Uncertain what this man was trying to wrangle out of him, Greer shut his open mouth, pressing his lips tight.
The man just looked curious, his eyebrows pinched together.
Greer felt pierced to the heart over how Dr. MacLean could stab him with stuff, with not getting the way life had turned out. He took a long, shuddering breath, remembering those trout on Doug’s stringer and how he’d pictured them before Doug walked in the door with the silvery bodies.
He could see things that would happen. And now he looked away, shaking his head in fury at how right his imagination had been. Through the window, a raven taunted a sparrow. Several other small birds began to harass the raven. The smooth blackness of the bird, the deep sheen beckoned the watcher. Trancelike, Greer stared. That bird had no problems, not really. He could just fly away from those little birds.
Dr. MacLean cocked his head. “Can you tell me why you got upset?”
Greer’s shoulders dropped with facing this man who asked the same thing over and over. There was nothing for it but to wade in. He stemmed the shaky breaths long enough to get it out. “I guessed it.” And he didn’t mean to wail as he spoke.
“You guessed what?”
“I pictured it. Before it happened.” There. Now this man would know he was like a psychic. If he was. And if he was, didn’t that mean that the bad man was going to kill everyone, since he could picture their dead bodies?
Greer sucked in his lower lip, but not fast enough to stem the shaking sobs that bubbled up his throat. He wasn’t alone on the sofa anymore, the doctor sat there, talking softly about stuff, but Greer didn’t listen.
Dr. MacLean peered, like he could see inside, and Greer knew there were things inside that no one was supposed to see, that he couldn’t say. He squinted against unwanted memories. The woman gurgling on the ground, the man’s belly beyond the shaking pistol barrel. The promise he’d had to give to save his family. The threat of what would happen if he didn’t keep his promise to the man.
Then came the thought of things that hadn’t happened yet. Momma and Papa and Ben and Clara and Doug and Emma and Frankie all dead. Maybe Maddie and Wes and Ryan, too. Maybe Gram. Maybe Caroline. Maybe Malcolm. Maybe Maddie’s baby that no one but Greer even knew was coming.
There was no telling where it would end. All cold, bloody corpses in the house for Greer to sort out and take care of. There couldn’t be enough tears to cover it.
Did it end when he died and no sooner?
Dr. MacLean was still talking but Greer turned the voice into a hum while he looked for other things to think about even as he agreed with some of the stuff Dr. MacLean said with sobbing nods.
He imagined his parents in the waiting room where there was a big glass door to outside, and the door to this room and a door to the bathroom and, down a hallway, for sure one door to another office. There was only one door in Dr. MacLean’s room. There was only one way out.
It will happen because I can see their bodies, Greer decided. But he never saw his own dead body with his family.
The mean man in the woods never said he’d kill Greer.
The thought was striking in every way. The man would kill if Greer broke his word. If Greer never, ever told anyone anything … Greer didn’t like the solution, but it was there. Bothered as he was that he never saw his own corpse in his mind’s eye, he studied on the awfulness and finally decided it was just the man’s very best punishment, leaving Greer alive, not dead. Ugliness grew large in his mind as he pondered.
He’ll kill my family, but leave me. Leave me to clean up and live with the way it is.
He had reckoned it all up one side and down the other. There was one way out.
His chest shook and his chin crumpled. Next thing he knew, he was bawling bad. After five minutes of crying and comforting and trying to get it together and losing it again and starting over, Dr. MacLean asked again.
“Why did it upset you that you thought Doug would catch trout?”
This was the kind of question that had to be answered with words. Greer frowned, preferring those he could nod or shake his head to. “B-be-because I don’t like to guess right. It’s not good. I don’t like to see what will happen.” His sniffles turned to sobs and he nodded gratefully when the doctor asked if he’d like to take a little break.
Joe MacLean gave a thoughtful pause and studied the world beyond the window, giving his new patient a few moments to quell the anxiety. There was old ground to be recovered, rather than trusting that previous professionals had thoroughly surveyed the possibilities. He had the notes, suggestive of an anxiety disorder or possibly a more significant disturbance trending toward psychosis, but he had to try again.
“Greer, do you know the difference between good touching and bad touching?”
The boy paused, his eyes up and to the left, and then he looked at the man.
MacLean watched Greer consider the question and repeated, “Do you understand the difference between those two things?”
The boy nodded.
“Can you explain it to me, so I can see if we understand it in the same way?”
“Bad touching is hurting someone.” The answer was quick and bitter.
MacLean paused to see if something would be added, weighed the response, then asked, “What’s good touching like?”
The boy shrugged, staying stony.
“Have you ever had a good touch?” MacLean asked, his tone conversational. And when the boy stayed silent, he added, “Never? A million times?”
The boy laughed and gave all the assurance about healthy hugs by his momma and papa and gram and big brothers and sisters and his teacher and friends and friends’ parents. A child with so many adult siblings, well, there was a lot of contact opportunity, and the exponent factor in contact through friends of friends was staggering.
“Have you ever had a bad touch?”
The child looked away.
MacLean kept his tone chatty. “Greer, tell me, do you know what private parts are?”
Greer hesitated and nodded.
“I think it’s the parts that a swimsuit covers. What do you think?” After an agreeable nod, MacLean added, “Greer, have you ever had a touch on your private parts?”
The boy shook his head.
“Really? My folks cleaned me up when I was a little boy. I was young then, but I remember them washing me. It happened to everyone, I thought.”
&n
bsp; A nod. “But that’s not bad.”
“Okay, let’s talk about bad touches.” Dr. MacLean waited for another nod then asked, “Can you tell me about any bad touches you’ve had on your private parts?”
“Never.”
MacLean nodded. “You could never tell me?”
“I’ve never had any bad touches.”
“What do you think someone should do if they got a bad touch?”
“Run and yell and fight and tell everyone.”
MacLean grinned. “That’s a pretty good answer.”
The boy grinned back, lips sealed. MacLean could see his pleasure in having gotten an answer right. There had no doubt been an awful lot of “no” in the descent. Anxious, tiresome doctor visits, concerned parents, school problems, disturbed sleep.
“Are there things you can’t talk about?”
A slight rise of the face and a greater drop served as assent. MacLean let that cook for quite some time before asking in the softest voice possible how the boy felt.
“I’m scared,” Greer whispered in stilted, struggling sobs.
MacLean nodded. “I want to find out why. I want you to feel safe. What might happen if you did talk about things you feel like you can’t talk about?”
When the boy violently shook his head, MacLean talked about the size of some undertakings, about people sometimes thinking they couldn’t take things back, about not wanting to hurt anyone. About how Greer was safe right then, and he could say whenever he felt unsafe or scared. When they went past their time, MacLean unobtrusively pressed a button that would trigger calming reassurances from a coworker to the parents fermenting apprehension in the waiting room. The boy nodded when MacLean went back to the idea of stuff that couldn’t be talked about.
Finally, little Greer Donner nodded and sighed when MacLean murmured with him about fears, about wants, about death.
But deep into his first session with the Donner child, Joe MacLean came out of his chair and knelt before the boy, the notepad abandoned, the pen laid to rest on the paper. The child’s desperate bid for clarity had come clean.
The boy and the man exhaled together.
MacLean knew he didn’t have the kid’s problem pegged when Greer admitted relief in telling his shocker, but he had a glimmer of how to better help the boy. Little answers could get them to big answers.
Finally, MacLean asked Greer to accompany him to the waiting room and they stepped out of his office to the boy’s frightened-stiff parents. Down the hallway, a woman in tinted glasses opened a door to reveal a solid golden retriever in her office. The woman smiled and beckoned.
MacLean looked at Greer and pointed to the woman. “Here’s someone else for you to talk to.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone else.”
“Well,” MacLean said, “you can watch TV or read or play any of the games in the waiting room. This lady will hang out with you, play a game if you want, whatever you like. I’m going to talk to your parents for a few minutes.”
Ardy Donner tousled his son’s hair, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head, his other hand on the small of his wife’s back. Bella whispered something in the kid’s ear and got what she wanted from Greer, a giggle.
Things were not fitting. MacLean kept himself from scratching his head and asked the woman partner, “Would you please schedule a pre-admission consult at Southbank ASAP?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled as though she’d been given a great offer and went to her knees in front of Greer, looking to the boy for a plan of what they might do. “I’m going to make one brief call then maybe you’d like to see my dog.”
The boy drew himself up on a chair and the Donner parents followed MacLean into his office. He closed the door firmly and indicated his comfortable sofa, choosing the seat closest to them, the better to communicate with low voices, the better to keep things calm. He knew they expected him to help, because their daughter Emma swore he could help. They were counting on her promise, paying him hundreds of dollars. She told us you got to the heart of things. They believed in their daughter as much as their youngest son.
I remember Emma, he’d assured them. They’d liked that.
They would not like him firing them.
Bella leaned forward, responding as MacLean eyed them carefully. Ardy’s arm went around her shoulders.
“I think this is a very troubled boy.” MacLean’s tone was grave and he weighed their reaction. Their nods and frowns were real. He continued. “I’d like to confirm what is known in his life in the last year. Any losses, threats of parental loss especially. Who he’s close to and who he has friction with. Everyone who takes care of him, ever. Let’s rule some things out.”
“Say it.” Ardy beckoned with his chin.
MacLean nodded. “I tend to think that he has not been molested—”
“Everyone in the family took lie detector tests,” Ardy said.
“Pardon?”
“Well, you know, that head doctor before, he said he thought Greer was abused or molested. Said it was usually someone close, in the family or a friend. So we all took the test.”
MacLean blinked. “You had your family take polygraph tests about whether or not they had molested Greer?”
Ardy gave a quick nod. “Sure. I went first.”
This was a new parental response. MacLean told them he disagreed with what some of the other doctors had said. Not an anxiety disorder. Post-traumatic stress disorder. And that was a thing that could have a sleeper effect. It could have initiated two years ago. And it often arose from violence.
“We’re not violent,” Ardy said.
“No,” Bella agreed, “other than we always let the kids pound the stuffing out of each other.”
She looked at the office door and they all considered her young son beyond the threshold. MacLean scooted closer and asked them to make an effort to not respond with volume at what he was going to tell them, so that Greer couldn’t hear them lose it.
Ardy’s jaw thrust forward and he dropped one hand to his knees, pulling himself to the edge of the couch, twisting so he could keep his arm across Bella’s shoulders.
Then MacLean told them that he could not help Greer. That he was in over his head. That he was going to immediately refer them to someone else he anticipated could help.
“But this is only the first time you’ve seen him.” Bella’s words were measured.
He knew she wondered at the hidden meaning. “I’m referring you not just to another doctor, but to a team. Believe me, it is better to alter a treatment plan sooner rather than later, and your son’s case is urgent. They can do a better job because they have more experience with this type of case.”
His phone buzzed and he pressed a button. A man’s voice came on the speaker announcing a pre-admission consult schedule. MacLean nodded. “You can both come back to Seattle—without Greer for this appointment—that day?”
“Oh, that’s Caroline and Malcolm’s wedding day,” Bella said, shaking and nodding her head, catching up. “But of course, we can come.”
Ardy was already nodding. “If that’s what we need to do for him.”
“The Southbank facility is excellent,” MacLean told them. “And I believe it’s what Greer needs. Immediately.”
Ardy looked away and asked from the corner of his mouth, “You really think they can help him?”
“I believe so. And I believe he needs that level of help.”
“But you can’t help him?” His tone was sour.
MacLean shook his head and tapped the folders of chart notes he’d received. “I’m afraid we have all underestimated just how distressed Greer is.”
“What in the world did he say?” Bella asked, her voice so tight the words were strangled.
MacLean looked at the parents he was about to gut with the truth. “He told me he wants to die.”
CHAPTER 14
Gillian blushed about the opportunities she’d missed so far, and she planned an in-depth interview with Alexa
ndru Istok. She hadn’t confirmed the name of the grandson on her first visit to the Istok home. She hadn’t left the Sartineau Shop with something solid, just tantalizing bits. She hadn’t, she hadn’t. She turned to Kevin for tips.
In their electronic exchanges, he went on about getting feelings in addition to facts. A fast emailer and texter, he prompted Gillian about matching a subject’s body posture, and he de-emphasized note-taking. Have some idea of where things might go, but beware of constraints, Kevin told her. This, he didn’t explain. Worried about stumbling, she called him, listening to everything he had to say about interview techniques, feeling things out, and exploratory questions.
“You said it was more about feelings,” she said.
“You’re not dealing with fiction,” he reminded her. “It’s verifiable information. Verify it.”
“I don’t get that note you sent about matching body posture,” she said, fiddling with an unfamiliar, small envelope on the kitchen counter. She opened it. Two concert tickets, tomorrow night.
“I’ll have to show you,” Kevin said.
They made a coffee date and talked on about the possibilities in the story. She launched into rapture about her plans for follow-up photos, the pierced ear, the glimpse of Puget Sound through the west window. How in the first golden minutes of sunrise, the light shimmered off the water and she shot his face thrust into that brief light. And she needed Kevin to capture the words, the heart of the story. “I may have put him off. I should have talked to him privately, not at work.”
He said it was never too late to start over, and his list of suggestions went on. She swore she wouldn’t finish as she’d started, she’d do much better. He said he was enjoying a glass of champagne as they chatted and encouraged her to do the same. She had black coffee and knew she wouldn’t get to sleep for hours that night.
When she got off the phone, Gillian noticed Paul looking at her from across the house via a narrow line of sight afforded by the kitchen’s half wall and the way the dining room spilled into the living room, ending in the alcove where he sat reading at his desk. They were thirty-five feet apart, but within hearing distance, and she cataloged her end of the conversation with Kevin, thinking about what she’d said aloud. She tried not to be the first to look away, but folded. Paul cleared his throat just as the house phone rang and she flinched hard.
