The_Conveyance

by Matthews, Brian

  "I never did enough for him," I said. "None of us did, though I suppose Steve had the most success. His major was a hard science. Engineering may not be medicine, but at least you could produce concrete, verifiable results. When I chose psychology, Dad called 'bullshit' every chance he got. 'How do you know you healed anyone?' he'd say. And poor Penny—going into advertising was tantamount to selling out. Dad scoffed when she informed him of her major. 'You want to lie to people so you can steal their money?' I don't think they've had a decent conversation since."

  I shrugged, even though Toni couldn't see the gesture. Maybe it was meant to comfort me. "Melissa and Christie got off easy. By the time they were ready to flee the nest, Mom was already sick, and I don't think the subject of their college careers was ever brought up. If Dad finds out Melissa dropped out to live with her boyfriend, the affront might be enough to pull him out of that hut in California."

  "Go on," Toni said. "I'm listening."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Those kinds of messages get to you. They become so deeply ingrained in your psyche that they’re part of your thinking. Every action, every decision, is run through the filter of 'have I done enough?' With Dad, I never did. His disapproval became a minefield he forced me to navigate. I would try, except every third step or so, I'd blow myself up. Eventually, as I grew older, I stopped trying. I accepted I would never be good enough to stand as his equal. What I didn't know until much later was I had quietly accepted the blame for my dad not liking me, or even loving me. I believed I had failed him."

  "What about your mom? Estelle would've stepped in and told you guys how good you were."

  "She did, as often as she could. But Dad had a powerful personality. Whenever you stood in his presence, he dominated you. Mom was simply too kind a person to overcome that kind of force. Don't forget, she had her own issues with him. Growing up in that house, every day was a tug of war, and more often than not, Dad won."

  More sounds. I heard a click as Toni disengaged the lock, and the door swung open. She stood there, framed in light. I opened my arms and she stepped into them.

  "I think I understand," she said, her face buried in my shoulder. "After I told you about the affair, you eventually blamed yourself for not having done enough, for driving me into the arms of another man."

  I hugged her tighter. "Yes, I ended up wondering what I’d done wrong."

  "That was years ago. Why bring it up now? Why think we had gone backwards so far?"

  I kissed the tip of her nose. "It's an irrational belief. By definition, it doesn't make sense."

  She squirmed out of my embrace. "I'm the one calling 'bullshit' this time. Don't treat me like a patient. Don't feed me vague, psychobabble answers. I want to know what was going through your head, what made you worry I was cheating."

  Her eyes held a touch of defiance; not a lot, but enough. We had been through tough times together, and she deserved a complete and honest answer. The trouble was, I didn't have one.

  "I don't know," I said. "Nothing you've done has hinted at a problem. You weren't on my mind while I was driving. I guess it was the accident. I could’ve died. You would’ve been left alone. Maybe it was enough to frighten me, and I overreacted. Like I said, I don't have a good answer." I smiled. "You did nothing wrong. I can't tell you how horrible I felt when I'd discovered what you'd been through."

  Some of the fierceness left her expression. "I would never cheat again. You know that, don't you?"

  "I know."

  "I'd come to you first, tell you how I was feeling. I hope you’d do the same."

  "I would."

  "I feel bad too," she said, her words tentative. "You were hurt, and I wasn't there for you."

  "We each carry our guilt. This will hopefully lessen it.”

  Toni grazed my bruised cheek with the backs of her knuckles. "When did you become such a philosopher?"

  "After I read The Fault in Our Stars." I meant it as a joke, but she didn't take it that way, because she said, "I loved that book. It's tragic, how sadness can bring out the best in us."

  "Not always," I said, thinking of my dad. "But in most cases, yes."

  She slipped back into my embrace. "Do you miss your mom?"

  "Every day."

  "Do you think we'll have a child one day?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Do you think she's met him, our baby, up in Heaven? Do you think she's told our child about us?"

  A vision filled my mind, one of my mother sitting in a field of bright blue flowers, the sun shining, with a child resting on her lap. Her arms were around him, holding him like she used to hold me, and they smiled as they watched butterflies dance around them. The pure joy on their faces warmed my heart.

  "I hope so," I said. "I very much hope so."

  "I love you."

  "Love you, too." I kissed her forehead and stepped back. "It's getting late. What's say we call it a night?"

  "Sounds good." She stepped into the bedroom. "No loving for you, though. I don't need you risking more injuries."

  "Ooh, someone's full of herself tonight." I made a playful grab for her ass. The movement almost brought me to my knees. "Shit, you're right."

  Toni folded down the bed sheet. "I always am. Besides, you had enough fun in the shower. That should hold you over for another day or so."

  I slid into bed, and Toni slid in beside me.

  "Good night, honey," she said with a kiss on my cheek.

  "Good night." I closed my eyes and wondered what dreams, if any, may come.

  * * *

  An hour later I was still awake and trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep, when my cell phone rang. It was my answering service.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor, but I have a Desiree Belle on the phone. Says her son is a patient of yours."

  My fatigued brain fumbled with the connections. Desiree Belle was Dee Dee Belle, mother of Doug Belle, my new patient from Friday. The one I was confident would never return after I offended his mother. I got out of bed and headed into the kitchen. "Sure, put her on."

  After a short pause, I heard, "Mrs. Belle? I have Doctor Jordan on the line."

  "Doctor Jordan, are you there? Oh, god." Dee Dee Belle sounded out of breath and on the verge of tears.

  "I'm here, Mrs. Belle."

  "Doctor Jordan, you have to help me. It's my son. I don't know what's wrong with him."

  Again, a verbalized concern about helping her and not her son—the same issue I noted Friday. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

  "It's Dougie. He's locked himself in the bathroom and won't come out. I’ve tried talking to him but he won’t answer."

  Young boys lock themselves in bathrooms for all sorts of reasons, some of which they may not want their mothers to know. "Is he upset about something?"

  "Of course he's upset," she said, her voice climbing. "He's locked himself in the goddamn bathroom!"

  "Mrs. Belle, I won't be able to help if you don't calm down. Please, take a moment and gather yourself."

  I heard Dee Dee pull in a few hitching breathes. When she spoke, there was a slim measure of control in her voice. "We were reading a bedtime story. Dougie likes it when I read to him. We'd almost finished when he freaked out. He jumped out of bed, started screaming, threw the book across the room. Then he ran into the bathroom and locked the door before I could get there."

  I couldn't help but notice the parallels between this and the situation earlier between Toni and me. Must be my night for bathroom drama.

  "Do you know what upset him?"

  "Everything was going fine. He just, I don't know, wigged out on me."

  Doug had a history of impulsive outbursts, but they seemed to require trigger events—the death of his father, his strong sense of protection and solidarity with his friends. Reading in bed didn't fit into his pattern. I began to suspect his mother was hiding something.

  "Could the story have set him off?"

  "We've been reading the same story for wee
ks." She listed a young-adult adventure novel that was currently the hot item with kids, so I felt that part of the story was accurate. "He never had an issue with it before."

  I ran my fingers through my hair. "Did anything unusual happen during the reading?"

  "No, it was just reading."

  "How upset is he? Do you think he'd try and hurt himself?"

  "I—I don't think so. I mean, he's pulled at his hair, picked at his skin a little."

  "Is there anything in the bathroom that he could use to hurt himself? Pills of any kind? Sharp implements?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Cleaning supplies?"

  "Oh, shit." I heard her running, followed by her pounding on a door. "Dougie, are you okay? Answer me, Dougie!" Then, to me, "He's not answering!"

  "Mrs. Belle, listen to me. You absolutely have to calm down. You're the parent, the one Doug looks to for structure and safety. By staying calm, you're showing him you are in control, and you'll be able to keep him safe. If you lose it, the situation will only get worse. Do you understand?"

  Like a dog smacked down by its master, Dee Dee Belle responded with a tortured wail: "Why do you keep blaming me for things?"

  "No one is blaming you," I said. "This is simply the job you took when you became a parent. You're the one in charge, and you're the one who has to stay in control, even when it feels like the world is falling apart." I took a moment to let my words sink in, and for her to gather herself. "I know it's been difficult since your husband passed, but that doesn't relieve you of your responsibilities as a parent. Doug needs you. You have to be there for him, to be the guiding force in his life. You can only do that if you stay calm."

  Sniffles from the other end of the phone, and a few more ragged breathes. Finally, with remarkable serenity, she said, "You're right. I'm the only one Dougie has left, and I need to be there for him. I'm sorry for my behavior. I'll try to do better."

  I paused, concerned about her mercurial emotions. Dee Dee Belle had gone from wildly upset to even-keeled in moments, which made me wonder about the possibility of bipolar disorder. If that was the case, her son could have inherited the trait. It would explain many of his symptoms.

  "Mrs. Belle, would you please tell Doug I'm on the phone? I'd like to talk with him."

  "Absolutely." Dee Dee said something to Doug. He responded. She came back on the line. "He'll talk to you."

  "Excellent. You've done well," I said, hoping to reinforce her efforts at better parenting. "If Doug's willing to open the door, I'm willing to talk."

  Dee Dee relayed the information. I heard the door creak open, the phone passed off, and the door immediately shut. A timid, terrified voice said, "Hello?"

  "Hello, Doug."

  "I didn't know my mom had your number."

  "I have an after-hours service. She called them, and they called me."

  "She shouldn’t have bothered you. This is so stupid."

  "Not at all. She did the right thing. Your safety comes first."

  "What'd she think I was gonna do, kill myself?"

  "Good question. Were you?"

  "Fuck, no! I wouldn't do something like that."

  "Let's keep the language clean." I wanted to see how he responded to boundaries. "No swearing this time."

  I heard an irritated huff. "Sure, if you say so."

  So, he wasn't angry in general or he would have responded with more resistance. That suggested the issue was likely between him and his mother. "Want to tell me what happened?"

  "Not really," he said, his voice sullen.

  "It might help."

  "Doubt it."

  "Don't forget, whatever you say is confidential. Strictly between you and me."

  "Yeah, yeah, unless I'm really gonna off myself. I remember."

  "Your mom doesn't have to know what we discussed."

  "Like she's not listening at the door right now."

  Sharp kid. "Yes, she probably is. Parents worry about their children."

  "I guess."

  "You don't believe that?"

  "For some parents, sure. Not for everyone."

  "I hear you," I said, letting him know he was not alone with his feelings. Isolation, and its ugly half-brother, hopelessness, were a child's worst enemies. Ask anyone who'd been bullied. "I've met my share of uncaring parents. Fortunately, they're few and far between."

  "What's that mean?"

  "I don't often run into them," I said. "Most parents I've worked with strike me as caring, even if they're unsure on how to show it."

  Hesitation. "What do these kids do, the ones whose parents don't care?"

  I took a steadying breath. This was the first significant question he'd asked me. "Most handle it well. They learn to tell their parents how they feel, what they're looking for from them. It's not an easy thing, either. It takes strength to be direct with your mom or dad. Especially if talking and sharing has never been encouraged."

  "And the others, the ones who don't handle it well?"

  "A lot of times the child will grow apart from his parents. He may head off to college, pick a school that's far away. He may come home to visit every once in a while. But eventually the need for contact fades, and he goes off and starts a life on his own, visiting Mom and Dad once a year or so."

  Another hesitation. "Does it ever turn out worse? You know, like real bad?"

  "You'll have to be more specific. 'Real bad' means different things to different people."

  "You know, like run away or something?"

  "Occasionally," I said slowly. "Those kids often end up in situations worse than they had at home. There are a lot of bad people in the world, child predators and such. Runaways tend to be their favorite victims."

  "No way would I let a fucking pervert touch me!" Doug said, loud enough that I had to pull the phone from my ear. "No fucking way!"

  I frowned into the phone. A strong reaction like that often meant something significant, and in this case, probably not something good. Putting the phone back to my ear, I heard pounding on the door, and Doug yelling at his mother to leave him alone. There was more pounding, and the sound of Doug's mother calling out to him. I couldn't hear the words, but they sounded concerned. I could see why. I'd be concerned too.

  "You're paying this guy to help," Doug yelled. "So let him help."

  His pleading seemed to work. The pounding ceased.

  "Doug?" I said. "You still there."

  "Yeah, I'm here." He sounded out of breath.

  "Everything okay?"

  "I dunno. Mom tried to come through the door, I think."

  "I'm sure she's worried about you."

  "Look, I better go. My mom's probably going nuts out there."

  "A few more questions, if you don't mind."

  "Nah, I think I'm done."

  "All right. Two questions, quick and easy."

  "Fine. Whatevs."

  "One, do you have any plans to hurting yourself, or are you thinking about hurting yourself?"

  "No," he said abruptly, like a twig snapping.

  "Two, do you have any plans to hurt someone else, or are you thinking about hurting someone else?"

  "No. Can I go now?"

  I didn't want to stop the discussion. I'd hit on something, and I wanted to follow up on it, but I also didn't want to risk shutting him down. "One last question."

  "What?"

  "Can I call tomorrow and see how you’re doing? No long talks, just to check in."

  Another pause, the longest yet. "Yeah, sure."

  "Thanks. Now, can I talk to your mom?"

  He didn't bother to respond. I heard the bathroom door open, and Doug said, "He wants to talk to you."

  "Doctor Jordan?" Dee Dee Belle said.

  "I'm still here.”

  "Is Dougie gonna be okay? Did he say anything?"

  "I don't think he's in danger of hurting himself or anyone else. Any more than that, I can't say."

  "But I'm his mother."

  "And I'm his the
rapist. Unless I think he's going to hurt himself or someone else, what he says stays between us." I had a hunch that Doug was listening. He'd likely put together his mother's words and figure out I was keeping true to the confidentiality agreement. "I do have one question for you."

  "What?"

  "Does anyone babysit Doug? A relative, or a neighbor? Someone in regular contact with him?"

  When she spoke, her words were quiet, hard, and urgent. "Does this have anything to do with Dougie's outburst about perverts?"

  "Mrs. Belle, please?"

  "No, no one. I have a brother who comes by every couple months, but not regularly."

  "No neighbors? None of your friends, male or female?"

  "You think someone's been abusing him?" Her voice was filled with gall.

  "I know no such thing. I'm simply gathering information."

  "Sure, I have friends. None of them are left alone with him." She swore. "If someone's hurting him—"

  "Let's not jump to conclusions. I'll know more after I've talked with Doug again." I opened the calendar app on my phone. "Can you bring him in sooner than Friday? Say, Monday afternoon at four? I'd rather not wait to see him."

  "I don't think that's necessary." The woman couldn't have sounded more put out.

  “His behavior could escalate if he doesn't deal with his feelings.”

  “Fine. I'll see what I can do.”

  "One more thing. I told Doug I'd call him tomorrow. I want to check on him. Is that all right with you?"

  “Yes,” she replied tersely. “Anything else, Doctor?”

  "Keep an eye on him. Don't hesitate to call the service if you need me. If he gets really bad, call the police. Don't try to take him to an emergency room on your own." I never trusted parents to drive their children to ERs. There were too many opportunities for accidents or for kids to jump out of cars.

  “I'll watch him.”

  "You can handle this," I said, doling out a slice of positive reinforcement.

  "I don't have much choice," she said and hung up.

  No, I thought as I wandered back into the bedroom. You don't.

  "Everything okay," Toni murmured, still half asleep.

  "Peachy." I settled back into bed, my abused muscles groaning in protest. "Just peachy."