by Tom Bierdz
She must have sensed my reaction because she changed the subject. “Did that boy enjoy the camera?”
“Very much so. He’s into birding, took hundreds of photos. I haven’t seen any yet.”
“I’m glad. It was only collecting dust. Are there any other of Kevin’s items you want because I’m going to box them up.”
“I can’t think of anything now. I’ll let you know.” A couple at a corner table was smooching and caught Hanna’s eye. I followed her eyes and observed. “Young love.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Hank thought moving some of Kevin’s things would be good for me.”
Apparently, my earlier suggestions she do that didn’t carry the same weight as Hank’s now.
“I know you wanted me to do that, Grant, but I wasn’t ready then. Hank reinforced it.”
Her remembering my suggestion made me feel better. “As long as the goal is reached.”
She burped. “Excuse me! Just two glasses of wine. We’d better order before I get maudlin. I think of him every day, you know.” Her eyes began to fill. “Rarely, do I go a day without crying myself to sleep. When does it end, Grant? Tell me, when does it end?”
“I don’t know that it ever ends. I think the best we can hope for is that it fades away in time, fails to demand our every waking moment.”
“Does he still haunt you every day?”
“In ways I’m not even aware.” I replayed my recent session with Megan and how Kevin had influenced my thinking.
We moved on to other topics. Talked about old friends and Bobby’s culinary adventures.
20
Confessing she was afraid of Nick, Megan pleaded with me to accompany her to Attorney Christopher Nolan’s office for the reading of Sasha’s will. The office was located in an aging, mid-level building, in downtown Seattle. I could tell Megan expected glitz and was unimpressed by the cookie-cutter, masculine room with dark paneling, forest green carpeting, and a law library. She flashed Nick a look of contempt, put two chairs between them, and had me sit on her right side to screen her from him. The walnut desk smelled of lemon oil and tobacco smoke.
“Just the two of us?” Megan asked, referring to the beneficiaries.
“Just the two of you...,” Nolan said from behind his desk, his chin wattles quivering. His round, ruddy, fleshy face perpetually shone with surprise due to his bushy eyebrows that stood at attention over his large dark eyes. “...and Mr.?”
“Dr. Garrick,” Megan jumped in.
I nodded, smiling.
“Dr. Garrick is here because?”
“I asked him to be,” Megan said.
Eyebrows raised, he turned to Nick. “Is this okay with you, Mr. Kovich?”
“Yeah,” Nick growled.
Nolan smiled at me, then scanned the document before him.
Megan scowled at Nick whose eyes stared past her, out the window, his mind elsewhere, probably on Sasha. He dressed in a long-sleeved, patterned green shirt, and khakis. A gold chain hung around his hairy neck. Megan later told me he dressed inappropriately. Too casual. That was another indication he had never been right for Sasha.
“I think we can begin,” Nolan stated. “First, I want to express my sympathy for your loss. Sasha was a lovely woman. It’s tragic. Such a young life cut short.” He cleared his throat. “Now to the will. I’ll hit the high points, leave you with copies. Sasha leaves $1,000,000 to the Migraine Research Foundation...”
“She suffered so much with the migraines,” Nick said, “We can only wonder what part they played in her death.”
“She also leaves an equal amount, $1,000,000 to be used in the fight against sexual abuse,” Nolan continued, “and enlists her sister, Megan, if she should predecease her, to select the appropriate charity and disperse the funds to them.”
Megan made a face, flashed me a funny look.
“Everything else, all of her assets, liquid and solid, she leaves to her husband, Nick...”
Stunned, Megan sputtered, “Wait! What’s the date of that will?”
“June, 2013,” Nolan said, checking.
“There was a more recent one. I know, because Sasha told me she was leaving me half, somewhere around $5 million.” Gasping, she jumped up from chair, faced Nick. “What did you do with that addendum, Nick? You saw it, didn’t you? Tore it up. Made sure it was never turned in.”
“Shut up, you bitch! I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re loaded. You shit dollars. Why would she leave anything to you?”
“Because you’re a no-good son-of-a-bitch. She told me how you beat her. She couldn’t get away from you. That’s why she killed herself.”
“People!” Nolan shouted, trying to regain control.
“Bullshit! That’s a lie,” Nick retorted, “I never ever hit her, pushed her once when she was in my face.”
“Then why did she have the bruises on her body?” I clamped on to Megan’s sleeve, gently tugged.
“You tell me! I wouldn’t be surprised if you did it. You poisoned her mind, told her lies about me. Tried to push us apart. Maybe you killed her. Yeah, that’s it. She didn’t kill herself. You poisoned her. Made it look like a suicide.”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Nolan said. “Is this how Sasha would want you to talk about her?” Both sat down.
Megan drifted off, sought refuge somewhere in her mind, maintained a thousand-yard stare while the attorney shared some of the logistics.
“Megan,” the attorney called, “you seem to have faded off somewhere.”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking herself alert, “I was reminiscing.”
“I understand. This is a difficult time for you.” He leaned forward. “Look, I have a valid will which I just read and still stands. If Sasha had any intent to make any changes or adjustments, she did not advise me. Miss Wilshire you have every right to contest this, if you like, but you would need legal proof to overturn this”
“Such as?”
“A codicil signed by Sasha that’s been witnessed specifying you as a beneficiary.” He paused, glanced at both Megan and Nick. “If there is nothing else, we’re through here.”
Nick shot her a look that could kill. He hoped to never see her again. He thanked the attorney and left.
Megan lingered behind, keeping her distance. She abandoned any hope of an inheritance. She didn’t need the money. It was payment for the care she had given Sasha over the years. It was now time to move to other items on her agenda.
21
I was awakened by a dream where I was sitting on the shore, reading a book on ethics by Aristotle, when I heard a woman scream. Dropping the book, I jumped up and dashed to the edge of the water, peering in the direction of the sound. But the screams seemed to come both from the left and the right of me, far out in the distant water. I dragged a rowboat into the water and rowed with all the muster I could manage straight out to sea, between the screams, expecting to accurately veer towards the troubled woman once I observed her. Her screams were horrifying. Earth-shattering. I was convinced she would drown if I didn’t reach her in time. My breathing strained, and sweating profusely, I rowed as fast and as hard as I could, nearing exhaustion, for what seemed forever. Then finally I spotted them. Two women, panicky and treading water, on the verge of going under. One to the right of me, one to the left, separated by the length of a football field. My arms froze up, making it near impossible to row. I didn’t know if I could reach either of them in time. Certainly not both. I was forced to choose which one to try to save when I awoke with a sweat.
You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to interpret the dream. The ethics book related to my dating Megan. She was one of the drowning women; Hanna was the other. Both were drowning and needed me to save them. I had to choose. Shaky and nauseous I plodded to the bathroom, splashed cold
water on my face. I hated those kinds of dreams, my super ego stirring up everything I had neatly pigeonholed, forcing me to sort it all out again, put it in its proper box. Well, that would have to wait. I refused to analyze my dream on my way to work since I needed to be fresh for my patients. The brain-racking stole a lot of energy.
Carrie was on the porch smoking her cigarette.
“I missed you the last couple of days,” I said. “Almost thought you gave up smoking.”
“Wished it were so,” she said. “I’ve been smoking more. Dad had a relapse.” She shook her head. “No, I said it wrong. That’s not right. It’s just taking him longer to recover. Golfing set him back. The doctor said he needed to be more patient, take it slower. He used a cart. He’d probably been all right if he stopped at nine holes.”
I smiled. I couldn’t imagine Mike slowing down for anyone. He was a type A, full of energy.
“He’ll learn. He’ll have to. It’s amazing what we can learn to adapt to.” I ambled over to her. “You okay?”
“More or less.” She smiled. “Can you join me for a drink?”
“Definitely, but not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you.”
“Thanks. I’ll plan on it.”
I entered my office and saw a couple of patients. Mid-morning I checked with Bobby, “Any messages?”
Yeah, a Doctor Isley Hodges called. He’s a new psychiatrist in town. Wants to meet with you.”
“Did he say what for?”
“No.”
“If my ten o’clock is still open tomorrow, put him in there.” I didn’t know we needed a new psychiatrist in town. With my sub-par patient load I didn’t relish the competition, an inner-child response on my part. Realistically, with the metropolitan area we served, we could take on several more psychiatrists before we became saturated. And, if I conducted therapy successfully, and stayed out of the media with DUIs and the like, I’d have more patients than I could handle regardless of the number of shrinks in town.
After lunch, I taxied to the group home. Carlos was talking to one of the staff in his office with the door closed when I arrived. I had noticed the young lady in the building on another occasion, assumed by her youth and provocative tight clothing that she was a visitor. While her head hung down in shame or regret, Carlos signaled to me he’d be with me shortly. I took a seat in the waiting room and hadn’t even a chance to scan the magazines when the young lady, dressed in a tight top that revealed her midriff and a short skirt, came out crying. As I watched her walk away, Carlos peeked out of his door, waved me in.
“You’d think by now I’d have learned not to compromise my principles,” he said, topping off his coffee cup. He offered me a cup, held up the pot in his hand, and poured when I nodded. “My wife begged me to hire her niece, Allison, who after getting a two year community college degree, decides she wants to be a social worker.” He placed the pot back on the burner, sat, his face etched with frustration. “First of all, I don’t need anybody. All my positions are filled. But more to the point, this babe is hot. You saw her, Doc. If I were single and in my twenties, I’d chase her myself. I got a household of boys with raging hormones. Two, who already got in trouble for sexually acting-out.” He paused. “Well, I don’t have to lay it out for you. I gave in to my wife, hired Allison as a girl ‘Friday’ for fifteen, twenty hours a week. I repeatedly warned her about dressing so provocatively. She claimed she wore what everyone else wore. What the stores sell as clothes nowadays is another story. Anyway, I had to fire her. She was caught kissing one of the boys in his room.”
He took a long john out of a bakery box, jammed half of it into his mouth, and shoved the box toward me. I grabbed a jelly filled Bismarck. “You did what you had to do,” I said.
“Yeah, but you have no idea the flak I’m going to get from my wife and her sister,” he muttered through the mouthful of bakery. “Allison’s already blaming it on the boy. But, like I said, had I stuck to my principles I’d have never hired her in the first place.”
I knew all about compromising principles. Was there a message for me here? “Greg tells me his mother was in to see you about wanting him home.” I bit into my Bismarck.
“Yeah. I told her I didn’t think he was ready to come home, but it wasn’t up to me. I told her to go see his social worker, Bertha.” He put his finger to the edge of his mouth. “You got something there.”
I wiped off the jelly with my handkerchief. “I’ve never met the mother. Give me your impressions.”
He leaned back, thought about it. “She’s a mixed bag. She’s probably near forty, but looks older. Her features are pretty, but she looks haggard, worn down by life. She smiles only with her mouth. Never with her eyes. Very nervous. Hyper. She was polite. Somewhat timid. I felt she really cared for Greg, but her push for his return was financially motivated as well. Her grant was reduced.”
“She doesn’t work?”
“She does part-time at a drugstore. Probably minimum wage. She said she had a possibility as an apartment manager where she would have free housing and get off the dole.”
“That could be wishful thinking.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I talked to Bertha. She believes it would be premature to send Greg home now. She’d like to hear from you.”
I wondered why Bertha didn’t call me direct rather than send a message through Carlos. “I’ll call her after I see Greg. How’s he been?”
“Great! Problem free since he’s been back from the detention center.”
“Did you know he came to see me?”
Carlos stared at me blankly. “I don’t remember.”
That wasn’t important. What was important if Greg had talked to Carlos about not wanting to leave the group home as he was requested to do. “Did he tell you he wanted to stay here?”
Carlos smiled. “Yes, I was rather surprised by his initiative. With me it’s usually avoidance or a simple hello. I remember it well because he said if he went home, he didn’t think he could stop himself from striking out at his mother if she got on his case. He was assuming responsibility for his behavior. A big leap, I thought.”
“Impulse control,” I said, delighted. “We’ve been working on it. Well,” I said, edging to the front of my seat, “unless you have something else, I’ll go see Gregory now.”
“Don’t forget about Brenda.”
“I’m on it,” I said, standing.
Headphones on his ear, Greg sat at his desk working algebra problems when I entered his room. He didn’t hear me knock. I could never understand how young people could concentrate with music beating on their brains. Kevin also played loud music when he did his homework. Somehow they were able to compartmentalize. Since my arguments about concentration didn’t work with Kevin, I tried appealing to his potential hearing loss. In retrospect with Kevin it didn’t matter.
Catching me in his peripheral vision, Greg ripped off the earphones, greeted me with a smile that faded as he checked me out with his eyes. “The camera’s in the car?”
“I didn’t bring it,” I said, noting his disappointment. “We need to follow up on your visit the other day. Should we stay here or would you prefer to walk?”
Greg grabbed a hooded sweatshirt. “Walk. Justin will be here any minute.”
It was cool and windy outside, still a nice day for a walk. We headed to the city park a few blocks away. Two youths on skateboards barely avoided a car crossing at the crosswalk. I caught myself about to drop into father mode and preach to Greg about the dangers of skateboards and not paying attention. Instead, I said, “Mr. Gutierrez said you told him you wanted to remain at the group home. He was pleased with your initiative.”
“Yeah, it went okay.” He covered his head with his hood, shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Did you talk t
o your mother?”
We waited for the walk sign, crossed the street to the park.
Greg picked up a couple of acorns, flung them. “I talked to Mom. It didn’t go as well.”
We sat on a park bench, the wind at our back.
I waited.
He pulled on his ear. “I tried to tell her like you told me, said I was doing well in school, staying out of trouble. She said she was glad, but she needed me home, that the State cut her check, and she couldn’t buy food and make the rent with what they gave her.” He bent down, picked up some pebbles, and shook them in his hand. “Then she did this whole thing about my father, how irresponsible he was, how he always didn’t send in the money for my keep. How tough it was to be a single parent, and how much she sacrificed for me.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Like shit! I mean, I’m tired of listening to her sob stories, making me feel responsible.”
“You feel responsible?”
“I mean, I know I’m not. I didn’t get her into this mess, but she makes me feel like I’m at fault.”
“And you feel guilty.”
“Yeah.” His eyes clouded up.
“The only person you’re responsible for, Greg, is yourself. That’s the only person you have any control over. You’re not responsible for your mother. Your mother is responsible for herself and she has a parental responsibility for seeing to your care. The State has assumed some of that responsibility for you since your parents have not done a very good job. You’re sixteen, at an age when you need to separate from your parents and become your own person.” I put my arm on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but you need to ignore your mother’s protests. Take care of yourself. You can work things out with your mother at a later time.”