Amy and Patrick then exchanged looks. Amy started. “So why did my son do what he did?”
“You already know that—he thought you would find it funny,” Dr. Bogan said.
“Yeah, but … how could he think such a thing?”
“Because he saw two men enjoying themselves while they were tormenting you both.”
Patrick stuttered, his eyes becoming confused slits, trying to comprehend. “But, they were—they were hurting us. He saw that. He was crying because of it.”
Dr. Bogan shook his head. “Caleb is too young to comprehend what actually transpired at Crescent Lake. He is still in the ego-centric phase of his development. That means it’s difficult for him to see something from anyone’s perspective but his own. It’s not a bad thing; we all go through it.”
“But if he saw his mother and father hurt and crying … ” Amy said.
“He was crying because you were crying. Because Carrie was crying. It had nothing to do with the physical abuse you were enduring. Caleb doesn’t understand right from wrong when it comes to such things. He will, but right now he doesn’t. He was sad because his mom was sad. In his mind, the terrible actions he witnessed by those two men were completely unrelated.”
Patrick was stiff, upright. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“You’re not a four-year-old child, Mr. Lambert. Your brain is fully developed. You know that when the cartoon coyote is flattened with an anvil one minute, then alive and chasing the road runner the very next, that it’s all fantasy. You know such a thing couldn’t occur in real life.”
“Caleb knows that cartoons aren’t real,” Amy said.
“I’m sure. And it was only an analogy. I don’t need to tell you, however, that what Caleb witnessed that night was no cartoon.”
Amy and Patrick fell silent.
Patrick eventually said, “It’s just so tough to swallow.”
Dr. Bogan said, “You stated that your daughter’s been suffering from nightmares ever since you returned home from the lake.”
“That’s right.”
“Yet Caleb’s been okay.”
“Yes.”
“You and Amy have not been okay.”
The couple snorted in agreement.
“Yet I’m willing to bet you’ve let Caleb believe that you were okay. Would I be correct in that assumption?”
Another bout of silence before Patrick said, “Yes.”
“That’s why your son is sleeping through the night and puttering around as if all is well. He thinks you’re well. In his mind, what happened three months ago had no lasting effect on his mother and father whatsoever. You were flattened by the anvil but ready to chase the road runner as soon as you got back home.”
Dr. Bogan closed his notebook, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Now— your daughter just turned seven. She has a stronger understanding as to what was happening during the ordeal near the lake. It’s why she’s plagued with nightmares.”
“So our behavior towards our son has actually been detrimental? It led to him putting tacks inside my slipper?” Amy asked.
“No—absolutely not. Even if you sat Caleb down and explained everything to him, it would be exceptionally hard for him to comprehend.” Dr. Bogan thumbed his wedding ring and took a breath. “Caleb wanted to play a joke on his mommy. He wanted to make her laugh. He remembered how much the two men enjoyed themselves doing the things they did. In an ironic sort of way—as is typical with sociopaths—the two who assaulted you never grew out of their ego-centric phase; they see with a similar pair of eyes as your son currently does.”
“Saw,” Patrick said absolutely. “They saw.”
Dr. Bogan closed his eyes and held up a hand: a silent apology for a comparison that, while apt, was still too recent. He waited a tick.
“There’s nothing wrong with your son, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert. We had a good talk. He’s a wonderful child. He had no idea he was hurting you, Mrs. Lambert. He may have suspected the joke was naughty … but he truly believed you would end up unharmed. He believed you’d find humor in the prank. Had he known—for one second—that he might have been harming his mother, he never would have left his bedroom that night. I’m sure of this.”
Amy managed a weak smile.
Patrick’s mind started churning—there was something relevant he wanted to voice, but he had lost it, and couldn’t snatch it back. His face misted over into a daze as he tried to remember, the elusive thought taunting his mind like a song he couldn’t place. And then all at once it came together, and his face bounced back to life. He turned to Amy and blurted: “The ‘bastard’ incident.”
Amy turned to her husband, startled. A lock of her brown hair fell over her face. “What?”
“When I was little … the ‘bastard’ incident … with my mom.”
Amy wiped the lock of hair out of her face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Dr. Bogan wore a curious smile as he spoke up. “Do you mind if I ask?”
“It’s nothing,” Amy said. “It’s a silly story he likes to tell at parties.”
“But don’t you see its relevance here, baby?”
Amy sighed. “You just want an excuse to tell one of your corny stories.”
He slapped her thigh lightly and she slapped his hard. Had it been under different circumstances, he would have squeezed her leg, made her scream, and then kissed her to death. And she would have laughed wildly while trying to fend him off.
Make no mistake, Amy and Patrick Lambert were soul mates. As crazy as it might sound to others, their survival at Crescent Lake had made their love that much stronger. But Dr. Bogan’s office was not the place for a full-on affection assault, and the subject matter concerning their son (despite the doctor’s good news that he was not a budding Jeffrey Dahmer) was hardly the appropriate mood. Their mutual love—seemingly with its own mind—recognized this and adjusted their school-yard affection accordingly.
“It definitely wasn’t funny at the time,” Patrick said to Amy. “But now it kinda is. And I think it might be relevant to what Dr. Bogan was just saying.”
Amy looked at her husband. His face was suddenly serious, a rarity for someone of Patrick’s genial ilk. Her exasperated look faded into a sober one of her own. She understood.
Dr. Bogan leaned forward in his chair, still smiling.
“I was five,” Patrick said. “My parents were having a party and I was up late. You know it’s funny—when they’re sober, adults would find a five-year-old bumping into their knees a nuisance. But when they’re drunk, well, suddenly you’re entertainment; they can’t get enough of you. You know: ‘Isn’t he a cute kid?’ ‘He’s getting so big.’ ‘Say something funny, little man.’ ‘Here, you want a sip? I won’t tell.’”
Dr. Bogan smiled knowingly.
“So there I am, loving the attention, listening to a couple above me when I hear the word ‘bastard’ for the first time. I remember the woman instantly slapping the man on his chest, looking down at me, and then giggling. He laughed too. Something inside me knew I had just heard a bad word, and I guess my face showed it, because to cover his tracks, the man quickly bent forward and told me that the word was no big deal; it wasn’t a swear. It just meant a person without a father.
“So, I now had a funny new word in my arsenal … and I had the perfect person to test it on. My mother. Why?” He took a deep breath. “She didn’t have a father anymore. My grandfather had died from a massive stroke two months prior.”
Patrick took a second pained breath, then let it out slow as he said, “So, I marched right up to my mother—and about ten or twelve of her friends—and proudly announced: ‘Isn’t my mother a bastard?’”
Dr. Bogan gave a sympathetic grimace, like one man telling another about a time he was kicked in the balls.
Patrick continued. “Of course everyone’s mouth fell open. My father looked like he wanted to punt me across the room. But not my mom. She didn’t yell, she didn�
��t cry, and she didn’t hit me. She simply said: ‘Patrick, Mommy’s father is gone. You know that. And now you’ve made Mommy very sad.’ And then she walked out of the room and went upstairs.
“That was thirty-three years ago, and I can still see the hurt look on her face. Sure, I was an ignorant five-year-old kid, and sure my mom and I can joke about it now, but at the time I was so confused. I was certain my idea of calling her a bastard was the thing to do. But she was so hurt …” His voice went soft. “All I can remember, in retrospect, of course, was not knowing any better. Like I had a new toy that I wanted to show off. I couldn’t see how it could affect my mother as badly as it did.” He snorted and added: “A part of me thought she might even be proud of me for learning a new word.”
Dr. Bogan finally spoke. “And yet you couldn’t see anyone’s perspective but your own.”
“Right.”
“You knew your mother had recently lost her father.”
“Yes.”
“I assume she cried over it?”
“Yes.”
“You saw her upset, in pain.”
“Yes.”
“The wound was still very raw. Only two months had passed since your grandfather had died?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you still called her a bastard even after discovering what it meant.”
A pause, and then: “Yes.”
“You’re not at fault for what you did, Patrick …” Bogan shrugged and gave a soft smile. “And neither is Caleb. The two of you were just too young to understand the consequences of your actions. There was no foresight, no insight—there was only you. The fact that thirty-three years later you still feel remorse tells me a lot about who you are. And the fact that Caleb cried relentlessly after finding out that he’d actually hurt his mother tells me a lot about your son.
“I think that was an exceptionally relevant anecdote, Patrick. Thanks for sharing it.”
Patrick sighed, smiled, then nudged Amy. “See? My corny stories can be helpful.”
She nudged back harder. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
Dr. Bogan smiled at their banter then added: “Who knows? Perhaps the day will come when Caleb is grown, and you can all share these anecdotes with a modicum of humor.”
Patrick said, “If I know my wife, she’ll be looking forward to the day when Caleb is grown so she can plan her revenge.”
Amy snorted, bent forward and rubbed her injured foot. “Amen.”
Dr. Bogan laughed for the first time since they’d arrived.
Chapter 6
The five minute ride home from Dr. Bogan’s office had started quietly. Patrick and Amy were digesting the recent session. Caleb had been through enough for one evening and was a yawning machine, but Carrie, whose inquisitive nature was blunt and gunslinger-quick, was not about to finish the short trip home without having her say.
“So why did Caleb hurt Mommy?”
Caleb looked at his sister. The question had pulled the plug on the yawn machine, and he looked ready to cry.
“Carrie,” Amy said.
Her mother’s sharp tongue was a minor roadblock, so Carrie opted to take the detour right to the source. “Why did you hurt Mommy?” she asked her little brother.
Caleb started to cry.
“Carrie!” Amy yelled.
“You made her foot bleed,” Carrie said.
Caleb cried harder.
Amy unbuckled her seat belt, turned, and started rubbing Caleb’s legs. His head was down and his shoulders bounced with each sob. “It’s okay, sweetie, Mommy’s not angry with you—I promise.” She looked at Carrie. “Carrie, I told you, your father and I would discuss this with you when we got home. All you’re doing now is upsetting your brother.”
Carrie’s head volleyed from Caleb to her mother, confused. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t hurt you.”
“Caleb didn’t know he was hurting me. And that’s all you need to know for now, got it?”
Carrie glared at Caleb. His head was still down, shoulders still bouncing. Tears had wet his cheeks and a line of snot was headed towards his mouth. “You didn’t know? That’s dumb.”
Amy took a Kleenex from her purse and caught the snot before it touched Caleb’s lips. She then folded the tissue in half and sopped up his tears. “Carrie, this is the last time I’m going to tell you: If you want your father and I to talk to you about what happened at the doctor’s tonight, you will stop harassing your brother, do you understand me?”
Carrie huffed and folded her arms.
“Thank you,” Amy said. She turned back around and re-fastened her seatbelt.
*
As Patrick pulled the silver Highlander into their driveway, it was now Carrie who started crying. Before Amy could turn back in her seat to console her, Carrie looked at her brother and said: “You acted just like those bad men that give me nightmares every night.”
Now it was Patrick and Amy who felt like crying.
Chapter 7
Really? Are you really going to leave your car in the driveway all night, Patrick? You’re making this too easy. What to do, what to do …
She had an objective. Always. It was just a matter of when and how.
Tonight would be when, and a delightfully unexpected piece of cake would be how— assuming he left the car in the driveway.
Why didn’t you pull it into the garage? Was it because the kids were crying? Yeah, I think so. You and Amy wanted to stop the car as soon as possible so you could carry them inside, isn’t that right? Poor little Carrie and Caleb. I guess tonight’s session with the new therapist upset them?
The porch lights clicked on and the front door opened. She watched eagerly.
Oscar.
The Border terrier exploded out of the front door and began his perfunctory laps around the front of the house, satisfying every conceivable olfactory sense before he would eventually reappear on the front lawn to do his business.
Always the same routine right, Oscar? She looked away for a moment and took in the surroundings of suburbia: rows of colossal homes, smooth black driveways stretching on forever, flawless lawns, hedges, flower beds; fences tall, sturdy, and safe, indulging the residents’ superfluous paranoia. She wondered which species was more mundane, humans or canines.
She heard the front door close and she turned. Patrick stood barefoot on the front porch in a pair of Penn State sweatpants and a white tee. His arms were folded to keep warm.
And there he is. Hate to admit it, but he is handsome. Wonder if I could get him to fuck me before I kill him … or get him to fuck me while I’m killing him … or get him to fuck me while I’m killing him while Amy watches …
She felt the familiar tingle warming below.
Patrick called for Oscar.
The terrier finally reappeared, nose dragging the lawn, finding the ideal spot to do his thing. She looked at the wagging stump where his tail used to be and wondered which one of her brothers had cut it off. The Lamberts didn’t know, and therefore Dr. Stone didn’t know. Mind like a sieve, that idiot head-shrinker—writes every single nugget down. Didn’t surprise me though; her filing system was an archaic joke.
Oscar lifted a leg.
So it’s just a pee is it? Lucky Patrick—nothing to clean up, and no reason to walk on the freezing lawn in your bare feet. But please do me one favor, will you, handsome? Please leave the Highlander in the driveway tonight. Just this once?
Tucked away in the shadows, Monica Kemp watched Oscar dart back inside. She watched Patrick close the door, the porch lights go out, the downstairs lights click off one by one, and then, with a disciplined patience that fought off the eagerness that beckoned, watched the final light from the bedroom window disappear. Patrick and Amy had gone to bed, and Patrick would not be putting the car in the garage tonight.
Monica smiled. “Thank you, handsome.”
Chapter 8
The lights in the bedroom were off, but Patrick and Amy weren’t sleepi
ng. They lay next to one another, flat on their backs and staring at the dark ceiling as though it might begin to flash answers.
“I thought we were making progress,” Amy said.
Patrick kept his eyes on the ceiling. “We are … Dr. Bogan said—”
“Did you hear what Carrie said to Caleb? I’ve never felt so helpless.”
“Her nightmares are nothing new. Dr. Stone said they would eventually fade. What we need to do now is try and explain to Carrie why Caleb did what he did, help her understand the way Dr. Bogan helped us understand.”
“Maybe Carrie should talk to Dr. Bogan. Maybe he could explain it to her.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if she heard it from her own parents?”
Amy didn’t reply.
Patrick rolled towards her. She spooned into him, and he kissed the back of her head. “We are getting better. Dr. Bogan’s words were an absolute relief—no question—but you and I both know our son; we know in our hearts that he didn’t pull that prank maliciously. We just needed clarification … and that’s what we got tonight.” He kissed her head again.
“I just want it all to be over,” she said.
“It is over. You think Jim’s coming back to life? You think Arty’s going anywhere?”
“What about the trial?”
“What about it? I don’t care what kind of insanity plea his scumbag lawyer tries. It won’t amount to shit.”
“I just don’t want to have to re-live it all over again.”
Patrick squeezed his wife. “It’s not gonna be a picnic. But if we can survive what we’ve survived, then we can definitely endure its memory.”
She sighed deep, his arm around her rising and falling. “I guess.”
He rolled her over so she faced him. “Let’s look at it from a different point of view. Let’s look at it as the final ‘fuck you.’”
“The what?”
“The final fuck you. We already fought those crazy bastards at their own game, and we won, right?”
Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games Page 4