“Wow, that’s great! It looks like a farm.”
“It is.” Hannah looked down with pride, tucking her hair behind her earpiece. “It has chickens in it and pigs and also Charlotte the pig. Do you remember Charlotte the pig?”
“Of course.” Suddenly they both looked up as the front door to the house opened and Caitlin came out, striding toward him. She was wearing a white tank top, jeans shorts, and a forced smile.
“Hey, Caitlin, hi,” Eric called to her, waving. He wasn’t about to make a fuss, especially since Hannah hadn’t been injured seriously.
“LOOK, CAITLIN! LOOK AT THIS!”
“Excellent, Michelle!” Caitlin nodded at Michelle as she passed her, then kept going, crossing the lawn toward Eric and Hannah. “Eric, what a surprise,” she said when she reached them. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I just thought I’d stop by.” Eric kept his tone casual. “I heard through the grapevine that Hannah was in the emergency department at Whitemarsh Memorial, so I thought I’d see if she was okay. Next time you guys have a medical problem, feel free to give me a call, okay?”
“CAITLIN, WATCH! I CAN DO IT AGAIN! WATCH MY KNEES!”
“Great!” Caitlin called over her shoulder to Michelle, then returned her attention to Eric, her eyes narrowed against the sunlight. “I didn’t want to bother you with it. It’s only a sprain, and she could’ve done it anywhere.”
But she didn’t, Eric thought, but didn’t say. He became aware that Hannah was looking up at him and then at Caitlin, her head swiveling. He hated to stress her, so he lightened his tone. “I know that, and I’m glad to see it’s nothing serious.”
“Of course it isn’t, but thanks for stopping by.” Caitlin gestured at his car, a less-than-discreet invitation for him to leave, so he took his cue.
“Anytime, no problem.” Eric bent over, kissed Hannah on the head, and then on the cheek. “Bye, honey. I have to go run some errands. You and Michelle have a good time today, and I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay, Daddy. Bye-bye!” Hannah smiled and waved to him, and Eric headed toward the car.
“CAITLIN, LOOK AT THIS ONE! YOU’RE GONNA MISS IT!”
Caitlin put her arm around Hannah, as if she were taking physical possession. “By the way, Eric, I saw the sign.”
“Sign?” Eric stopped beside his car, his hand on the door handle.
“The one you left for me, in the trash. Got the message.”
“Oh.” Eric realized she meant the For Sale sign.
“DADDY! DADDY, LOOK!”
Eric looked over reflexively at the sound of “Daddy,” to find that Michelle wasn’t calling to him, but toward the house. He didn’t understand what was going on. He looked in confusion at Caitlin.
Caitlin snapped her head quickly away, to face Michelle. “Great job, Michelle! I saw it! That was great!”
“DADDY, YOU’RE MISSING IT!” Michelle started running toward the house. “DADDY, I DID IT PERFECT!”
Eric watched as Michelle ran inside the house, calling for her father, and all of a sudden, he realized what was going on. Caitlin was seeing someone else, and the man was in the house, his house, right now. It couldn’t have been an innocent relationship, because the man would’ve come out and introduced himself. Instead, he had stayed in the house, and Caitlin had come out, that’s why she’d been giving Eric the bum’s rush. She hadn’t wanted him to know the man was there, the same way she hadn’t wanted him to know she was selling the house.
“Hannah, let’s go,” Caitlin said tersely, walking her toward the house.
Eric watched them go, their backs to him. Caitlin had moved on, and her new boyfriend had a kid who played on the softball team—a completely annoying kid who played softball, gymnastics, and God knows how many other sports—just like Caitlin herself had done when she was little. And so now, Hannah—his bookish, adorable, klutzy daughter who hated sports—had to play softball. No wonder Hannah and Michelle hadn’t made sense to him, as friends.
Eric stood at his car, and it dawned on him fully. He didn’t know how he could’ve been so blind, so stupid, in so much denial. He’d actually believed he’d get back with Caitlin, they’d reconcile, and she’d love him again. He’d thought he could weed-whack his way into her heart.
His mouth went dry. He felt stunned, angry, heartbroken. It killed him to lose Caitlin, but worse, it killed him to see Hannah put second, her interests subordinate to Caitlin’s new boyfriend and her health sacrificed for God-knows-what-reason. No reason was good enough, not to him.
He stood still, after Caitlin and Hannah had vanished inside the house and closed the front door behind them.
Leaving him on the outside.
Chapter Eleven
Eric painted with a vengeance, his brain on fire. He had no idea how late it was, he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t going to bed. He knew he wouldn’t sleep anyway. It was dark outside, and the windows were open, with no sound but the crickets. Gnats flitted through the screens, and the box fan whirred on the floor.
Eric rolled the brush like a madman, picturing Caitlin with her new boyfriend, imagining them making out in the kitchen of his own house. Having sex in his bed. In his bedroom. A wave of intense sexual jealousy flooded his brain.
Eric tried to think when they had started seeing each other, but he didn’t know. He tried to remember the littlest things, sifting for clues about when she met him and who he was, driving himself nuts. He rolled the brush into the ribbed bottom of the pan, then held the roller up, but dripped on his jeans. He brushed them off and when he looked down, the front of his blue work shirt was also spattered with a fine pink spray. Obviously, he wasn’t paying attention, but he couldn’t.
Eric rolled paint on the wall, listening for the telltale tacky sounds. His thoughts turned to Hannah, with her hurt ankle, and though it was true that it could’ve happened anywhere, it made his blood boil that it happened at softball, which she wouldn’t have been playing but for the fact that her mother was sleeping with another man, whose kid was on the team. It made him sick to his stomach that Hannah was being used, or pushed to do something she didn’t want to do, and he considered again the decision about going for custody.
Eric kept painting, his thoughts elsewhere. He found himself wishing that he had someone to talk it over with, but Caitlin had been his best friend. His other friends were tennis players, but this was too heavy a thing to lay on them, though he’d told them that he and Caitlin had separated. Two were divorced dads, but neither would want primary custody, and he wasn’t sure they could relate. Otherwise, he had become friendly with his three attending psychiatrists at the hospital, but they reported to him as chief and he had to maintain a professional distance. He knew in his heart whom he truly wanted to talk to, anyway.
He left the roller in the pan, reached into his back pocket for his phone, and scrolled through contacts until he found the number for Arthur Markusson, then pressed Call. Arthur was Eric’s former psychiatrist, who had treated him so successfully. Arthur had a law as well as a psychiatry degree and had become a mentor, colleague, and surrogate father. Eric felt himself smile as the call was picked up. “Arthur?”
“Eric, my boy!” Arthur’s voice sounded instantly friendly, if thin with age. His Norwegian accent hadn’t completely disappeared, though he’d lived in the United States all of his professional life. “What a surprise!”
“How are you doing?”
“Delightful! Retirement agrees with me, I must say. I have all the time I wish to read. Reading without guilt, can you imagine?”
“Good for you.” Eric sat down on the tarp, plucked his leftover turkey hoagie from the oily brown wrap, and took a bite.
“The weather down here takes getting accustomed to, but I fish now. Me, a sportsman.”
“You? You used to be so indoorsy.”
“Ha!” Arthur laughed with him.
“How’s Ina?”
“Fine, thanks. Does water aerobics with a clutch o
f other octogenarian hens. Between the two of us, we’re on the water more than the land. Perhaps we’ll devolve into a lesser life form. Become geckos or the like.”
“Don’t do that, I need you the way you are.”
“What’s going on with you? How’s Caitlin and Hannah? I haven’t heard from you in a while. I always worry when that happens.”
Eric set the elbow end of the hoagie roll back into the paper, not relishing telling Arthur the bad news. “Caitlin and I separated, and I have a decision to make about custody of Hannah.”
Arthur moaned. “Oh, that’s unfortunate. May I ask what happened?”
“I don’t know where to begin,” Eric said, meaning it. “Caitlin has been pulling away for a long time.”
“I’m sorry.” Arthur’s voice turned sympathetic. “I know it must be painful, the ending of a long-term marriage, and I realize how much she meant to you.”
“I know.” Eric couldn’t help adding, “I just found out that she’s seeing someone else, which ticks me off no end.”
“Of course it does. But you will move past that.” Arthur hesitated. “Now that you’re healthy, that’s a good thing for you, which is my only concern. It’s a good thing for Hannah, too. You’ve always been very close to her, and it doesn’t surprise me you’re thinking about filing for custody. I assume Caitlin will oppose you.”
“Yes, I’m sure she will.”
“How are you feeling about it? What have you decided?”
“I haven’t yet. That’s why I called, to see what you thought.”
“I hardly have the answers. However, I do think that your relationship to Hannah has been extraordinarily close. You’ve been a better father than anyone I know.”
“Thank you,” Eric said, feeling a warm rush of gratitude.
“I remember when she was born, how involved you were even in the early infancy stages. I think the simplicity of your relationship to her cut through any residual anxiety you felt. It was a joy to see, when I was treating you.”
Eric thought back to those early days, and the memories came flooding back. “I remember that I didn’t know what to do with her, or how to be, but it wasn’t as if I had to perform or achieve. It just felt natural.”
“Exactly. You followed that feeling, and Hannah responded.”
Eric had a nagging worry. “Do you think it was because we both have a propensity for anxiety?”
“No. I think that once Hannah was born, you allowed yourself to get out of your own way. You stopped focusing on yourself and started putting her first, as any good father would.” Arthur paused. “Hannah gave you a meaning in your life and a dimension that you hadn’t previously had, and I think she helped you to be healthy. Likewise, you helped her to be healthy. It isn’t anxiety that binds you to Hannah, it’s love.”
Eric couldn’t speak for a moment, touched.
“That said, I know you would be willing to make the sacrifices necessary for her and I think you could arrange your practice accordingly.”
“True.”
“You’ve written so many excellent papers. Your CV is the best. You can write and publish anywhere. You’d probably have more time for that if you cut back on the hospital, and you still have your private practice, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Eric was really coming around to the idea, and the more Arthur spoke, the more it resonated in his chest.
“Whatever decision you make, it will be the right one. I have absolute confidence in you and your judgment.”
“Thank you,” Eric said, feeling a sense of resolve.
“What’s new with your cases? Keep me in the loop, it prevents an old man from rusting.”
Eric thought instantly of Max. “I have a new patient with OCD, a seventeen-year-old.”
“A washer? A checker?”
“Neither, he does some ritualistic thinking. He has obsessive thinking about a girl and he worries that he’s going to harm her.”
“So, that’s typical for OCD.”
“I know.” Eric felt reassured to hear Arthur say it so lightly. “But there’s other things he’s done. He kept a cell phone that she left behind.”
“Hmm. It happens.”
“Something about it bothers me. Do you think she’s in danger?”
“Not at all.” Arthur scoffed. “They fear they’ll harm inadvertently, or even intentionally, but an OCD patient rarely turns aggressive on the object of his obsession. They never act, that’s the point, you know that.”
“Right, I do.”
“Nevertheless, you sound worried.”
“Yes, it’s on the back of my mind. During session I thought to myself, do I have a Tarasoff issue here?” Eric was referring to the seminal Tarasoff case, in which a patient had told his psychiatrist that he wanted to do harm to a young girl, and the psychiatrist didn’t warn her or the police because of his duty of confidentiality. Subsequently, the patient killed the girl, and her parents sued the psychiatrist. The court held the psychiatrist liable and established the hornbook law that a psychiatrist had a duty to warn the police or the intended victim’s of threats to her physical safety, made in the therapeutic context.
“I’m not hearing a Tarasoff issue on these facts. I only had one in forty-odd years of practice.”
“You’re probably right.” Eric had never had a Tarasoff issue, and they were rare, though every mental health professional dreaded the dilemma. To warn the police or victim would risk losing the client’s trust forever, increasing their risk of danger to themselves or others.
“How long have you been treating him?”
“Just the one session.”
Arthur chuckled, softly. “You’re jumping the gun, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Eric said, relieved.
“The old Eric would’ve been anxious about it, but the new Eric is a member of the worried well. Press on, regardless.”
“I hear you.” Eric brightened.
“I’m glad you called, but it’s almost bedtime, and this old man has to sleep. My bride calls.”
“Thanks, and give her a hug for me, will you?”
“Sure thing, and call anytime. You know I love to hear from you.”
“Good night.” Eric hung up, then wolfed down the hoagie and got back to work.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning, Eric opened the door, but Max had been pacing in the empty waiting room. “Good morning, Max. Come on in.”
“Hi. Thanks.” Max barely looked up when he entered his office, his head down. He wore the same clothes as yesterday, and it smelled as if he needed a shower, so Eric was concerned. He tried to catch Max’s eye, closing the office door behind them.
“How are you?”
“Terrible, I can’t sleep at all, I’m still tapping, and Gummy’s worse. She’s not eating anything, she only had coffee and crackers all day yesterday.” Max stayed standing. When he finally looked at Eric, his eyes were pained and defiant. “I’m a mess, I really think I should start on the medication. Can’t you start me now, Dr. Parrish?”
“Please, sit down, and let’s table that discussion—”
“Why won’t you give me meds, Dr. Parrish?” Max threw up his hands. “I mean, that’s why I’m coming to you. The tapping, the thoughts, everything, I need help!”
“Max, I don’t expect things to get better after only one session, and we have to be realistic.”
“I know it takes more than one session to get better and I want to get better, that’s why I need the medication!”
“Sit down, please.” Eric gestured at the chair. “I think I told you, many medications have adverse effects on adolescents—”
“Like what? I’m not going to kill myself, I promise.” Max flopped into the chair.
“That’s only one of the adverse effects, but it’s the most concerning, obviously.” Eric met Max’s eye and sat down opposite him, taking his tablet onto his lap.
“I’m not going to, I swear.” Max lowered his voice, sulking. “G
ummy needs me, I’m fine, I just need some help.”
“I understand that, but we need to talk more to determine how best to treat you.”
“We’ve talked enough.”
“I’m just starting to get to know you.” Eric worried that Max was entering a crisis, but he couldn’t admit him to the hospital unless he were a danger to himself or others, basically, unless he were suicidal, psychotic, or homicidal. “Let’s switch topics. Tell me more about your grandmother.”
“She’s pretty bad, I mean, bad. The hospice people came yesterday, a nurse in the morning, then a social worker.” Max’s face fell and he raked his hair back with spread fingers.
“How was that?” Eric noticed the boy’s hair looked greasy and made a note.
“They were nice. They gave me, like, a log for their visits and some pamphlet called When the Time Comes or something like that.” Max snorted. “It’s like they don’t know there’s an Internet that you can look all this up, which of course, I did. At least they helped me move Gummy into the living room, and they sent us a bed, like a hospital bed, and an oxygen tank. They even gave me this kit with morphine and a tranquilizer.”
“Usually, it’s Ativan.” Eric didn’t like the sound of the boy’s having unfettered access to the drugs, especially benzos like Ativan, Valium, Klonopin, or Xanax. They caused dependency and were disinhibitors, like giving Max a few drinks. “I’m disappointed to hear they left that with you, a minor.”
“They didn’t. My mom was there to meet the nurse, and they gave it to her, then she left. She’s good at keeping up appearances. She told the nurse she was home every night.”
“You won’t be touching those drugs, are we clear?”
“Of course not, and it’s sealed, and the nurse said we have to call her if my grandmother’s pain starts to get bad or if she gets agitated. Rather, I have to call her because my mom left right after.” Max’s eyes flickered with pain and he pursed his lips. “It’s called terminal agitation, they said. It happens, I read it online.”
“Was your mom there when you met with the caseworker alone?”
“No, not the caseworker.” Max snorted. “I can deal, I do it, I’m not complaining. If I do it, at least I know it’ll get done right.”