Secret Brother (15 page)

“There's nothing scary about it, Grandpa. I'm not getting married or anything.”

“What's
anything
mean?” he shot back, and then shook his head. “Okay. I'll tell Bill to take tomorrow off. We'll play it day by day.”

I started to turn to leave but stopped. “By the way, I think the poisoned boy's name is Mickey,” I said. “Have your detective check it out.”

Before he could say anything, I turned and walked out, practically running up to my room to call Aaron, who answered on the first ring, as if he had been hovering over the telephone.

“It's okay,” I said.

“Great. I'll take you home, too, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe one afternoon, we can take a ride to Butler Heights and have one of those famous waffle cones. It's about an hour each way, but it's worth it.”

“The cone or going with you?”

“Ha-ha. So how is the boy?” he asked. I was glad he didn't say “William.”

“I think he uttered his real first name in a dream. I heard him when I was walking by my brother's room.”

“What was it?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey? Sounds like a nickname. It could be Michael or something. People don't list their nicknames on official documents.”

“Oh,” I said with a little disappointment.

“Or . . . just maybe he was named after Mickey Mantle. Find out if he's a Yankees fan,” he said. I knew he was joking now, but a lead was a lead.

“Maybe I will. Thanks.”

He laughed. “Okay, then, less then twelve hours.”

“Until?”

“I see you,” he said.

“Are you always this romantic?”

“Now, don't ask me to give my techniques away.”

I didn't just smile. I also felt an exciting tingle run through me. The possibility of going out with him didn't really begin until shortly before Willie's death. I never had the chance to fantasize about what it would be like, but now, having his voice slip softly into my mind, I knew tonight was the night when I would dream about us. I was more eager than ever to get to sleep. “Got to get back to my homework,” I said.

“Homework? Is that what this is on my desk? I thought someone left it as a joke.”

“The joke will be on you if you don't do it,” I told him. “Don't be late. I'm never late for school, and my grandfather would consider it a capital offense.”

“Aye-aye, ma'am,” he said.

I sat by the phone, thinking about Aaron for a while before turning to my homework, which was all that stood between me and my dreams. At least, that's all I thought was in the way. But after I washed up and brushed my teeth, got into my pajamas, and started to crawl into bed, I heard some commotion out in the hallway and went to see what it was all about. My grandfather had come up the stairs with a doctor carrying his bag, and Mrs. Camden was standing outside Willie's room waiting for them.

“What's happening?” I asked.

Mrs. Camden glanced at me, but no one answered. Grandpa Arnold and the doctor went into the room, Mrs. Camden following. I stood there listening, but I couldn't really hear anything, so I approached and stood just outside the door. I picked up some words here and there: “panic attack,” “hyperventilation,” “no heart trouble.” I heard the doctor talking softly to the boy and Mrs. Camden adding words of reassurance. Apparently, there had been some concern that his rapid breathing was from some pain or a lung problem, but the doctor was assuring my grandfather that was not the case. Their voices got lower. I returned to my room and closed the door softly.

A flood of selfish thoughts began. Why did we need all this, especially now? The boy didn't belong here; he belonged in some sort of hospital or mental clinic. This proved it. What had happened to Willie wasn't enough to turn this house upside down?
Go contribute thousands to some children's charity,
Grandpa. Or pay for whatever the boy needs outside of our home. Do anything but this.

But then the image returned of him tiny and helpless in Willie's bed, his head sinking into the big pillow, and I turned over to close my eyes hard and squeeze out the negative thoughts. I didn't like being so mean and hateful. I knew that half of my reaction to him was probably out of jealousy. I wanted all of my grandfather's attention now. I needed it, too. But it was difficult to deny that the poisoned boy needed so much more.

I thought I would fall asleep quickly, but there was a knock on my door that I knew could only be Grandpa Arnold. He didn't knock softly when he wanted my attention, that was for sure. I sat up just as he opened the door. He stood silhouetted in the hall light.

“This business with the name Mickey,” he said. “Don't you mention it to him again.”

“I thought you wanted to find out who he really is.”

“I don't want you going in there and speaking to him until you speak to Dr. Patrick.”

“Dr. Patrick? The psychiatrist?”

“She'll be here tomorrow in the afternoon when you return from school. Come directly home,” he ordered. “Call if you want Bill to bring you.”

“Well, what just happened?” I demanded.

“There are things that can stimulate very bad memories for him and cause what Mrs. Camden calls hyperventilation, a fit of rapid breathing. It can be
terrifying. It's usually because of panic, but it looks like a few bad things could be happening. He'll be fine now,” he added. “Remember what I said.” He closed the door. I sat there in the darkness.

Now he wanted me to see the psychiatrist? What happened was my fault?

What was I supposed to do next, tiptoe past Willie's room?

Don't mention Mickey? I'll be damned if I'll ever speak to that boy again
, I thought, and slammed myself back on my pillows. I looked up at the vaguely starlit ceiling. Maybe I would just ask Aaron to drive up to Butler Heights tomorrow and leave that psychiatrist talking to herself.

My body felt like a rubber band stretched too far. I was so tense I might just snap. My bed felt like a rowboat caught in a hurricane as I tossed and turned before finally falling asleep. Usually, I woke before my alarm sounded, but that morning, it thundered, and I snapped my eyes open. I had planned on looking especially good this morning for Aaron and for my friends when he and I entered the school building. Other girls, especially the older ones in our school, seemed to bloom when they were in happy romantic relationships. I could feel and see the envy in the ones who didn't have boyfriends. The happier girls had voices full of excitement. They were far more animated, and their eyes sparkled as if they lived in a world where every day was Christmas or their birthdays.

In minutes, I would go from someone to be pitied and treated gently, as if I were made of thin china, to
someone who was the object of jealousy. And no matter what any of my girlfriends claimed, they all wanted other girls to be jealous of them. They competed constantly for that trophy, wearing the most exciting clothes they could find, having their hair cut and styled to resemble the hairdo of some young actress, showing off their latest jewelry and bragging about the phone calls they received from a boy. To be modest was to be forgotten.

Now I regretted not having spent more time last night choosing what to wear. Some of my friends were wearing knee-length skirts, taking some risk. The school's unwritten rule for skirts was that if you knelt and your skirt didn't touch the ground, you could be sent home. I wished I had one that didn't touch the ground, but unfortunately, all of mine did. The newest outfit I had was a light green Bermuda-collared shirt with an A-line plaid wool skirt. I had a cable-stitched dark green sweater to wear over my shirt, instead of the jacket I always wore. I put on a pair of cable-stitched kneesocks the color of my sweater and slipped on a pair of red oxford tied shoes and inspected myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. My cheeks did look rosier than they had in the past dreadful days. I turned this way and that, imagining being looked at from different angles.

When Grandpa had told me that my grandmother had warned him that I would turn into a young lady practically overnight, I was reminded of how suddenly my body had begun to develop curves and sweep me into adolescence. The boyish figure I had begun
to hate seemed to sink beneath my budding breasts and tighter waist. I would stand in front of a mirror and admire the way my rear end was filling out. My legs were more shapely with each passing month, it seemed. I smiled to myself, recalling how shocked Willie had been when he had first realized my maturity.

“You look more like Mommy,” he once said.

Running through my memory and sifting through our family albums, I constantly looked for the resemblances. Uncle Bobby was right when he had said it: I was looking more and more like my mother. Did I dare think it? I would be as beautiful as she was.

This morning, I'd wear more lipstick, I thought, but I wouldn't put it on until I got into Aaron's car.

I hurried down the hall, not even glancing at Willie's bedroom door, and found that my grandfather had already left for work. Mrs. Camden was in the kitchen with My Faith and Myra, preparing breakfast for the boy. I charged in and poured myself some orange juice. I was already only minutes away from being picked up, so I grabbed one of My Faith's homemade buttermilk biscuits and gobbled it down with a glass of milk. They were all complaining about how fast I was eating, Myra the most vocal, but I acted deaf and dumb.

Everyone apparently knew that Aaron Podwell was coming to pick me up. When he buzzed at the front gate, I pressed number five to have it opened, and that drew a moment of silence.

My Faith shook her head. “No boy's more important than your health,” she said.

“Some boys might improve your health,” I told her.

Both Myra and My Faith widened their eyes together, but Mrs. Camden just smiled. “Let us know which it is,” she called after me, and the three of them laughed.

We'll see who laughs last
, I thought, and on a wave of defiance woven tightly with currents of rage, I sailed out of the front entrance and reached Aaron's car just as he opened the door for me and said, “Ma'am, your chariot has arrived.”

“Take me to Rome,” I said.

He laughed and closed the door. As he came around to get in, I began to put on my lipstick. He sat behind the steering wheel, watching me with a big look of surprise and amusement.

“Nearly overslept,” I explained.

“You look good to me,” he said.

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Sorry. I had to blot my lipstick,” I told him.

His eyes nearly exploded with delight, and I knew as he pulled away that he'd be in trouble with my grandfather if he had been there to hear the squeal of Aaron's tires. “Oops,” he said.

“No worries. My grandfather is already at work,” I told him. He nodded, but when I looked to my right, I saw Jimmy Wilson looking back at us with disapproval that would certainly find its way to my grandfather's ears.

10

Surprisingly, Aaron did not wipe my lipstick off his cheek before we entered the building. When I pointed it out to him, he stopped and, with a wide and dramatic sweep of his arms, declared he'd wear it like a medal of honor and fight to the death before wiping it away. We certainly didn't need any other way of attracting attention. We had that the moment we walked in holding hands and everyone realized that he had picked me up for school. I kept my eyes forward, but I could feel everyone looking at us, their conversations stopping and then starting quickly as he walked me to my homeroom. Our school had a rule against boys and girls doing much more than holding hands. Kissing anywhere inside the building was especially frowned upon, so we just parted when the bell rang to go to our first classes of the day.

“Got a new limo driver, I see,” Sandra Roth said as soon as I sat at my desk in homeroom. It was no secret that the strawberry blonde with the biggest boobs in
our class had been chasing after Aaron from the start of the school year. She had done everything but throw herself at his feet. “What did you do to get him?”

I spun on her as if she had pinched the back of my neck. “What makes you think I had to do anything?”

She smirked. Lila was listening at the desk right beside me.

“Did you do something to try to get him?” I asked, trying to sound as innocent as I could. “Something you're ashamed of, maybe?” I looked at Lila and then at her. “Why so silent? Don't you know that confession is good for the soul?” I asked. It came to me quickly because My Faith was so fond of saying it.

Her blood rushed to her face so fast that she looked like a cherry Popsicle. Lila laughed. I glanced at her and turned around to listen to the daily announcements, but I had no doubt that the table was set for today's chatter. Sandra would seek a way to get back at me. I was in the game again, keeping my head above the surface of the pool of gossip. There was no longer anything off-limits about me now. The jealous could direct their rumors and lies toward me without restraint. Envy had shoved pity aside.

However, the remainder of my school day went better than I had anticipated. Aaron and I spent as much time together as we could, with him being in senior classes and me being a junior. Lunch and walks between classes were enough. I continued to toy with the idea of standing up Dr. Patrick, but I was worried that Grandpa would be angry and punish me by not letting me go to Audrey's party. By the end of the day,
Aaron revealed that he had sensed that I was in deep, if not troubled, thought about something from time to time. I could see that he was trying to navigate carefully through the minefield of my moods.

We had just started away from school when he turned and asked, “Okay, so what's bothering you, Clara Sue? I mean, on top of all the other reasons for you to be upset. Three times today, you didn't hear a word I said, and usually girls take notes when I speak.”

How much am I willing to trust him?
I wondered. I wasn't happy with how everyone at home was reacting to my feelings, and Lila just wasn't enough.

“Taking this boy into our home and putting him in Willie's room isn't just a minor thing for me. I can't help thinking about it.”

“Yeah, I could see that when I dropped you off yesterday. Anything new happen this morning before I picked you up?”

“I haven't been very cooperative about it, and everyone is giving me grief, and now . . .” I hesitated, but I was like someone who jumped off a diving board and had second thoughts too late.

“Now what?”

“My grandfather wants me to talk to the boy's psychiatrist this afternoon.”

“He's taking you to a psychiatrist?”

“No, she's waiting for me at the house.”

“But why you?”

His surprise didn't surprise me. I was worried that he might think I was a head case myself and that
would scare him off. And then I thought,
Is that really why Grandpa wants me to talk to the psychiatrist, too?
Did he think I was mentally unstable? Did Mrs. Camden advise him to have me examined by Dr. Patrick? Until this moment, I was thinking it was solely to convince me to be kinder to the boy, but Aaron's tone gave me second thoughts.

“It's no secret in my house that I don't want the boy to be there. I guess I sound very cruel and mean,” I said. It sounded like a weak explanation for my seeing a psychiatrist.

He nodded, but he didn't really look like he agreed.

“Do you think I'm mean and cruel to want him someplace else? Do you think I need a psychiatrist now?”

He shrugged. Then he smiled. “I don't know you well enough yet. Do you enjoy pulling the wings off of houseflies?”

“It's not funny, Aaron. If you're going to ask me serious questions, be serious when I respond. Otherwise, don't ask.”

“Okay, okay. Take it easy.”

He was quieter, so I decided not to suggest Butler Heights today. When he did start talking again on our way to my grandfather's estate, he talked about the other kids in school, some of his friends, who liked whom, and then he went on to tell me about his sister's new opportunity at a magazine in New York. I thought he was talking more than usual, babbling, actually, because he had suddenly become very nervous around me and hated the silence between us.

Maybe he was regretting taking on the challenge and was trying to think of a way out. Who could blame him?

“You don't have to pick me up every morning,” I said when we pulled up in front of the house.

“Don't you want me to?”

“Only if you really want to,” I said.

“I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. I'll call you tonight.”

I started to get out but stopped. I sat there thinking a moment. He waited, watching me. “There's more,” I said.

“More?”

“The boy was moaning last night. I went into the room and heard him say ‘Mickey' like I told you, only I tried a little too hard, maybe, to get him to say whether that was his name.”

“A little too hard? What does that mean? What did you do to him?”

“I shouted and poked him, and Mrs. Camden, the nurse, was a little upset about it.”

“Poked him? With what? A knife or something?”

“No, just my hand. He was like in a daze, but when he woke and saw me, he was . . .”

“What?”

“Really scared. Later, he had an episode, and my grandfather blamed me. I think that's why he wants me to see Dr. Patrick today.”

“What sort of episode?”

“Hyperventilation. They had to get the doctor. They said he had a panic attack or something.”

“Oh. That's when you have trouble breathing, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they think it was because of you?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Now you do think I'm cruel, right? I mean, who would do that to a sick little boy, right?”

He was silent just a little too long to please me.

“You don't have to pick me up, and you can take Sandra Roth to Audrey's party. She'll be easier, for sure, because she doesn't have all these problems that will spoil your fun,” I said, and I got out of the car before he could reply.

“Hey,” he called after me.

I kept walking, tears burning my eyes, and entered the house quickly. I never looked back. Mrs. Camden was sitting in the living room with a tall, thin, dark-brown-haired woman who looked like she had a pair of microscope lenses for eyes. Maybe that was my imagination, because I knew she was Dr. Patrick and her job was to get inside your head. She wore an ankle-length dark blue skirt and a slightly lighter blue blouse that I thought looked more like a man's shirt. She had her long legs crossed and was sipping a cup of tea. Her thin lips softened into what looked like a crooked slice in her lean face. Then her eyes softened, too, as a full smile rippled. Mrs. Camden stood as soon as she saw me.

“Hi, Clara Sue. This is Dr. Patrick,” she said. “Why don't you come in? I was just going up.”

“Maybe I should put my books away and change,” I said.

“Oh, we won't be that long,” Dr. Patrick said, holding her smile but commanding with her eyes. She put her cup of tea down on the side table and unfolded her legs as she sat back on the sofa. “We should start by getting to know each other.”

“Start what?” I asked, not moving.

Mrs. Camden kept smiling but continued to walk out of the living room.

“Just give it a chance,” she whispered as she passed me.

I turned back to Dr. Patrick.

“Just a conversation, Clara Sue. Please. Won't you sit?” she asked. She had the sort of authoritative voice that made requests sound more like commands. Mrs. Rosner, my business education teacher, sounded like that. Even the toughest boys in our class jumped when she snapped an order.

Nevertheless, I was determined not to be intimidated. Not even attempting to hide my annoyance and reluctance, I approached the chair across from her like someone on death row approaching the electric chair. I flopped into it and slammed my books onto the table beside it so hard that the lamp shook. She didn't lose her smile. Ironically, her tolerance for bad behavior made me even angrier.

“You're in the eleventh grade?”

“I'm sure you know that. You probably know ­everything about me.”

Her eyes blinked, but she otherwise didn't reveal a note of displeasure. I was beginning to hate that smile. It seemed like a mask. I could feel the way she was taking measurement of me, making me self-conscious of my posture, the way I opened and closed my hand, and even how I was breathing. I really was under a microscope.

“I never take anything anyone says about someone else for granted,” she said. “I have the feeling you're the same way. You like to make up your own mind and not let others do it for you.”

“That's right. That includes everyone.”

She nodded and finally lost her smile, ready to get down to business. “I understand you do very well in school. What's your favorite subject?”

I looked away and then turned back to her. “What's my favorite subject, what's my favorite color, what kind of music do I like? Let's not dance around what's happening here, please. I know my grandfather wanted you to see me because he thinks I'm seriously disturbed or mentally ill because of all this.”

“He doesn't think you're mentally ill, Clara Sue.”

“He wanted me to see you. You're a psychiatrist, right?”

“I am. A child psychiatrist,” she said, leaning forward. “People generally think young people don't need treatment. Most people believe all they need is more discipline. At least, I get that most of the time.”

“Is that what my grandfather thinks?”

“He wouldn't have had us meet to talk if he believed that, would he? And he didn't ask me to talk to you because he thought you were mentally ill. We're just talking. I'm not giving you all sorts of diagnostic tests. There's no reason for you to be afraid of me.”

“Don't flatter yourself. I'm not afraid of you.”

“Good. I'm simply talking with you to see if there's something we can do to make things easier for you. You've been through a great deal of shock, and you're full of rage. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to see that. There's nothing wrong with having professional help. It's a lot to go through. Most adults would be just as troubled, if not worse.”

“The guidance counselor in our school already spoke with me. She's supposedly a psychologist, too. I think.”

She widened her smile. “She could be, sure. A psychiatrist has a medical degree, and a psychologist has a doctorate in psychology. Our methods sometimes seem similar, but I don't do counseling as much as diagnose mental illness and often prescribe medication.”

“So they really do think I'm mentally ill,” I insisted.

“Of course not. I'm not here for you. You're not my patient. I'm here because of the child your grandfather is helping.”

“So I was right,” I pounced. “The boy's mentally ill? He belongs in a clinic or something, then, doesn't he?”

“At the moment, he has severe paranoia,” she said,
“but a clinical setting could do him more harm than good. Do you know what that means, paranoia?”

“You just told me I was a good student.”

She smirked, and I relaxed a little.

“He's afraid of stuff all the time? Doesn't trust anyone,” I said.

“Lots of stuff,” she said. “It's having an effect on his physical well-being. Just getting him to eat well is an issue.”

“Well, he was poisoned. Why shouldn't he be afraid to eat? I would be, too.”

“Exactly. But I don't think he fully understands that he was poisoned.”

“But I told him.”

“Or wants to believe it when he hears it,” she added.

“What's that mean?”

“Maybe someone he loved and trusted did this to him, or maybe he's ashamed that he did it to himself.”