Although he recognized himself and his parents from other photographs upstairs, it was like looking at somebody else’s history. None of the locales, toddler clothes, toys, or even images of his parents seemed to connect to him—none triggered a cascade of recollection. Nor a nostalgic glugging of his throat.
Behind the other storage boxes was a metal strongbox—the only metal container and the only one that was sealed with a lock. The box was heavy and not just from the metal. He had no idea where the key was, of course; but that was no problem since the lock was cheap hardware-store fare. He got some wires and a jackknife from the workbench and popped it open in a matter of moments.
The contents were mostly papers in folders and manila envelopes. There were various medical reports and letters.
One particular folder caught his attention. Inside was a generic medical form for Children’s Hospital Office of Neurology. It had been filled out just after his ninth birthday but for some reason never submitted. The front listed Brendan’s name, address, date of birth, et cetera. On the reverse side was a long checklist of various ailments including several lines at the bottom asking simply for “Other.” The form had been filled out and signed at the bottom by his mother. Brendan stared at the list. She had checked off several boxes including
In the spaces at the bottom she had penned “Tried to kill himself.”
He remembered that vividly. He had seen a show on television where some guy committed suicide by sitting in his car in an enclosed garage with the engine running. He had tried that and recalled getting his father’s car keys, going out to the car, closing the door with the remote control attached to the sun visor, turning it on, then sitting and waiting. He even recalled getting sleepy. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the emergency room at Newton Wellesley Hospital.
After that they had upped his meds. He remembered because it was around Thanksgiving. Then a few weeks later, his parents were killed. Then he moved in with his grandparents and they found him a pediatrician who just continued the meds. Soon Brendan began to better mask his problems, internalizing them, developing strategies to keep the demons in low profile.
He continued through the papers.
What caught his attention immediately was a large accordion folder. On the tab, somebody had written BRENDAN. There was a date from when he was five years old. He unfastened the string close and opened it.
Inside was another large envelope containing several black sheets. He removed one and raised it to the light. And for a long moment he looked at the images.
They were X rays of his brain.
34
“You told her about Julian Watts?”
“They want to meet another child and the parents. They won’t consider it otherwise.”
“That’s not the point, Sheila,” Lucius Malenko said. “You were not to say anything until you cleared it with me first.”
“But she insisted.”
“You were not sanctioned to reveal names. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she pleaded, “but, you know, he’s a real showcase genius, he’s perfect. And she knows Vanessa.”
“You do not make the decisions, is that clear?” The scalpel-edge of his words cut into her brain.
“Yes, I’m really sorry,” Sheila whimpered into the phone. For several seconds all she could hear was the sound of an open line. While she waited for his response, her insides tightened.
“They’ll have to observe him at school to keep things anonymous,” he said.
“Of course. No other way.”
“You’ll have to arrange that.”
“I can do that, no problem,” Sheila said, feeling her organs settle in place again.
“No private interviews with him.”
“No, of course not. I promise.”
“I’ll handle the parents,” Malenko said. “In the meantime, you will say nothing, you will do nothing. Is that understood?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Sheila was in her office in the loft on the third floor of her house. Being so high up, she had a commanding view of their backyard. In a few days, the area would be decorated for Lucinda’s birthday party. Sheila had invited ten girls from school, from DellKids, and the neighborhood. At the moment, Lucinda was downstairs playing with her birthday kitten. Sheila could hear her talking to it over the songs on her CD player.
Two days ago, Sheila had given Lucinda the kitten so that she could get used to it before all the kids showed up for the party. It was Lucinda’s first pet—a beautiful little orange and white longhaired twelve-week-old thing with big round blue eyes. Sheila had gotten it from the Salem Animal Shelter. Lucinda had taken to it immediately. Sheila’s mind tripped back:
“She’s so pretty, Mommy,” she had said. “But aren’t cats sneaky?”
“No, they’re not sneaky, hon.”
The kitten sat curled in a basket with a cushion in it, which was how Sheila had presented it to Lucinda.
“What shall we call her?”
“Whatever you like. I’m sure you can think of a clever name.”
Lucinda knelt down beside the basket, and the kitten seemed to cower slightly. It was clearly shy of people. “It has big white paws,” she said. “How about Mittens?”
The kitten looked up at them and made a faint mewing. “That’s a nice name,” Sheila said.
Lucinda’s eyes raked Sheila’s face. Then her expression hardened. “You don’t like the name!”
“Yes I do, honey. Mittens is an adorable name. Just like in the nursery rhyme.”
“No, you don’t like it. I can tell from your expression.”
There was no pretending with Lucinda. She had developed a frustratingly keen instinct for catching her. “I love it,” Sheila insisted. But in truth, she had expected a more imaginative, more creative name from her—and not some trite kiddy moniker from her books. But how do you say that to Lucinda?
“No you don’t,” she said in a scathing voice. “You think it’s a dumb name. You do, you do.”
“No I don’t. Mittens is a lovely name.”
“You’re a dirty rotten liar.”
Although Sheila should have been used to her daughter’s occasional lapses, she was always taken aback. “Don’t talk to me that way, young lady.”
“Then don’t lie to me,
Lucinda’s icy blue stare stuck Sheila like a paralyzing needle. “I
“You do. You do,” she screamed. “I hate you. I hate you. I hope you get cancer and die.” Lucinda then snatched up the kitten from the basket and stormed out of the room. “Stupid bitch!”
As Lucinda headed for her room, Sheila heard Lucinda cry out, “Ouch! Don’t do that, you dummy!” Before Lucinda banged her door closed, the kitten let out a long sharp cry.
“Perhaps you can arrange a school tour,” Malenko said, snapping her back to the moment.
“Yes, of course. I know one of the admissions officers.” It would have to be soon since school was nearly out.
“Good.”
There was another pause on the phone, which tugged at Sheila. She had sold hundreds of homes over the
