“We agreed to give him time to come out of this on his own. He’s upset about something. Fine. It happens to all of us. There’s no point in blowing this out of proportion. It’s probably just a girl, some sweet young thing that broke his heart.”
“He’s injuring himself.”
“Doctors keep records, Abigail. And records can be leaked.”
“Please don’t make this about you.”
“He’s a political liability.”
“He’s your son.”
It was an old argument, the line drawn when Julian was a boy. He had trouble looking people in the eyes, and rarely shook hands or allowed himself to be touched. Even now, he was painfully shy, so reticent he did poorly with people he did not know well. To complicate matters further, the books he wrote were as dark as could be and still be for children. They dealt with difficult themes: death and betrayal and fear, the pain of childhood’s end. Critics often remarked that a distinct godlessness characterized his stories, and because of that, some conservative communities had banned his books, even burned them. The power of his artistry and storytelling, however, was undeniable, so powerful, in fact, that few could read them without being emotionally challenged in some meaningful way. So, while in some circles he was demonized, in others he was celebrated as an artist of the highest order. His own explanation was simple:
“It’s an election year.” The senator frowned. “He’ll be fine.”
“You’re blind, Randall.”
“Blind? I don’t think so.”
“Blind and arrogant.”
The senator leaned back in his chair, fingers laced above his belt. “Whose coat is that?”
“That’s hardly relevant.”
“I can have a doctor here by lunch. All you have to do is tell me who owns the coat you’re wearing.”
Her sigh was an exhausted one. “Why do you even care?”
“Because you said I’m blind.”
“Fine. You’re not blind.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“It belongs to Jessup. Are you happy?”
“Jessup’s a good man.” He paused. “A bit humble for your tastes.”
“The man loaned me his coat.”
“Of course.”
Abigail pushed the phone across the desk. “You’ll call?”
“Of course.” The smile was a knowing one.
“You exhaust me, Randall.”
“I consider that my job as your husband.”
“A doctor,” she said. “Soon.”
Back in Julian’s room, Abigail found that he’d used a stub of pencil to draw the shape of a door on the wall. It was small and childish, nothing like the art of which he was capable. Normally, if Julian were to draw a door, it would look so real one might try to open it and walk through. He could make it look that solid, or he could shape it in a manner so fanciful it could be a door to another universe, the passage to a world of magic and joy, or a black gate yawning wide to collect a host of damaged souls. But that’s not what Abigail saw. The lines on this door wavered and diverged, making an irregular shape less than five feet tall. The doorknob was a scrawl, the hinges thick marks of heavy black. Julian knelt in front of the door, still bent. He was beating his knuckles on the drawn door, the bandages not just wet, but torn.
“Baby.” She knelt beside him, close enough to feel his heat. The skin under his eyes was bruised, his face so lean the cheeks were sunken. He ignored her, his eyes fevered and empty, his lips chewed raw and dry as chalk. He struck one part of the door, then another, so intent he did not react when she put a hand on his arm. “Baby, please…”
His eyes were shockingly drawn, pulled so deeply into their sockets they looked black. His mouth opened and the tip of his tongue pushed against the back of his teeth. When Abigail reached again to touch him, her arm passed before the lamp so a shadow flickered on the wall. Julian flinched when he saw it, and Abigail cringed from the sudden terror in his face. Then, just as quickly, the emotion fled and his face emptied. She watched his lips move in mindless rhythm, and her fingers stopped an inch from his skin. “Baby, please.”
“Sunlight…”
His voice was the barest whisper.
“Silver stairs…”
CHAPTER NINE
The doctor was like so many doctors, quiet and certain and spare. He arrived in the company of an unfamiliar nurse, and when the door clicked shut Julian froze, a new attentiveness to his features, a contemplation that seemed to emanate from some especially still place in his soul.
“Julian, my name is Dr. Cloverdale. I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to conduct an examination and fix up your hands. Is that okay?” Julian did not respond, and the doctor said, “We’re all friends here.”
Moving gently, the doctor checked the sound of Julian’s heart and lungs. He shone a light in Julian’s eyes, and Abigail imagined her son’s face turned up in the dark, a small light seen from the bottom of a deep well.
“You’re doing fine, Julian. Just fine.”
The doctor continued his examination, and when the bandages came off Julian’s hands, Abigail stifled a small cry. “It’s okay,” the doctor said; but it was not. The knuckles were scraped and torn and weeping lymph. The meat was white, and Abigail thought she saw a wet, gray flash of bone. The doctor dressed the hands, and then sedated him. Julian did not react when the needle went into his arm. Abigail turned down the sheets, and together they got Julian into bed. At the door, the doctor spoke in a whisper. “The nurse will clean him up.”
In the hall, Abigail put her back against the wall. “His poor hands…”
“There’s no permanent damage.”
“You’re certain?”
“Barring further injury, yes.” The doctor’s face was kind, but serious. “This just happened?”
“Which part?” Abigail felt a hint of panic in her own voice.
“When did this begin? Let’s start there.”
“Three days ago. He went away-we don’t know where-and when he came back, he was like this. I found him in the garage, barefoot and filthy. He wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t go to his own room. He came here and locked the door. He wouldn’t answer when we tried to talk to him, wouldn’t come out. After a day, we brought in the locksmith.”
“Does he often disappear like that?”
Abigail shook her head. “No. Never. I mean, he goes places, of course. But not that often, and never without letting someone know.”
“Where does he go, when he leaves? Friends? Vacations?”
