Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (19 page)

I closed my eyes, covered my face with my hands. Took a deep breath. Recalled being slammed against the floor of Charlie’s apartment, hitting my head. Seeing the shiv in my hand.

I put my hands down, opened my eyes, saw my hands. Studied the cut on my palm, the thin dark scab. Tried to remember how I’d cut myself. An orange? Slicing an orange? I pictured Charlie, dead on the sofa. The knife in his back. No—I hadn’t cut myself stabbing him, must have done it cutting an orange. I closed my eyes again.

Finally, I looked back at the paper and read the obit again. Somerset Bradley. Beloved husband. Beloved father. Beloved uncle and brother.

Gwynneth. Edmond. Rupert. Millicent.

Service at noon. Interment private.

Rupert. Edmond.

Gwynneth.

I’d made a wife into a widow. I’d taken their father from his sons.

I’d killed a man.

“This is your fault, Elle,” Charlie growled. I looked at the wound on my hand, remembered my knife in his back. Was it possible? Maybe I’d killed two?

I sat at the table, frozen, staring at the page.

Somerset Bradley, aged forty-six, smiled back. In the photo, he had two eyes.

The waiting room was small and indefinite. No way I’d be able to talk to a person who’d created an environment of colors so neutral that they weren’t colors at all. Not definite enough to
be labeled tan or gray or taupe or beige. Just blah. Blah-colored chairs, carpet. Blah walls. And a big blah piece of modern art that wasn’t even definite enough to serve as a Rorschach test.

I was four minutes early. In four minutes, if he was on time, I’d meet the doctor Susan had recommended. I’d casually asked her that morning if she knew any shrinks. I was careful to make it low-key, said I was thinking of following up on our conversation about my memory. But she must have heard urgency in my voice because, within minutes, she had me set up with an immediate appointment in a shrink’s swank Society Hill office, furnished in postmodern American blah.

Truthfully, it bothered me more than a little that this shrink had been referred by Susan’s friend Zoe, who, as an art therapist, knew lots of them. But Zoe—and this was the bothering part—Zoe was married to none other than Detective Nick Stiles. The very same Detective Nick Stiles who was investigating Charlie’s murder.

It felt too close. Worse than too close. It felt crazy to see a doctor who was friends with the wife of the homicide detective who considered me a person of interest, if not a suspect in a murder. But Susan assured me that doctor/patient privilege would prevail. That I could confide anything I wanted and the psychiatrist wouldn’t disclose what I said to anyone—not to the courts, not even to her.

The waiting room had no magazines. Not one. The lighting was bland, an off-white lamp on an end table. The only color in the room was from a potted fern. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Two minutes. If he was on time.

“There’s a guy who can see you today,” Susan had called back, not ten minutes after I’d called her. “Zoe says he’s excellent. Smart. Teaches at Penn. And he’s no bullshit.”

“No bullshit?” I had no idea what she meant.

“He doesn’t play shrink games, like answering your questions with questions. Or letting you lie on a sofa talking aimlessly.
Zoe says his approach is focused. He’ll tell you his thoughts, give you feedback, right then and there.”

I wondered what his thoughts and feedback would be about child pornography. I hadn’t told Susan yet about the flash drive or its contents. Hadn’t even told her about Derek’s blackmail insinuations. I knew I should, that the pornography might be important, might play a role in Charlie’s murder. But I couldn’t talk about it. Not yet. Couldn’t say the words “pedophile” or “child pornography” out loud in the same sentence as Charlie’s name. I felt too sickened. Too ashamed.

I checked the clock on my cell phone. It was time. The top of the hour—

“Mrs. Harrison?”

He was balding and blond. Lighter than blond. His hair was almost white. Glowing. His clothes the same color as his waiting room.

“I’m Don Schroeder.” Not Doctor. He shook my hand. Firm. Warm. Strong. My hand wanted to stay in his.

And then I was sinking into a brown leather sofa in his book-lined office, accepting a cup of blah-colored mint tea.

“Do I call you Mrs. Harrison?”

“No, no. Call me Elle.”

He smiled. His cheek muscles were thick. So were his fingers. White blond hairs on his hands. “Good. Call me Don.”

So. We were on a first-name basis. Now what?

He sat in an easy chair, facing me. Not pushing. Waiting to see what I’d do?

“Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”

“I’m glad I had an open spot.”

Silence. We had run out of amenities.

“I guess you want to know why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” He tilted his head. Watching me gently. Maybe wondering how I’d hurt my forehead. Or maybe
he knew. Maybe Zoe—Susan’s—friend had told him. Or maybe he’d read about it in the newspapers. He probably knew all about Charlie. And about Somerset Bradley and my head bump. Probably, he was just waiting to see what part I’d tell him first. I sipped tea, stalling, not sure how to begin. The mug was heavy. Soothing in my hands. Too hefty for tea, better for coffee.

Dr. Schroeder—Don—waited. Crossed his legs. Sipped tea. I didn’t start with the flash drive and the pedophilia. Or with Somerset Bradley’s death. Or Charlie’s murder. Or the holes in my memory. There was something I needed to find out first.

“Because I’m color-blind.”

Oh. So that was it.

“Rather than make dire mistakes, I go for things that, I’m told, will blend. Does the lack of color bother you?”

No, not anymore. Actually, I was relieved. I hadn’t meant to make an issue of it. But not one item in his waiting room or office had any but neutral tones. Not even Dr. Schroeder, whose hair was colorless and skin was pale. And the bland tones had disturbed me, seemed too passive and indefinite. But now I understood. The man lived in a colorless world, couldn’t comprehend, much less, select colors. I wondered what it would be like, not to see reds or purples or yellows or blues. How different life would be. Would it be like tasting only one flavor? Hearing only one sound?

But time was passing. I had only an hour, needed to use every minute. Decided to be direct. But I had plenty of reasons to give him for why I’d come. Like hearing Charlie’s voice after he was dead, seeing him at the funeral. Or stabbing a man in the eye. Or finding Charlie’s photos of naked children. But I didn’t mention any of those. Instead, I said, “I’m here because I have holes in my memory.”

He uncrossed his legs. Folded his hands on his lap. “Holes?”

“Yes. Lately—no.” I started over. “See, my friends—I’ve always been spacey. I wander in and out of conversations. I go off in my head. It’s like I’m watching from the ceiling. Or taking a break from being in the room—”

“Sorry—This ‘spacey’ faraway feeling. Is it new?”

“No. That’s normal for me. And it’s not all the time. I can actually kind of control it. If I get bored or nervous or tired or stressed, I just kind of wander mentally away. Why? Is that bad?”

“Bad?” He smiled, leaned forward. “Nothing we talk about here is ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ Elle. Those are judgments. We’re here to understand, not judge.”

Right. Psychobabble. Probably it was bad.

“So tell me what you mean by wandering mentally away.”

Why? I didn’t want to get bogged down in normal stuff. I wanted to get onto the important parts. Like how I couldn’t remember if I’d killed Charlie.

“I don’t know. Like at the funeral. I kind of drifted off. I saw and heard everyone, but it was like I’d floated away. Like I was there but not there. Kind of outside myself.”

“Outside yourself.”

“Yes. Like I was watching.”

“Watching.”

God, was he going to repeat everything I said? “Yes. The way you’d watch a movie, only you’re in it and it’s real.”

He paused, watching me with gentle eyes. He asked more questions. I answered. Told him about drifting in and out of conversations and events. How usually I could be in charge, coming back into focus when I wanted. I explained that drifting was normal for me, didn’t seem strange. That my friends found it quirky, called it, “pulling an Elle.”

He tilted his head, raised his eyebrows.

“And you’ve been ‘pulling Elles’ for how long?”

Forever. For as long as I could remember. In fact, at that moment, I was tempted to drift off and watch the session from a safe distance. Maybe from the colorless ceiling.

“Despite these wanderings, you’ve been functioning with no problem. You said on the phone that you teach school.”

Yes. I functioned pretty well. And, yes, I taught school. Second graders. I thought of my class, saw sparkling eyes and shining faces. Benjy. Tommy. Molly. Aiden. Lily. Josh. An unknown child, posing naked.

“I’d like to spend more time on this subject. But you said it’s normal for you. Which leads me to think that ‘pulling Elles’ is not what you meant by ‘holes’ in your memory.”

No. It wasn’t.

“So what did you mean?”

“Just—I’m having some trouble remembering stuff.”

“Remembering stuff.”

Oh God. The man was a living echo.

“Are we talking about short term? Like remembering appointments or, say, where you’ve put your keys?”

I met his eyes. “No. It’s more about specific events. Like, for example, I can’t remember whether or not I murdered my husband.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. He continued as if I’d said I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car. “Tell me about your husband’s death, Elle. About what you don’t remember.”

And so, I did, sort of. My telling was hurried. I was afraid that my hour would run out before I finished. And what I said was out of sequence, in flashes, like my memories. But, in no particular order, I told him about the night I’d found Charlie’s body. Not remembering the hours between coming home from school and going to Jeremy’s bar, including cutting my hand. I told him about the rose that moved around the house. And that I didn’t remember the actual killing of Somerset Bradley.

Dr. Schroeder—Don—asked few questions. When I finished, I couldn’t look at him. I hadn’t told anyone the things I’d told him. I’d never articulated it even to myself. And, having done so, I felt exposed. Naked. My chest hurt. I couldn’t breathe.