Supernormal (5 page)
Cam listened to the phone ring. Counted out five, six, seven, and wondered at what point it would start to get creepy. She might have had the ringer off, if she was out somewhere. Their parents insisted on it; it was impolite to have a cell phone ring and interrupt something.
It went to Naomi’s voicemail. Again. “It’s Cam. I just wanted to chat.” And he rolled his eyes. Chat. “I’ll—” He stopped when a beat-up hulk parked at the curb in front of Meg’s house. “Bye.”
Danny rolled down the window as Cam came out of the house. “Hey, Red. You ready to go get your head shrinked?”
“You could say that,” Cam replied as he settled into the passenger seat of Danny’s beat-up Chevy. “Nice car,” he continued as Danny pulled away from the curb.
Danny grinned. “Beats walkin’.”
“Thanks for giving me a ride,” Cam said, fighting the urge to fidget. “I know it’s last minute.”
“Nah, it’s cool. It’s my day off and Liz doesn’t like me hanging around to watch the games.” Danny’s grin was blinding. “My manliness distracts her.”
“I know how she feels,” Cam replied wryly, which made Danny laugh.
“That’s twenty bucks Tyler owes me. He said you didn’t have a sense of humor.”
“Maybe you should let him talk you down to ten,” Cam said. His voice didn’t sound too strained. “It’s under construction.”
“Yeah. You don’t need to freak out, by the way,” Danny said, tossing a glance at Cam. “Dr. Mac’s pretty cool. It’s just, you look like you’re going to puke in my car,” he told Cam.
“Tempting, but I will restrain myself.”
“Thanks, man.”
Cam tried to force himself to let go of his white-knuckled grip on the door handle. “How do you know the doctor?”
“Oh, I go in for check-ups pretty regular.”
The casual admission left Cam staring. “I wouldn’t have thought—” He stopped.
“I’d need a psych?” Danny finished for him. “I know, right? I seem so well-adjusted. But I’ve got issues. Big ones.” He leaned over confidentially. “I’m a superhero.”
“A superhero.”
“Yup. It can mess you up, let me tell you. You know, with great power comes great responsibility.”
“You’re Spiderman.”
“Please, don’t be ridiculous. I’m Aquaman.”
“Who?”
“See, exactly. You say Spiderman, and everyone’s, ‘Oh, right, Peter Parker.’ You say Batman, and it’s, ‘Adam West.’ Aquaman—” He gestured to Cam as if that proved his point. “Which is totally unfair. He’s got a hook-hand and everything, and he can talk to fucking sharks. That is, ‘general-expletive-for-emphasis’ sharks, not sharks that are—anyway, point is he’s really cool, but everyone’s like, ‘Oh, you mean Percy Jackson’s dad’?” Danny shook his head. “He’s like the redheaded stepchild of the superhero world. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Danny laughed, parking in front of a sandstone office with a discreet brass plaque. “So what’re you in for?”
“I’m Batgirl.”
“Christ, no wonder you need a shrink. I was in an asylum three months after seeing
Batman and Robin
. Some days you just can’t get rid of a bomb, right?”
“Right.” Cam unbuckled his seatbelt. “Thank you for the ride.”
“You said that already. It only counts the first time. So you’ll be, what, an hour? Level Up’s just around the corner. Grab me when you’re done, we’ll go get burgers.”
Cam considered the door handle for a long moment. “You know, the twenty dollars was just for the one day. My aunt doesn’t pay overtime.”
“Don’t I know it. You took my job,” Danny explained. “Three years she had me chained to a table saw, until the day Mightily Oats came to town, and on that day he brought Forgiveness. Seriously, though, let me tell you, one grunt to another: You ain’t ever going to get out. Meg’ll run your life for the rest of your life if you let her. She lets me off the hook in the summer, though, ‘cause I switch over to lifeguarding.”
“Because you’re Aquaman.”
“Yup. So, burgers.” And, when Cam hesitated, “What, you trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes.”
Danny shrugged. “Well, too damn bad. Ever since I quit with Meg, my kitchen connection dried up. You’re my in. ‘Sides, I like the way you talk.” He looked at Cam expectantly. “Oh, come
on
. I say, ‘I like the way you talk,’ and you say—” his voice deepened, and he took on a croaky Southern twang “—‘I like the way you talk.’ You saying you’ve never seen
Sling Blade
?”
“Is that a movie?” Cam asked, maintaining a poker face.
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Where have you been living, in a cave? In a cave that doesn’t have wifi? Okay,” Danny said, clapping his hands together, “what are you doing tomorrow? No, wait, not tomorrow. Whitney’s got a recital. We’ll figure it out, doesn’t matter, but you are coming over to my house and we’re having a marathon. And you’re bringing cookies. You ever had Meg’s cookies? The chocolate chip ones with the walnuts?”
“No.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “This week. Movies. Cookies.”
Cam held up his right hand, like a Boy Scout.
“All right, peace out. Play nice with the other crazies.”
Dr. Diana McNamara’s office rated about a seven on Cam’s scale. Small, could have been cramped, but someone—doctor or decorator—made use of the space. Clean lines, light-colored walls to maximize the space and make it seem bigger. The furniture was compact and modern, but comfortable. Compelling black and white photos were hung at discreet intervals. Windows on the front side were left bare, offering a spectacular view of the boardwalk and, beyond that, the beach. Tucked in a corner was a glossy coffee pot and a basket of assorted snacks. Fresh coffee, too, by the smell of it.
Not bad, he had to admit. Professional but not sterile, comfortable but not sloppy. He’d seen worse.
It was just the one time, Cam told himself, and he forced his fingers to unclench. That’s what he and Meg had agreed on after she cornered him last night. After a grueling negotiation, he talked her down to a single trial session, as long as he was honest with himself about how that session turned out.
Cam was always honest. That was part of his problem.
The door to Dr. McNamara’s private office opened, and a woman walked out. Cam stood automatically as she came forward and held out her hand. “You must be Camron.”
He forced himself to take the woman’s hand and shake. “Dr. MacNamara.”
She put Cam in mind of one of his mother’s Lladró figurines, smooth and elegant, with a face that could have been on a cameo. She was fine-boned and slender, with honey-colored hair pinned back in a sleek twist, and dark oval-framed glasses. “Just Diana, please. Would you like a drink or something to eat before we sit down?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Dr. MacNamara gestured to her private office. Cam set his shoulders and headed in.
The inner sanctum was not quite a mirror of the waiting room. The same light walls and wide windows, the same clean, modern lines to everything. But the paint on these walls was a shade warmer, the windows had discreet screens, the furniture had a few more pillows and cushions. It was a place where people could get comfortable. Relax. Theoretically.
“Welcome to my parlor,” Dr. MacNamara said, closing the door behind Cam. He felt the latch click shut. “You can take a seat if you like.” She waited until he settled, and then focused her calm, clear eyes on Cam. “What brings you to my office today?”
“My aunt asked me to come.”
When no more was forthcoming, Dr. MacNamara asked, “Why did your aunt ask you to come?”
“She’s concerned about me.”
“Why is she concerned?” Dr. MacNamara put in promptly.
“My parents kicked me out of the house.” Cam braced himself, because here it was, let’s all make a big deal out of it.
But she didn’t. She didn’t even react. “Why would they do that?”
“They didn’t want me living there anymore.”
The doctor took a moment before responding. “Your parents just…walked up and told you to leave?”
“No. We were in the dining room, having cake.” He could still smell the sugared frosting. They had gotten pound cake. It was to celebrate his graduation, and they had gotten pound cake because his father preferred it.
She studied him. “Is that normal for them? To stand up in the middle of dessert and tell you to leave?”
He managed to keep his voice level. “It was not out of character.”
“So you were expecting it.”
“No.”
“That's nice of them, catching you off guard like that.” She frowned. “It must have been hell.” And, when he didn’t respond, “What did you do? How did you react to them telling you this?”
“I went upstairs to my room, and began to pack.”
The doctor paused for a moment to write something down. Not looking up, she said, “I said just now that it must have been hell. That’s what
I
said. How did you feel?”
“It doesn't matter how I felt. It’s their house. They can decide who lives there.”
“But you still felt something.”
Cam’s chest felt tight, like someone was standing on his rib cage, and he fought the urge to fidget. “Of course.”
After a few moments, she asked, “What did you feel? Were you angry? Upset? Disappointed?”
“There’s no point in being angry.”
“Yes, but were you?”
Yes. For himself. For Naomi. At Naomi. “There’s no point to it. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Sounds uncomfortable,” Dr. MacNamara remarked. “Though perhaps not as uncomfortable as sitting in a room with someone you just met and talking about feelings for an hour.”
“Yes.” Cam hesitated, then added, “I’m being rude, and I don't mean to be. But I don’t like therapists. And you're my thirty-second in eight years.”
“Thirty-second?” Dr. MacNamara repeated carefully, almost as if it was a foreign language. “Before me, you saw thirty-one therapists?”
“Yes.”
“Why in the world would anyone need to see that many therapists?”
“My mother insisted. She wanted the best—which was always the next one.”
“What was she looking for?” the doctor asked, writing.
“Someone who could fix me. After a few months, when they didn’t, well, obviously they didn’t know what they were talking about.”
“What needed to be fixed?”
“I’m a liar. Or I’m taking drugs. Or I just want attention.” And then there was six months where he might've had a brain tumor, or a chemical imbalance. When the tests came back, his mother cried. Cried because there wasn’t any tumor. “I’m psychic. I see the future. I am not a liar. And I do not need to be fixed.”
“Psychic.” Her pen went still, and behind her glasses her eyes were hard and sharp and alert.
He’d been expecting this. “Yes.” She was still peering at him. He could guess the next question. “I worked with the Savannah PD for a little over a year. I’ll give you the number of a detective. You can ask him if I’m legitimate.”
She surprised him by waving this away. “You tell people. What you can do.”
“I’ve come out, doctor,” Cam bit off.
Dr. MacNamara cleared her throat, picking up her pen again. “You said that you don’t need to be fixed. Is that what you think I’m here for? To fix what’s not broken?” A smile flashed across her face, and for a split-second she seemed human. “Did you know I was going to say that?”
“I have been to thirty-odd therapists. Is this where you ask me why I’m making this up?”
She smiled again, but this time there was no humor in it. “I trust you’ll find things are a little different here. When I think you’re making something up, I will ask you if you’re making something up. Though if we continue, I can’t promise you that I won’t ask some of the exact same questions your last therapists did. I trust you won’t hold it against me.”
Dr. MacNamara set her pen down and leaned back in her chair. “Fix is a funny word, isn't it? If something needs to be fixed, then logic follows that it must be broken. I don’t think you’re broken, Cam. I think there are some things in your life you wish were different, and you’re not sure how to make them different. Maybe you don’t even think they can be. Maybe they can, maybe they can't be—unlike you, I can't tell the future. But I'm willing to talk, if you are.”
Cam didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want those words to hurt, because they were true. “I’ll try,” he said. It was the best he could do.
In the waiting room, Ashley fought to sit still. And was failing. As usual. She didn’t
want
to sit still. Didn’t want to be here, and really didn’t want to go in
there
and have to sit and stay and play sane, just so the doc could run back and report everything she’d said. But after what had almost happened at Paco’s, Brody demanded she go back to three times a week, at least until July, to help smooth things out.