The Unforgivable Fix (7 page)

O
LYMPIA

“Was your day as rotten as mine, little one?” Lydia took heart at the owl's strong warning, yet laughed at the bird's focus on the box in her hands. “Oh, so it's like that, is it? You want me to leave you alone, yet you want what I have. I've had many patients like you.” She set the box aside, pulled the wooden ruler from the drawer, and began what had become their three-times-daily rehabilitation ritual. After less than a week the owl had learned what to do and responded by raising both its wings again and again without needing to be prodded. Lydia was pleased to see the right wing open and rise in complete tandem with the left.

She set the ruler aside after ten minutes of exercising and reached for the box. “You've earned it.” She had come to think of the bird as male. “But you must promise me you'll not grow accustomed to room service.” Lydia understood the danger of captivity for the owl. She hadn't nursed him to health only to have him starve to death waiting for the bothersome woman with the ruler to bring him his evening meal. She opened the lower cage door and shook the mouse into the wood shavings and pine needles lining the bottom. “Bon appétit. Last time for in-home delivery.”

The mouse scurried about under the watchful eye of the owl. Unlike previous evenings, the bird didn't pounce. Lydia stood back and waited as the bird stood in silent surveillance on its perch.

“Not hungry?”

The bird kept its eyes on the prey but didn't make a move. After several long minutes an idea came to her. Lydia stepped to the door, turned out the light, and left the darkened room. She went upstairs and poured herself a glass of merlot. The evening was still warm enough for her to enjoy it on her deck. She settled into an old Adirondack chair. The sun was lowering behind the Olympics. She waited until a fiery line of red outlined the now-black mountains before returning to the basement. She entered the room and clicked on the light. The owl was still on his perch. He rotated his head toward her and greeted her with a contented hoot. Tufts of bloody mouse fur dotted the bottom of the cage.

“I forgot, didn't I?” She reached for the worn leather gardening gloves on the side of the bench. “But you're remembering you're the type who kills alone…in the dark.”

Lydia pulled on the gloves and slid the large cage off the table. She balanced the base on her leg until she could get a firm grip. The owl screeched its discontent as she maneuvered a way to carry the bulky contraption. “Quiet in there. This is your big night.”

She managed to get the cage up the stairs, through the house, and out onto the deck. She set it down, pushed it to the edge, and sat back down in her chair. It was full-on dark now, with only the moon and a few stars dotting the cloudy night. Lydia leaned back and studied the sky. She'd seen the vast expanse of the Milky Way several times on her travels. Her work as The Fixer had taken her to locales where countless millions of stars lit the night as bright as the Las Vegas strip. She'd been able to look at the massive array for only a few moments before becoming overwhelmed with a sense of her own insignificance.
The heavens are more manageable here. Not as crowded. Like maybe there's a place for me.

The owl screeched. This time louder than she'd ever heard. She pulled herself out of the chair.

“You ready?” She opened the larger double door, exposing the entire front of the wire cage. “Off you go.”

The bird didn't move. Lydia stepped back and looked again to the stars.
Save this one. Let this one be okay.

Lydia returned to her chair. She sat and watched the owl step to the left and right across its perch. Finally she saw its wings open wide, each equally strong. The owl kicked itself free and soared up into the night. Lydia watched it circle once, high above her, before it flew out of sight.

O
LYMPIA

“How do you want to start?” Zach Edwards sat across from Lydia's desk.

Lydia saw his stack of files and the thumb drive with his recorded sessions. “Tell me what it was like for you. You've had a full week of patients now. How are things?”

“The pacing's good.” Zach had a confidence Lydia was sure served him well with his patients. His secondhand style of dressing might put them off initially, but his quiet, sure-handed way of speaking could inspire them to give him a chance. “I had four intakes this week. Each of them coming from county mental health. Want me to list them?”

Lydia noted that he'd lost her question in his eagerness to please her. “Before you do that, I want to know what it's been like sitting in a room while patients share their pain.”

Zach nodded. “That was your question, wasn't it? Sorry.”

He caught himself. Good.

“I like the way my time's blocked out,” Zach said. “Having the two half days allows me to focus.” He looked around the cozy room. “This environment couldn't be further away from my cubicle in Dr. Luther's lab. I'm sure you set it up for the comfort of the patients…and it works for me, too.”

So much for the obvious. Will you get to what you know I meant by the question?

“And of course, I've only had one session with each of my patients,” Zach continued. “Some of their experiences are hard to hear, but I'm sure we haven't gotten to the deepest part of their injuries yet. I'm able to stay with them. So far nothing's bothered me.”

“How are you going to make sure you keep yourself centered?”

“You mean what's my plan for keeping myself unbothered by what my patients tell me?”

Lydia noted his use of the word
unbothered.
She'd have to think more about that.

“I know my role here,” he said. “I'm here to coach my patients to do the things they need to in order to solve their own problems. To build their own lives in a healthy and effective way. It may sound cold, but I can't allow myself to become enmeshed with their struggles. I can't
care,
if that makes sense. I can certainly care
for
them. But it's my belief that the moment I start caring about what they do, decisions they make, stumbles they take along the road to recovery…then I'm of no use to them.”

Lydia recognized that he was wise for one so early in his career. She'd seen too many well-intentioned therapists burn themselves out in their quest to save their patients.

“I keep my boundaries tight,” he continued. “I'm their therapist. I'm not their friend or their daddy. We're here to accomplish a goal.” He shifted into a smile and Lydia saw a crack in his earnest professionalism. “Then I go home. I play racquetball with my buddies. I watch old episodes of
Seinfeld,
and sometimes I let my girlfriend beat me at chess. Aside from being broke”—he gave Lydia a you've-been-there look—“my life is good. And I make sure I remember that.”

Lydia remembered the gut-grinding poverty of grad school and residency. “Tell you what, from now on we'll have these sessions over lunch. On me.”

Zach's face lost its professional mask completely. “Oh, no, Dr. Corriger! That's not what I meant. I'm sorry if—”

“No worries.” Lydia was happy to see him a bit flummoxed. “It's lunchtime, we both need to eat. Think of it as efficient. Now, tell me who you've seen this week.”

Zack pulled the first file folder from his stack. “Eric Schuell. Forty-eight-year-old, unemployed, divorced white male with symptoms consistent with major depression. History of excessive marijuana use, none in the last ten years. Wants to work on getting a job. I've got a call in to the mental-health center to see if we can get him evaluated for antidepressant medication.” He set Schuell's folder aside and reached for the next on the stack. “Heather Blankenship is sixteen. She's a junior at River Ridge High School. Good kid. Reports her uncle's been sexually abusing her for over a year. Her dad's a pastor at a small fundamentalist church. She wants help, but doesn't want her dad to know. Apparently he's quite close to his brother.”

“Has she reported this to anyone else?”

Zach shook his head. “Said she didn't want to make trouble for anyone. She saw a pamphlet the agency put out, took herself down there, and they referred her here. She was pretty guarded at first, but finally she told me what the issue was.”

“Have you contacted Child Protective Services?”

“I thought I'd talk to you before I did.” Zach sounded like a man afraid he'd made a mistake. “Heather's uncle is out of town. Apparently he's a long-haul truck driver who's on the road for weeks at a time. He's not expected back till the end of the month.”

“You have a duty to report, Zach,” Lydia reminded him. “When do you see her next?”

“Friday.”

“You have to report it. Offer to let her do it. Tell her you'll sit right beside her as she makes the call. But if she refuses, you have to call.”

“That might mean she'll not come back to therapy.”

“It might.” Lydia was firm. “And you still must do it. It's the law.”

Zach nodded. “I hear you.” He set Heather's file aside and reached for the next. “Cindy Caldwell is thirty-five years old. Married, no children. In and out of jail for shoplifting. Reports she can't stop. Describes the stress relief she gets from stealing.”

“Ever treat a kleptomaniac before?”

Zach shook his head. “No, but I've pulled several articles and I'm reading like crazy.”

Lydia smiled. “Every therapist has to have a first.”

Zach reached for his final file. “Keith Zimmerman is fifty-two. Onetime cop. Fired from the force twenty-five years ago. Active alcoholic. Can't hold a job. Says he can't keep his disability unless he's being seen by someone.”

Lydia held up a hand to stop him. “This isn't a primary substance-abuse clinic. Refer him elsewhere. You know the options?”

“I do.” Zach looked relieved. “And I'm happy to do it. Guys like that think they have a hundred problems. They really have just one.”

Lydia held out her hand and Zach gave her the flash drive. “I look forward to listening.”

They discussed each case. Lydia was impressed with his conceptualization of his patients, even though it was early in the therapeutic process with each.

“So, that's about that,” he said as their hour wound to a close.

“There's one more thing.” Lydia discussed the recent visit by Kenton Walder and his wife. She told him about the ruse of fictitious names and her assumption they wanted to know what Zach intended to say in his report.

“Once you've signed off on it, it goes directly to the investigating officers.” Zach shook his head. “I guess I should never underestimate the curiosity of the accused.”

“Nor the entitlement of those with money,” Lydia added. “And it's my understanding Kenton Walder has boatloads of it. I don't want you to worry about this. Write your report, get it to me, and be done with it. I've got your back.”

Zach stood, thanked her, and shook her hand. “And as I understand it, you've got my lunch, too.”

Lydia finished with the three patients she had scheduled after her supervision with Zach. She wasn't as fatigued as she had been when the week started and hoped that meant she was getting used to full-time therapy work. The light on her phone signaled she had messages, and she grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. The first message was from Krystal Piekarski, asking if she could be seen three times a week.

“I want to get better, Dr. Corriger.”
Krystal's recorded voice sounded resolute over the recording.
“I really mean it. Let's get busy.”

Lydia jotted down her number. She typically didn't see patients that frequently, but she might make an exception until her schedule filled. She punched seven and waited for the next message.

“Lydia, this is Oliver.”
Her chest tightened.
“I was surprised to see you and Mort the other day. I'm glad you're back in town.”
His voice softened.
“Listen, Lydia. I struggled with this. After the last time we talked I told myself there was no good that could come of us.”
The recorder caught his hesitation.
“But then I saw you again and, well, it sounds cliché, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. Here's my number. I leave it to you. I sure hope you'll call.”

Apparently she owed Mort an apology for storming out. She'd been certain he had set up the encounter.
Now it's my turn to struggle, Oliver.
She'd reached out to him months ago, while she was still up on Whidbey. He hadn't responded. She touched four and listened to his message again.
I can't let you close, Oliver. You only know the Lydia I've allowed you to see. I can't risk you knowing more.
She pressed four once more and hurriedly wrote down the number he left before her finger touched seven to erase it forever. She hung up and the phone rang immediately. She picked it up on impulse.

“Dr. Corriger, thank God!” The caller sounded frantic. “This is Will Sorens.” He started to weep.

“What is it, Will? I'm here.” Lydia used a soothing tone. “Deep breaths. Take your time.”

He spoke between breaks in his sobs. “Emma's in the hospital. She was at her mother's. She cut again. Deep this time. Really deep. I don't know what to do!”

An image of Emma's mother, Darlene during her marriage to Will and now calling herself Dee, rose in Lydia's consciousness. The millionaire's wife had sat on Lydia's couch and complained about her “unruly” daughter while her husband, the object of Emma's accusations, offered the supportive concerns of a worried stepfather.

“I'm so sorry, Will.” Lydia tried to imagine how frightened and desperate his daughter was. “Are you there now?”

“I'm in the waiting room. I've been here since they brought her in. Darlene and I sat with her, holding her hands, begging her to be okay.” His voice hardened. “Then Walder came in. Carrying a stuffed teddy bear in one hand and a vase filled with flowers in the other. Darlene changed right away. She dropped Emma's hand and went over to him. Collapsed into his arms and said she was so glad he was there. She turned to me and asked for time alone. ‘Just the family,' she said. Like I was nothing.” His voice caught and Lydia expected a tirade of rage to begin. Instead, he sounded beaten. “But I'm her father. I'm the one who told her I would always protect her. And now there's nothing I can do to stop this monster from raping my daughter.” His sobbing resumed.

“Listen to me, Will. Emma's safe. I'm sorry for what got her there, but right now the hospital is as safe a place as she can be. I want you to hold on to that, okay?” Lydia felt his frustration coursing through the phone.

“She can't stay here forever. She'll heal. She'll be released.” He could barely speak. “My baby's going to go right back into her nightmare and there's nothing I can do about it.”

Lydia's own childhood nightmare reared up, followed by a roll call of young women she'd treated over the years. Unbelieved by parents or police. Labeled by physicians. Ignored by the courts. Denied the justice they deserved, and tortured for a lifetime by the knowledge that they were so easily cast away while their abusers went untouched.

“Listen to me, Will.” Lydia gripped the phone tightly. “I need you to hear every word I say. Can you hear me?” She began drawing inky lines through Oliver's phone number. “I'm going to tell you how to fix this.”