The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (140 page)

Sheffer burst back into the office, all apologies. “I walk down the hall around here and crises just pop out at me. I’m like a crisis magnet, Domenico. Hey, yippee! They fixed my light.”

I sat down. Should I tell her I’d seen him? Keep my mouth shut?

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get back to business.” She started up again about how getting Thomas out was a long shot—how she didn’t want to understate that.

I tuned out. Saw him the way he’d looked a few minutes ago: standing there with his unlit cigarette. I realized Sheffer’s voice had stopped. “Uh . . . what?” I said.

His case had come up for discussion at their unit meeting that morning, Sheffer repeated. They were split right down the middle on what to recommend. “As of today, anyway,” she said. “But we still have six more days before our report’s due.”

“Aren’t there five of you?” I said. “How can you be split down the middle?”

“One team member hasn’t voiced an opinion yet.”

“Dr. Patel,” I said.

Sheffer said she couldn’t go into specifics. In a week, the vote might be altogether different, anyway, she said. “You see, Domenico. It’s not just a matter of getting him out of Hatch. It’s where he’s going to go if he does get out. Placement-wise, it’s tough. With all the downsizing going on in mental health, there just aren’t as many options as there were before.”

“There’s Settle,” I said. “That’s where he should have gone in the first place. Back to
Settle.
”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“Just
say
it.”

She told me the rumor flying around was that the state might be closing Settle—as early as March was what she’d heard.

“Okay, put him there until March then. That gives him, what? Five months? In five months, he might be back on track.”

“Yeah, but if they’re phasing
out
the population there, why would they take new admissions? Even short-term ones? That’s not what they’re doing.”

“What about . . . what about a group home then? Couldn’t he live in a supervised group home? That’s worked for him in the past.”

“
Has
it?” She reminded me that he’d been living at Horizon when he stopped taking his meds and went to the library and lopped off his hand. And group homes were facing another round of cutbacks, too, she said. Staffs there were already like skeleton crews, compared to the way those homes had been supervised five or six years ago. That meant patient-residents had to be fairly self-sufficient—a category my brother didn’t exactly fall into in his present state. “That leaves a place like Settle, which is on shaky ground. Or a place like Hatch, which isn’t.
Or
. . .” She stopped.

“Or what?” I said.

“Or releasing him to the custody of his family.”

I skipped a beat or two. Took in what she’d just said. “If . . . if that’s what we have to do, then we’ll do it. Because one way or the other, he’s getting out of here.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Just like that, eh,
paisano
? You’re going to monitor his meds, supervise his hygiene, chauffeur him back and forth to therapy a couple times a day. Oh, and don’t forget to safety-proof your whole place. Lock up all the knives, etcetera, etcetera.”

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“No,” she said. “It’s not. How are you going to paint houses? Park him at the curb? Put a pair of overalls on him and make him your foreman?”

I told her to do me a favor and skip the sarcasm.

“But come on, Dominick,” she said. “Let’s do a reality check. You’ve got a
life.
How’s your wife going to—”

“I don’t have a wife,” I said. “I have a girlfriend.”

She shrugged. “Wife, girlfriend. You guys live together?”

I nodded.

“Well, then, how’s that going to affect
her
? And you two as a couple?”

“We’ll work it out,” I said.

“Yeah? You sure? Is she a saint or something?”

But I suddenly saw it: Thomas moving in, Joy moving out—exiting the same as Dessa. And then what? An empty mattress to roll around on all night. My crazy brother across the table at breakfast. Even if we weren’t a perfect fit—Joy and me—she was a warm body to lie next to at night. A life preserver to hold on to out in the deep. What would I have if she left? Thomas, that’s what. My anchor. My shadow. Thomas and Dominick: the Birdsey twins, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, amen.

“That’s why Rubina—Dr. Patel—is riding the fence, I think,” Sheffer said. “She’s reluctant to put the burden of your brother back onto your shoulders. She mentioned something about that at the meeting—about how the family’s best interests have to be factored in. How did she put it? That the good of the patient and his family are
intertwined.
”

I was furious. Patel had no right to take what I’d said in that private office and use it against my brother. It had been a mistake seeing her—going over to that office of hers and spilling my guts out about the past. I could take care of myself.
He
was supposed to be her patient, not me. It was
his
best interest that mattered. She was going to hear from me on this one. She was going to hear loud and clear.

“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “I’ll get her over to our side.”

Sheffer’s eyes widened. “Don’t you
dare
tell her I’ve been sharing all this information with you!” she said. “No shit, Domenico. You could get me in big trouble. Those unit meetings are confidential.
And, anyway, she’s a strong woman. She’s going to make up her own mind; you’re not going to ‘talk her into’ anything. But whatever she decides on the recommendation—even if we come out on opposite conclusions—I trust her judgment. I respect her. She’s
fair,
Dominick.”

“Yeah, well, don’t respect her too much,” I said.

She cocked her head. Her face was a question.

“Did you know that I’m seeing her?”

“Professionally?”

I nodded. Looked away for a second. Looked back. I hadn’t even told Joy I was seeing a shrink. Why was I playing true confessions with Sheffer?

“Dr. Patel would never share information like that,” she said. “But I’m
glad,
Domenico. I think it’s a good thing that you’re seeing her. I think it’s great.”

“Not if it’s a conflict of interest, it isn’t. Not if it keeps my brother locked up here because she’s advocating for
me.
”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what I’ve been doing, basically, is going to her office over on Division Street and pissing and moaning about all the ways my brother has screwed up my life. Digging up ancient history—all this shit from our childhood and from the year he first cracked up. Dredging up all this stuff that should have just stayed buried.”

“Well,” she said. “That’s what therapy
is.
Right?”

“But if she’s recommending he be admitted here long term because it’s better for
me
—because I happen to have been through the wringer—”

“She wouldn’t do that, Dominick. Whatever her decision—I mean, sure, she’s going to look at the big picture, yes—but she’s not going to deliberately choose something that’s detrimental to Thomas. He’s her
patient.
She’s not going to choose one of you over the other.”

No? Why not? Everyone else had—our whole lives. Nobody’s
ever
chosen Thomas. Not Ray, not the kids in school. Nobody except Ma.

“Dominick, you need to calm down a little. Chill out about all this. Because I’ll tell you one thing. If you lose it this way at the
Review Board hearing, you’re not going to help anyone. Okay?”

She waited. I looked back at her. Nodded.

“And one other thing. Are you listening? Because I really need you to listen to this. This place isn’t quite the hellhole you keep saying it is. We had a tag sale a while back, you know? Sold off the torture chamber and the leg irons and hot pincers. All right? Every time you say something like how this is such a ‘hellhole’ and a ‘snake pit,’ it dismisses what we try to do here all day long, day in, day out. What
I
try to do. Okay? . . . I’m in a healing profession by choice, okay? . . . And I wouldn’t stay here if I didn’t believe in the work this facility is doing. I’d like to think I’m not
that
much of a masochist. So don’t write this place off when you haven’t even walked through the wards yet. All right, Domenico?”

I nodded. “I could take him in if I had to, though,” I said. “I know it wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it. I’ve taken care of him his whole life, one way or another.”

She just kept looking at me. Studying me. “How was your visit?” she finally said.

I looked over at the window. Looked back at Sheffer’s face. I tried to read what she meant. “You . . . did you set that up? My seeing him out there?”

“It was the closest I could get to letting you visit him. And I figured you might want to be alone. How’d he look to you?”

I told her he looked terrible. Told her about the harassment I’d seen—about how that cowboy psych aide had made my brother invisible.

“That’s Duane,” she said. “Not one of my favorites, either. I’ll look into it. But he’s safe here, Dominick. I promise you. He’s okay.”

Beep!

“This is Dr. Batteson’s office calling for Joy Hanks. Please call our office at your earliest convenience. Thanks.”

Beep!

“Dominick? It’s Leo. Hey, guess what? You know that part I auditioned for? The slasher flick? I
got
it! They start filming middle of next month down in Jersey. That’s
film,
Birdseed. I’m going to be in a goddamned
movie
!”

As he babbled, I made a list in my head: go to the dump; get paint thinner; get Halloween candy; 11:00
A.M.
meeting with Sheffer. Joy had been promising for days to get trick-or-treat stuff. She’d pulled the same thing last Halloween. Then, when the doorbell started ringing, I’d had to make a mad dash—pay double at the convenience store.

Over on the kitchen counter, Leo’s voice was asking about racquetball. “Thursday or Friday, if either of them’s good. You got that hearing thing for your brother tomorrow, right? Give me a ring.”

Beep!

“Hello? Hello? . . . Yes, this is Ruth Rood calling for . . . Hello? Mr. Birdsey? . . . Oh. I thought I heard you pick up.” She was talking in slo-mo, slurring her words. God, I’d hate to see what
her
liver looked like. “Henry and I were wondering why you weren’t at the house today. You said you’d be here, so we were expecting you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Henry’s very discouraged. He says the scaffolding in his office window is starting to make him feel like a prisoner in his own house. He can’t even work, he’s so despondent. Please call.
Please.
”

I picked up the phone, flipped through the Rolodex. Too bad, Morticia. I’ve had one or two other things on my mind—like trying to get my brother out of goddamned
actual
prison, not scaffolding prison. Henry ought to check in down at Hatch if he
really
wanted to feel “despondent.”

She picked up on the first ring, her voice as sober as 7:00
A.M.
“Oh,” she said. “Yes. I was expecting a call back from Henry’s doctor.”

I skipped the apology for the no-show the day before and told her I’d try to make it over to their place that afternoon. “They’re saying rain later today. What I’ll do is, I’ll pull the shutters off and bring ’em back after they’re scraped and painted. That way I can work no matter what the weather’s doing. Make up a little lost time. Tell Henry I should be ready to prime by the end of the week, Monday at the latest. He feeling okay?”

Pause. “Why do you ask?”

“You, uh, you just said you were waiting for the doctor to call back.” She gave me that line again about Henry being despondent. Too much booze and too much time on his hands, that was
his
problem. “I’ll try and give you half a day tomorrow,” I said. “Best I can do. There’s this thing I have to get to tomorrow afternoon. I’ll probably work all day Saturday at your place, though. I’ll let you go now in case his doctor’s trying to call.”

Shit. If I ever finished
that
job—ever kissed
this
painting season goodbye—then maybe there was a god after all.

What was the call for Joy? I’d forgotten already. I hit the “save”
button. Hit “messages.” Jotted, “JOY: Call Dr. Batteson.” Who was Dr. Batteson? Not another one of those holistic guys, I hoped. The last one of those quacks she and her buddy Thad had gone to had soaked her for three hundred bucks’ worth of “herbal” medicines. . . . Thad. The Duchess. There was another one with too much time on his hands. Why couldn’t she have
girl
friends like every other woman?

I dialed Leo’s number. Whether I had time to play racquetball or not, the idea of smashing something against four walls was starting to appeal to me. I drummed my fingers on the countertop and waited out the kids’ cutesy singing message. God, I hate that: the way some people’s machines hold you hostage.

“Leo: racquetball: yes,” I told the machine. “The hearing’s at four o’clock tomorrow. How about early Friday morning? I can have Joy reserve us a court.” I started to hang up, then stopped. “Hey, good news about your movie. I knew you when, Hollywood. Later.”