“What is it that you see?”
He rolled his eyes quickly in the direction of his father. Like a wooden contraption, Wilson unfolded himself, straightening his body, and then leaned back in the chair. He put the tips of his index fingers against his lips, considering his next steps, before addressing Tim. “Perhaps you could leave us alone for a while. Perhaps there’s something Jack would like to talk about in private?” He arched his eyebrows, eliciting a small smile from the boy.
“I’ll call you back in when we are done,” Wilson said. “And we can talk about his routine, whether his meds are working for the anxiety. We won’t be long, eh, Jack?”
In the reception room, Tim waited with the other parents and their children arranged on the furniture, each caught up with a private malady. A yawning boy with circles dark as a raccoon’s mask. A teenaged girl twisting a tissue in her nervous hands. Another child, face upturned and as blank as a stone, counting the tiny squares in the ceiling tiles, a kindred soul perhaps. Twenty minutes passed like eternity. When at last they stepped out into the room, Jip and Dr. Wilson looked as chummy as conspirators.
“You have yourself a good Christmas, Jack,” the psychiatrist said. He towered over Tim and put a hand upon his shoulder. “Mr. Keenan, I think we’re okay for now with the dosage, but I want you back here next month, and we really should talk about group again, or somewhere he can talk, let some of his anxieties out in a constructive way.”
“It’s just so hard to get him out of the house, doctor.”
“I’m not sure how much his agoraphobia is actually making his overall anxieties worse, but he’s worried that whatever he’s afraid of outside is trying to come inside the house. It’s probably best we tackle this latest beastie while we can. Let’s give it a try, maybe in the new year? Meanwhile, I think it’s healthy to encourage the drawing, eh? Jack, why don’t you grab your coat and get your father’s.”
When the boy was out of earshot, Wilson took Tim aside and spoke softly. “Keep an eye on what he’s drawing, would you? Bring some in next time. There’s usually a story there.”
Lunchtime had come and gone by the time they made it back home and repeated the whole process in reverse, shuttling him from the Jeep and those fifteen feet into the mudroom. Tim unwound the swaddling from the boy, and he was whole again. They talked about his homeschool lessons over tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. At two o’clock, as usual during the school year, his father left to attend to the few chores and errands of the day, checking on the properties he looked after, making sure the winter was not invading the summer homes of his wealthy clients. For a glorious hour or so, Jack Peter had the whole house to himself.
He was supposed to be reading. That was the deal they had made that past September when Tim and Holly finally agreed they could leave him alone for a small part of the day. Prior to that, one parent stayed at home while the other was at work, and during the summertime, when Tim’s duties kept him busy, there had been a nurse two afternoons a week and a string of babysitters, college girls mostly, whose company he both enjoyed and resented.
“I’m almost eleven,” he had argued. “Too old to be babysat.”
“You’re just ten,” his mother had said. “How do we know we can trust you?”
“He’ll be fine with a book,” his father had countered, and that settled the matter.