“They’ve got hundreds of people helping, Sheila. That policeman said we can help when we get back.” He nodded his head toward Officer Campen, who was standing by Mr. Charles’s gate. Dad had spoken to him about moving the van so that we could get going.
“… so sorry to bother you now, but we’ve got to get to an appointment for my son. We’re seeing a specialist …”
I felt sick and my knees were trembling. I just wanted to go back inside.
“I don’t mind going another day. Perhaps it would be better to wait,” I said. Mum looked over at Dad, but they both ignored me and Mum changed the subject.
“That poor Casey. Imagine being dragged out of bed this morning like that. She could have waited until she’d woken up, surely?”
Casey and Teddy’s mum, Melissa Dawson, had come straight from the airport and picked her daughter up at 5 a.m. I’d slept through the whole thing.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a child hugged quite like that before. I thought she was going to suffocate her!” Mum said. “At least it’s good news about Mr. Charles.”
Mr. Charles had gotten back from the hospital at 6:30 a.m. I had been right—it was indigestion.
Dad turned the engine on as if that would speed things up a bit.
Out my window I saw Melody, black cardigan on, arms folded, as she headed to the alleyway next to Old Nina’s house. She looked up at me and nodded and I nodded back. I’d quickly emailed her first thing this morning.
To: Melody Bird
From: Matthew Corbin
Subject: Next Assignment—The Rectory
See what you can find out about Old Nina? Take a look around!
Matthew
I twisted around to take a look at the old Victorian house. The lamp was still off.
“I wonder where Casey and Teddy’s dad is? You’d have thought he’d be around, wouldn’t you?” said Mum. She pulled her sun visor down and checked her reflection in the mirror. “Penny was on the news this morning. Only for about four seconds; she wasn’t on for as long as you were, Matthew.”
I cringed.
“They asked her how the neighbors were feeling and she said, ‘We’re all praying for little Teddy.’ That was nice, wasn’t it? She was wearing that cream blouse she wore to her niece’s wedding last year. And she’d put lipstick on. Bright pink. I don’t think that was appropriate. A touch of gloss would have been better.”
We were all quiet for a moment.
Dad fiddled with the air-conditioning and a cold blast of air hit my forehead. I was just going to ask if I could go back inside to wash my hands when two people appeared from around the side of Mr. Charles’s house wearing white jumpsuits.
“Forensic scientists,” I whispered. I recognized them from TV.
I watched as one of the forensic team peeled off a pair of latex gloves and pushed his white hood back as he walked to the van. If I had access to that kind of clothing I’d be fine. Cocooned in a protective layer—it looked perfect to me. The van moved out of the way and my stomach flipped as we slowly reversed out onto the road.
I was using my notebook again. The one I have in my head, not my pocket.
Tuesday, July 29th. 10:00 a.m. Dr. Rhodes’s office.
Number of people in office = 4
Number of people happy to be in office = 1 (and that’s only because she’s being paid)
Number of leaflets relating to mental health = 16
Number of leaflets with photographs of teenagers rubbing their foreheads = 3
Dr. Rhodes wasn’t what I was expecting. She was tiny, and her hair was fire-truck red and piled up high on top of her head (possibly to make herself appear taller), and her nose was pierced with a small diamond that glinted when she moved. She sat on a high-backed chair with a writing pad on her lap. Her feet barely reached the floor.
Dad, Mum, and I were all enveloped in a squishy, brown leather sofa the same shade as Mum’s spray-tanned legs. Dad kept coughing like he was clearing his throat to make some kind of joke, which thankfully never arrived. Mum talked constantly about Teddy going missing and how we really didn’t feel right being here at a time like this. Her posh voice was in fine form.
“We were going to cancel, weren’t we, Brian? We didn’t know what to do. I said it didn’t seem right, just carrying on as normal. Not that this is normal. But, well—you know what I mean …”
Dad rubbed his forehead and groaned quietly, but I don’t think Mum heard him.
Dr. Rhodes agreed that this was indeed a terrible situation and managed to reassure Mum that being here wasn’t being disrespectful in any way. Mum breathed a sigh of relief having been given the all clear from a professional.
On my knees rested a black, highly dangerous clipboard that had a “checklist” that she said we’d complete together in a minute. The pen kept rolling down the paper, and I pressed one latex-gloved fingertip against it to keep it still. (I couldn’t cope without wearing a glove on both hands for this, so now I had none left at all. Latex gloves = 0.)
My secret was out.
“Can I just ask who has been providing your son with gloves?” Dr. Rhodes asked with a smile.
Dad coughed again and glanced over at Mum. I quickly looked down at the form and pretended to be absorbed in the questions. One asked if any of my obsessions were accompanied by “magical thinking,” and I wondered if that had anything to do with card tricks.
“Well, doctor. I can tell you that I certainly didn’t know that my wife was supplying our son with gloves. And if I had known, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to it.”
Every time he stressed a word he dipped his head forward like a bird pecking at a feeder.
“Brian, you’re making it sound like I was doing something criminal! It was only to protect his poor skin.”
Dr. Rhodes opened her mouth to chime in, but they were off.
“Protect him? How is that going to protect him? It’s only going to make things worse.”
“But you didn’t see the state of his hands—they were blistering from the bleach!”
Mum screeched the word bleach, and to be honest, she sounded a little bit crazy.
“But giving him gloves is only going to make him do it more, isn’t it? It’s not rocket science …”
“They were blistered, Brian,” said Mum, her face turning scarlet beneath her fake tan. “Blistered!”
She made it sound like a swearword. I sank down farther into the sofa, trying desperately to avoid the stray globules of saliva that were flying around. Dr. Rhodes put both her hands up to calm them down, and amazingly it had an effect. Maybe she knew how to use some of that “magical thinking.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Corbin, I can honestly see both of your points of view. Mrs. Corbin, I completely understand why you would want to protect your son if he’s beginning to unintentionally hurt himself, and yes, Mr. Corbin, we do find that a patient will make quicker progress if those around them do not aid their compulsions.”
My parents did some synchronized arm folding accompanied by huffing as they sat back into the deep sofa, clearly each thinking they’d won.
“Now then …” The therapist paused to put on a pair of bright green framed spectacles as she consulted her notes. “I understand that you’ve been finding it hard to go to school lately. Can you tell me why that is, Matthew?”
I opened my mouth, not sure how to start, and Dad filled the silence.
“He’s scared. Of bugs and stuff.”
“It’s not bugs, Brian. It’s germs … germs! He thinks he’s going to get sick. Don’t you, darling?”
Dr. Rhodes interrupted, saying that this was more common than we realized. She said that in a school of three thousand students there were probably around twenty young people affected with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That was what she believed I had: OCD. But we needed to fill in a checklist to make sure.
Dad was off again.
“It’s probably because he’s grown up with you vacuuming the house every ten minutes. It’s no wonder! You’ve always overdone the housework.”
Dr. Rhodes took her glasses once more and glanced up at a clock on the wall. I looked as well and wished I hadn’t. We were approaching tenplusthree past ten. This wasn’t good.
“I’m just tidy, Brian. There’s nothing wrong with that. And if you didn’t leave all your stuff lying around all the time …”