Maggie was a smoker, and while I didn’t allow smoking in my office, I’d let her hold a cigarette. She’d wedge it between her fingers as she talked and waved her hands. When I’d seen her this last time, I’d thought maybe she was cloaking some feelings about her son. She’d left when he was a baby. Instead of being given up for adoption, he’d stayed with the father and the father’s family, who helped raise the boy. Maggie never resumed a motherly role. He was now five, and she’d described him almost casually, as if she saw him much more often. How big he was, what he was like.
But never once did Maggie indicate a plan for suicide. It wasn’t anywhere on my radar. I’m sure of it. Over the years, I’ve learned to separate signal from noise with patients, and her signal was clear to me: she was safe from self-harm.
So then — what had I missed?
The answer: I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Therapists aren’t omniscient. We’re certainly not omnipresent; I was in Maggie’s life roughly once a month for two years. I have to let it go. I have to get down to what I’m here for.
I wipe the drying tears from my face and return to Mena’s room. In the back is a small walk-in closet, choked with file cabinets and boxes. It’s hot in there, no windows and no AC, and smells like paper and mildew. It takes me a few minutes to move things around, dig out the box from fifteen years ago.
I take it to my office and start finger-walking through the file tabs until I find it — Bishop.
My official evaluation isn’t here, nor are records of Tom Bishop’s final statement to police, because they’ve been sealed by a judge, so I’m not expecting those. But I’ve got five sessions annotated and accounted for. And I’ve got a list of collaterals, meaning other people in Tom’s life. The Bleekers are there.
I’m not sure whether to be glad or worried about that.
Seated back at my desk, I dial the number. The other end rings.
And rings, and rings. No voicemail or answering machine, just an endless ringing.
I hang up, check that I’ve got the right number, and try again.
While I’m listening through the second round, my gaze falls on the file.
There’s an address.
It looks like my road trip will extend a bit farther.
*
It starts to rain as I drive out to Long Island. Paul has checked in with me twice via text: Everything all right? And later, Things still good?
I have to dial up my wipers as the rain comes harder. Driving out to Long Island is always an adventure. As the name suggests, it’s one long island, but there always seem to be a million lane changes and highway switches to get to any one destination from Westchester. It’s already going on seven p.m. — getting late to be showing up at someone’s door. And I have no idea what awaits. Will Arnold Bleeker remember me from the courtroom? Will he tell me that a grown-up Tom lives on the other side of the world somewhere? Or that he’s maybe living happily nearby with a couple of kids and wife who bakes and sews?
The drive takes over an hour, plenty of time for me to cycle through a dozen scenarios and rehearse what I’m going to say when I get — I hope — the reasoned answer I’m seeking. The GPS guides me to the small seaside town of Sayville, then through a residential neighborhood. The homes are charming, simple two-story structures at first, but become more expansive as I near the water. Greene Ave comes to an end at the water’s edge: the Atlantic Ocean. I know I’m facing south, and somewhere in the distance is Fire Island, known for its wild summer parties. But now, in the overcast and rain twilight, the sea is rough; frothy and dark.
I don’t move, letting the rain drum on the car.
The house is large but quaint. The main structure has a gambrel roof, like a barn’s. It’s a common style in the region, arguably made famous by the movie Amityville Horror. In the daylight, the siding might be a dusty blue. A good color for a beach home, which the house tries to be, despite its multiple additions and two-car garage.
The windows are dark. Not a good sign. The Bleekers are not much older than I am, but some people like to go to bed early.
It’s now or never. I leave the car and lock it up. I’m almost instantly soaked as I cut across the lawn and up the short steps to the small porch framing the entryway. There’s a doorbell, but I decide to knock first. I strain to listen, hearing nothing but the pounding surf to my left, the rain hitting the roof above me.
This is crazy.
What in God’s name are you doing here?
I knock again and wait. No reaction. Not a light that’s come on, nor the vibration of movement. Just the rhythmic white noise of the ocean . . .
I want my mommy back . . .
My heart skips a beat and my breath trembles. I know what I’ve just heard is a memory of the strange message on my phone — or a memory of the voice I thought I heard in the message on my phone. But it takes me a moment to banish my nerves. To help restore a sense of reality, I reach out and hit the doorbell.
It does the trick, piercing my delusion. The ringing is loud inside — maybe one of the Bleekers is hard of hearing? The neighborhood seems middle class with year-round, not seasonal, residents. But homes like this one nearer the water are a bit more expensive, so it could be seasonal, and no one is here now.
I give it one more ring, letting my finger hold the button just a hair past comfortable. The rain, at least, has let up a little since I’ve been standing here. Suddenly, I’m self-conscious. I study the New Balance sneakers on my feet, blue and gray. I’m in twill shorts and a linen blouse. Casual but respectable. An unthreatening, sopping wet woman; but one who’s, in the moment, also grippingly paranoid.
Because this is lunacy. You need to ask Michael about himself, not sneak around like some private investigator.
It gives me an idea.
I’m about to turn away, thinking of someone I ought to call, when a light snaps on over my head.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Arnold Bleeker peers out at me with dark eyes hooded by sagging skin. He’s even older than I expected, and frail. “Hello? Can I help you?”
“Mr. Bleeker?”
“Yes?”
“Arnold Bleeker?”
“Have I won something?”
His delivery is so dry, I take the question at face value. “No, I’m sorry I . . .”
Then he cracks a smile, and the expression de-ages him. He’s not so old now. Maybe it was the porch light shining down, creating shadows. “I’m just kidding. What can I do for you? Who are you?”
“Mr. Bleeker, I know this is highly unusual. I’m Doctor Emily Lindman.”
I wait for a sign of recognition. Bleeker wears sweatpants and a sagging, oversized polo shirt. I get the sense he’s been sick. Or maybe just lost a lot of weight.
When he doesn’t seem to recall my name I say, “I’m a psychologist. I work in White Plains.”
He blinks. It’s unclear whether the additional information has jogged any memory of me. But he says, “You’re soaking wet. Let’s get off the porch.”
“Oh, thank you.”
He opens the door wider so I can enter. “Quite a storm,” he says. “I’d take your coat, but you don’t have one. How about a towel?”