After some back and forth, I finally agreed to three sessions minimum, five at the most. We would just talk, maybe do some play therapy. I made it clear with Mooney that my interest was in the boy’s well-being, that I would be his advocate, not the state’s. That after my sessions, and possible contact with collaterals — Tom’s teacher, primary caregiver, and any previous therapists — I’d turn in my report.
“That’s absolutely fine,” Mooney said. “That’s the way it should be. But we might need to talk to the boy independently at certain points between your sessions. If any new evidence comes to light.”
I didn’t like it, but those were the conditions. And a week later, I met with Tom Bishop for the first time.
*
“My parents died in a car accident,” Michael Rand says.
I snap back into the present moment.
Michael falls silent as I try to absorb what he’s just said. A car accident?
Michael says, “My father, he, ah . . . My father was an alcoholic. He was drunk. That’s why I . . .” Michael looks at me and lifts his virgin mimosa. That’s why I don’t drink.
A car accident, I think, not a murder after all. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t know . . .”
He frowns and shakes his head. “No, please, not at all. You were just being hospitable. It’s an occasion to celebrate.”
I check my husband’s expression. He’s looking thoughtful. I love Paul, but his mind works quite differently than mine — perhaps that’s part of why our marriage has worked for thirty years despite the rough patches. After Michael’s disclosing of this traumatic past to us, Paul’s question is: “So, Michael, what do you do for a living?”
Michael seems happy to change the subject. “Well, I’m still in school now. Got a late start. But I do carpentry for work. Anything to do with building.”
Paul has lit up like a Christmas tree. He edges forward in his seat. “I’m an architect, you know. And I’m building my own boat.”
Michael laughs. “Yeah. Joni said.”
“I did talk about you guys,” Joni says. And, unexpectedly, she reaches for me and takes my hand. “I talked you up.”
Michael is smiling benignly at me. He knows I’m a psychologist. God, it’s so hard to know whether he’s hiding something or I’m just wrong. A car accident? And his physical likeness is just that — a likeness?
Or, a third option: maybe that little boy who was so good at compartmentalizing, maybe he’s become a man who’s even better at it. Better to the point that he’s invented this other past for himself: one in which his parents died in an auto wreck. One in which, even, he doesn’t drink.
Convenient, since drinking tends to lower inhibitions. Maybe it was an unconscious strategy, but it’s a smart element. No drinking equals minimizing risk of accidental disclosure of truth.
You’re losing your mind. For God’s sake. He’s not Tom Bishop.
Maybe.
For now, anyway, I’ll take Michael Rand at face value. My daughter is still smiling at me — I think she’s just relieved I haven’t shown any outward disapproval so far — and Michael and Paul are caught up in a discussion of the building trades.
I focus on my daughter. After all, I haven’t seen her for six months. Not since Christmas. I tell her I like her hair — she’s added some blonde highlights. “I like yours too,” she says. “That’s a good length on you.” After a few seconds, we’re lost in chitchat and Michael and Paul have wandered over to the boathouse. They’re going to take out the rowboat, have a look around the lake.
Joni and I watch them embark, and wave as they putter away with the trolling motor. Michael waves back. He is handsome even from a distance. Paul’s back is to the shore as he steers the boat away from us.
Joni and I head up to the house. It’s going on noon and everybody’s going to be hungry. We talk a little about Sean, Joni’s older brother. “He should be here tomorrow,” I say. “But you know how Sean is.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah.”
Inside, she notes the bags on the floor. “I’ll take these up to the room.” But she stops and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Are you going to be okay with us sleeping in the same room even if we’re not officially hitched yet?”
Her voice is playful, but I can sense the tension underneath.
Before I can offer a reply, Joni bends down to Michael’s unzipped bag. “Oh,” she says, affection in her voice. After a moment of fishing around in a side pocket, she pulls out a leather-bound notebook and holds it up for me. “He keeps a diary, Mom. Isn’t that cute?”
Then she tucks it back into the bag and zips it up.
“Cute,” I say.
Carrying his bag and her suitcase toward the stairs, Joni says, “What could be wrong with a guy who keeps a diary?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tom was quiet at first. He ignored the toys in my office and studied his shoes. Nikes, I remember. Blue with gold emblems. His dark fall of hair covered his eyes. Occasionally he brushed it aside, then kept staring at his feet. Or turned to look out the window at the buildings across the street.
I remember our third session together. We’d talked about everything but the crime so far. Tom liked Wolverine the best, out of the X-Men. Pokémon Dash was his favorite video game.
I wasn’t too familiar with Pokémon — my son, Sean, who was just two years older than Tom at the time, never showed much interest in video games. But the thought of the characters, perhaps, reminded me of our two cats. Tom’s family had also kept cats.
“Tom? Where are your cats now?”
He gazed down at the floor. “With my Aunt Alice.”
“Are they calicos?”
He shrugged.
I said, “We have two calicos. They have pretty patterns. Though our boy cat, he’s just two colors, black and white. So you know what we named him? Cow.”
Tom looked up. When he smiled, I felt an expanding in my chest, a tingling at the back of my neck. It wasn’t always this way, but occasionally, when you broke through for a moment, when you saw a person’s light shine back at you, it could be incredible.
His smile faltered. “What’s the other cat’s name?”
“Rosie. She’s the girl cat.”
“Is she red, like a rose?”
“No, not really. She’s three colors.”
“Oh.” His eyes drifted down again.
“Tom?”
“Mm?”
“I know you miss your father.”
It was the first I’d mentioned it.
“Yeah,” Tom said.
“My father passed away, too. It was a long time ago, but I still miss him. I felt all kinds of feelings when he died. I felt sad, but I felt angry, too. And you know what? That’s normal. It’s normal to feel all kinds of things . . .”
I waited. Then slowly, carefully, I asked a few questions, and Tom recalled things from the night in question. But, unable to conclude with what had happened to his father, Tom looked down.
“I’m scared,” he said.
“Why?”
He wouldn’t say. I watched as a single tear slipped down his cheek. And then I got up from my chair and crossed the room to him. I put one hand on his shoulder, another on his head. “I’m sorry you feel scared.”
A subtle sensation, like a tremor, vibrated beneath my feet. I heard a muffled door close. A second later, someone was knocking to enter the room. My assistant, Mena, who never interrupted me during a session unless it was an emergency, stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. Over her shoulder were Mooney and Starzyk, the two state investigators.