I discussed my concerns about his living in the house alone.
“Your concerns are valid,” she said. “He should be living in town, in an environment where he can be checked in on. Not in a repressive kind of way, just someone watching out for him. I can recommend a place you might want to take a look at.”
“Do you think he’d go?”
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I think, if you introduce him to the idea gradually, he might. He’d be able to keep his computer. He could still maintain his…hobby. But it’s important you get him out of the house more. Take him on a picnic. A movie. The grocery store. To the mall. The more he’s out of his bedroom, the more comfortable he becomes, the easier it will be to move him into a new environment. I take it you don’t want to move back to your father’s house and look after your brother full-time.”
“I don’t…I don’t want you to think I don’t care about him.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I’m not sure that would be the best thing for him. We need him to be more independent. Your father meant well, but he allowed Thomas to become totally dependent on him. He did everything for him. In many ways, he enabled your brother’s obsession by freeing him of all responsibilities.”
“I think Dad figured it was just easier to do everything himself,” I said. “Do you think Thomas is worse? Since Dad died?”
“I don’t know. I asked him if he still hears the voices—often associated with schizophrenia—and he says occasionally. He talks to former president Bill Clinton, who’s acting as his liaison with the CIA. Thomas’s medication keeps the voices to little more than a whisper, and I don’t want to up his dose. He does take his medication every day, yes? You’ve seen him? Olanzapine?”
“Yes.”
“A higher dosage would make Thomas sluggish. It could also cause some dizziness, weight gain, dry mouth, a number of things he wouldn’t like. What we’re looking for is a good balance. With your support, we can continue to manage the situation adequately.”
“Yesterday, he got all worked up because he’d seen what he thought was some minor traffic mishap in Boston. He wanted me to do something about it, try to get in touch with some anonymous driver who had his headlight broken probably months ago.”
“You need to be patient,” she said. “It’s easy to become discouraged. I think, considering everything, Thomas is doing well. He has his troubles, some of which he won’t talk to me about, but—”
“Like what troubles? What’s he not talking about?”
“Well, if he’d talk about them I’d know,” she said. “I know there’s something, from his childhood, that haunts him, but he’s never opened up about it.”
I thought about that infamous car trip, where Thomas bloodied his head against the window. I told her the story, wondering whether she’d heard it.
“I have,” she said, so that wasn’t it.
She moved on. “The good thing is, Thomas thinks the world of you. He’s brought me clippings of your illustrations to show me.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“I think he’s always been envious of your talent, of being able to take a picture that’s in your head and put it on paper.”
“It’s what he does with maps,” I said.
“You have similar gifts, but they manifest themselves in different ways,” Laura Grigorin said.
“Did you talk to my father when he came in with Thomas?”
“Yes,” she said.
“How did he seem to you?”
“What are you asking?”
“I don’t know, exactly. When I was talking to Harry Peyton, the lawyer handling the estate, who was also a friend of Dad’s, I got the idea Dad might have been depressed.”
“I can’t offer an opinion as to whether he was clinically depressed,” she said. “I never treated him. But he did seem…weary. I think the strain of looking after your brother, alone, was wearing on him.”
“He had an accidental death insurance policy,” I said. “That, along with the some other things, would be enough to set Thomas up for a while, at least.”
Dr. Grigorin’s green eyes were piercing. “Are you suggesting something, Ray?”
I just shook my head. “I don’t know.” I waved my hand. “Let’s forget about it.”
“How about you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”
“Me?” The question took me by surprise. “I’m fine.”
Our time was up. I stood. “Oh,” she said. “I almost forgot. I’m supposed to give you something to deal with your bossiness.”
She reached into her desk and came out with an opaque prescription container filled with oversized pills in several different, brilliant colors.
“What are these?” I asked as she put them into my hand.
“M&M’s,” she said.
NINE
STUNNED after recognizing her new lover on television, Allison Fitch fires up her laptop to do some research.