Jonah Davenport has become real to me, this child. Alive. He has begun to haunt my dreams. When I close my eyes, I see him running across my lawn, chasing a bug, his dark curls bouncing about his neck, his laughter floating through the air.
I like this family. It is not my job to like or dislike my patients. My job is to help them. These are good people. Not perfect, but good. I feel their goodness instinctually, and I want them to get past their grief so they can go on to live fulfilling lives and spread their warmth and generosity and kindness to others. Like most of my patients, each member of this family has the ability to have a positive impact on the world around them, whether they know it or not.
Yet each of them is paralyzed by his or her guilt, unable to break free and move forward. I have not been able to get to the root of their guilt. I have not been able to coax any clear admission from any of them. They hold tight to their own roles, or supposed roles, in Jonah’s death.
My next appointment with them is tomorrow morning.
After a light meal of leftover poached salmon and asparagus, I run myself a bath, take one hit from the joint I rolled a few nights ago, then soak for thirty minutes. I try to think of anything but the Davenports. I try to think of nothing. It doesn’t work.
I wrap myself in my terry-cloth robe, then carry my iPad to the bed and make myself comfy. I check the clock on the nightstand, then open the FaceTime app and call Peter. He answers immediately, as if he’s been waiting for my call. He looks tired.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says.
“Back at you,” I tell him. “Long day?”
“Definitely earned my paycheck today.” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s up? You have that look.”
My husband knows me well. Even through the screen, he is able to sense my mood. I love that about him—most of the time, anyway.
I tell him about the Davenports. I am discreet, only giving him the broad strokes, no names, and although he is exhausted, he listens quietly and patiently before offering me his objective advice.
“Have you spoken with them about the day it happened?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“I’ve tried. I’ve brought it up to each of them and introduced the subject to them as a group, but they resist. I haven’t wanted to push. It’s all about building trust right now.”
“And do you feel you’ve done that? Built trust?”
“With the daughter, yes. The wife doesn’t seem to trust anyone. The husband is trying, and the sister . . . well, she trusts me, I think.”
I stare at my husband’s image on the iPad. Peter’s face is smaller than in real life, but just as handsome. His blue-eyed gaze is direct. “If this initial part of therapy is about building trust, why are you pushing for revelations?”
I don’t tell him about my latest dream, in which Jonah Davenport came to me. I don’t tell him that a dead little boy implored me to help—and fast. Those were his words. You gotta help ’em, and fast. My husband is a numbers man, left-brained, practical to a fault. An atheist, as opposed to my fence-sitting agnosticism. He wouldn’t understand. He would tell me my dreams are a projection of my desire to help the family. He’d be right. And yet, they feel more like visions, as though if I were to awaken, Jonah would be sitting beside me on my bed. His ghost.
“I just . . . If they don’t get past the guilt, they won’t be able to fully grieve and let their loved one rest. The longer they carry it, the more likely it is to destroy them. The family unit is in a precarious position at best. Every day is like a ticking clock counting down to an atomic bomb that will blow them apart.”
“Hmm.” He considers my words for a moment. Then, “Well, my love, your only option is to press the issue. Make them talk about that day.”
I release a pent-up breath. His words mirror my own conclusion. “It could be too soon.”
“Better than too late,” he says.
I nod. “I miss you, tonight especially.”
“I miss you, too. I trust Cleopatra is keeping you company.” He grins at me, knowing how fickle our cat is. Then he grows serious again. “Look, Mads. Your instincts and your compassion are two of the qualities that make you extraordinary at what you do. Use them. They won’t let you down.”
Our conversation shifts focus, and he tells me about his day. I force myself to listen actively, as he did for me. It’s difficult, as my thoughts are elsewhere, but I manage. When he’s finished with his story, I ask him if he would like to partake in a little FaceTime naughtiness, but my offer is more obligatory than sincere. If he wants to, I will, and I will enjoy it—it actually might help take my mind off the Davenports for fifteen minutes. But I’m relieved when he begs off.
“Sorry, darling. I don’t have the energy tonight. Mind if we save our strength for the weekend?”
A few minutes later, we sign off. I shut down the iPad and lean back against the headboard, glance at the eight-by-ten glossy of Jonah Davenport resting on top of the file folder on the nightstand.
Cleopatra wanders in from the hall, languidly walks across the floor, and comes to a stop a few feet from my side of the bed. She sits back on her haunches and regards me with wary green eyes. She cocks her head and seems to stare at the nightstand, then returns her gaze to me.
On the nights Peter is away, Cleopatra sleeps with me. She jumps onto the end of the bed and makes a show of ignoring me, paws the comforter, then collapses into a fluffy white ball and falls asleep. Over the course of the night, she worms her way ever closer to me and ends up curling into the crook of my neck and staying there until I awaken in the morning.
From the first night I dreamed about Jonah Davenport, and for all subsequent nights, she has stayed away, preferring a perch on the couch or the easy chair in the living room. My rational brain knows this is only coincidence. Of course it is. Any other supposition would be ridiculous.
My junior year in college I took a parapsychology course as an elective. Ghosts and apparitions, demonic possessions and other unexplained phenomena. I’d listened politely to the professor, whose mismatched, obnoxiously colorful fashion choices were another unexplained phenomenon. He was very passionate about the subject. He was a believer.
I did well in class, but I was not swayed. Quite the opposite. With each sighting or fantastical occurrence, I psychologically analyzed those persons involved with the experience. Asked questions. Why does this granny need to see the ghost of a young Victorian girl in her garden? Why did that teenager need to see inexplicable lights in the sky? What suppressed torments did this prepubescent girl endure that she felt she must conjure a demon to overtake her?