Every Fifteen Minutes (11 page)

“I know.” Eric couldn't help adding, “I just found out that she's seeing someone else, which ticks me off no end.”

“Of course it does. But you will move past that.” Arthur hesitated. “Now that you're healthy, that's a good thing for you, which is my only concern. It's a good thing for Hannah, too. You've always been very close to her, and it doesn't surprise me you're thinking about filing for custody. I assume Caitlin will oppose you.”

“Yes, I'm sure she will.”

“How are you feeling about it? What have you decided?”

“I haven't yet. That's why I called, to see what you thought.”

“I hardly have the answers. However, I do think that your relationship to Hannah has been extraordinarily close. You've been a better father than anyone I know.”

“Thank you,” Eric said, feeling a warm rush of gratitude.

“I remember when she was born, how involved you were even in the early infancy stages. I think the simplicity of your relationship to her cut through any residual anxiety you felt. It was a joy to see, when I was treating you.”

Eric thought back to those early days, and the memories came flooding back. “I remember that I didn't know what to do with her, or how to be, but it wasn't as if I had to perform or achieve. It just felt natural.”

“Exactly. You followed that feeling, and Hannah responded.”

Eric had a nagging worry. “Do you think it was because we both have a propensity for anxiety?”

“No. I think that once Hannah was born, you allowed yourself to get out of your own way. You stopped focusing on yourself and started putting her first, as any good father would.” Arthur paused. “Hannah gave you a meaning in your life and a dimension that you hadn't previously had, and I think she helped you to be healthy. Likewise, you helped her to be healthy. It isn't anxiety that binds you to Hannah, it's love.”

Eric couldn't speak for a moment, touched.

“That said, I know you would be willing to make the sacrifices necessary for her and I think you could arrange your practice accordingly.”

“True.”

“You've written so many excellent papers. Your CV is the best. You can write and publish anywhere. You'd probably have more time for that if you cut back on the hospital, and you still have your private practice, don't you?”

“Yes.” Eric was really coming around to the idea, and the more Arthur spoke, the more it resonated in his chest.

“Whatever decision you make, it will be the right one. I have absolute confidence in you and your judgment.”

“Thank you,” Eric said, feeling a sense of resolve.

“What's new with your cases? Keep me in the loop, it prevents an old man from rusting.”

Eric thought instantly of Max. “I have a new patient with OCD, a seventeen-year-old.”

“A washer? A checker?”

“Neither, he does some ritualistic thinking. He has obsessive thinking about a girl and he worries that he's going to harm her.”

“So, that's typical for OCD.”

“I know.” Eric felt reassured to hear Arthur say it so lightly. “But there's other things he's done. He kept a cell phone that she left behind.”

“Hmm. It happens.”

“Something about it bothers me. Do you think she's in danger?”

“Not at all.” Arthur scoffed. “They fear they'll harm inadvertently, or even intentionally, but an OCD patient rarely turns aggressive on the object of his obsession. They never act, that's the point, you know that.”

“Right, I do.”

“Nevertheless, you sound worried.”

“Yes, it's on the back of my mind. During session I thought to myself, do I have a
Tarasoff
issue here?” Eric was referring to the seminal
Tarasoff
case, in which a patient had told his psychiatrist that he wanted to do harm to a young girl, and the psychiatrist didn't warn her or the police because of his duty of confidentiality. Subsequently, the patient killed the girl, and her parents sued the psychiatrist. The court held the psychiatrist liable and established the hornbook law that a psychiatrist had a duty to warn the police or the intended victim's of threats to her physical safety, made in the therapeutic context.

“I'm not hearing a
Tarasoff
issue on these facts. I only had one in forty-odd years of practice.”

“You're probably right.” Eric had never had a
Tarasoff
issue, and they were rare, though every mental health professional dreaded the dilemma. To warn the police or victim would risk losing the client's trust forever, increasing their risk of danger to themselves or others.

“How long have you been treating him?”

“Just the one session.”

Arthur chuckled, softly. “You're jumping the gun, don't you think?”

“Probably,” Eric said, relieved.

“The old Eric would've been anxious about it, but the new Eric is a member of the worried well. Press on, regardless.”

“I hear you.” Eric brightened.

“I'm glad you called, but it's almost bedtime, and this old man has to sleep. My bride calls.”

“Thanks, and give her a hug for me, will you?”

“Sure thing, and call anytime. You know I love to hear from you.”

“Good night.” Eric hung up, then wolfed down the hoagie and got back to work.

 

Chapter Twelve

Sunday morning, Eric opened the door, but Max had been pacing in the empty waiting room. “Good morning, Max. Come on in.”

“Hi. Thanks.” Max barely looked up when he entered his office, his head down. He wore the same clothes as yesterday, and it smelled as if he needed a shower, so Eric was concerned. He tried to catch Max's eye, closing the office door behind them.

“How are you?”

“Terrible, I can't sleep at all, I'm still tapping, and Gummy's worse. She's not eating anything, she only had coffee and crackers all day yesterday.” Max stayed standing. When he finally looked at Eric, his eyes were pained and defiant. “I'm a mess, I really think I should start on the medication. Can't you start me now, Dr. Parrish?”

“Please, sit down, and let's table that discussion—”

“Why won't you give me meds, Dr. Parrish?” Max threw up his hands. “I mean, that's why I'm coming to you. The tapping, the thoughts, everything, I need help!”

“Max, I don't expect things to get better after only one session, and we have to be realistic.”

“I know it takes more than one session to get better and I want to get better, that's why I need the medication!”

“Sit down, please.” Eric gestured at the chair. “I think I told you, many medications have adverse effects on adolescents—”

“Like what? I'm not going to kill myself, I promise.” Max flopped into the chair.

“That's only one of the adverse effects, but it's the most concerning, obviously.” Eric met Max's eye and sat down opposite him, taking his tablet onto his lap.

“I'm not going to, I swear.” Max lowered his voice, sulking. “Gummy needs me, I'm fine, I just need some help.”

“I understand that, but we need to talk more to determine how best to treat you.”

“We've talked enough.”

“I'm just starting to get to know you.” Eric worried that Max was entering a crisis, but he couldn't admit him to the hospital unless he were a danger to himself or others, basically, unless he were suicidal, psychotic, or homicidal. “Let's switch topics. Tell me more about your grandmother.”

“She's pretty bad, I mean, bad. The hospice people came yesterday, a nurse in the morning, then a social worker.” Max's face fell and he raked his hair back with spread fingers.

“How was that?” Eric noticed the boy's hair looked greasy and made a note.

“They were nice. They gave me, like, a log for their visits and some pamphlet called
When the Time Comes
or something like that.” Max snorted. “It's like they don't know there's an Internet that you can look all this up, which of course, I did. At least they helped me move Gummy into the living room, and they sent us a bed, like a hospital bed, and an oxygen tank. They even gave me this kit with morphine and a tranquilizer.”

“Usually, it's Ativan.” Eric didn't like the sound of the boy's having unfettered access to the drugs, especially benzos like Ativan, Valium, Klonopin, or Xanax. They caused dependency and were disinhibitors, like giving Max a few drinks. “I'm disappointed to hear they left that with you, a minor.”

“They didn't. My mom was there to meet the nurse, and they gave it to her, then she left. She's good at keeping up appearances. She told the nurse she was home every night.”

“You won't be touching those drugs, are we clear?”

“Of course not, and it's sealed, and the nurse said we have to call her if my grandmother's pain starts to get bad or if she gets agitated. Rather,
I
have to call her because my mom left right after.” Max's eyes flickered with pain and he pursed his lips. “It's called terminal agitation, they said. It happens, I read it online.”

“Was your mom there when you met with the caseworker alone?”

“No, not the caseworker.” Max snorted. “I can deal, I do it, I'm not complaining. If I do it, at least I know it'll get done right.”

Eric tried to imagine the weight of responsibility on the boy. “So is no one helping you? Who's home with your grandmother now?”

“Hospice sent a day nurse, and she's there today. Her name is Monique and she's Jamaican. She has such a thick accent, neither of us understand what she's saying, but we like her.” Max brightened. “Gummy likes to sing, and Monique sings with her, old songs like from Judy Garland and people like that. They were singing ‘You Made Me Love You' when I left today, and Monique is going to bring some Red Stripe tomorrow.”

Eric smiled. “Good for her. Whatever she wants.”

“That's what I say.” Max chuckled, but it stopped abruptly. “I wish I could be there, but she wanted me to come see you, then go to work, to try to keep everything normal.”

“I understand that, don't you?”

“Yeah, but I told my boss I'd only be in in the mornings because that's when she's asleep anyway. In the afternoon, her TV shows are on, and we watch them together.” Max smiled, in a bittersweet way. “She's a
Golden Girls
junkie.”

Eric smiled, touched by the boy's kindness, though he couldn't help but wonder if Ren
é
e Bevilacqua came to her SAT tutoring in the morning. “You work on Sunday?”

“Yeah, a lot of our students have summer jobs, so they're only free on the weekend.”

Eric made a note,
Ren
é
e in morning
? “This is a very difficult thing for you to go through, and still work.”

“I know, I guess.” Max paused, seeming to lose his train of thought. “It's weird, like, thinking that this is the … end of her life. I keep thinking, how much time does she have left? Like, how long can you live, if you can't eat or drink anything? I keep asking Monique, but she says it depends on the person. What do you think?”

“I think the hospice nurse has more experience than I do.”

“I just want to know, since you are a doctor, what you thought? How long does she have? Online it says if you can't eat or drink, you live three to five days.”

“I can help you to deal with it, whenever it comes, and I'd like you to talk about it. Take your time, think about your feelings. Our treatment goal is to help you express your emotions, so we can examine them, and you'll inevitably feel better and happier.”

“If I had medication, I just wouldn't feel the feelings, so I'd automatically feel better and happier.”

“But this is talk therapy—”

“Dr. Parrish, I bet I could buy whatever I needed from kids at school. I know of a kid who sells his mom's Valium, and you can get Ritalin or Adderall, easy.”

“Don't do anything like that. Take nothing from anyone else, and nobody else should either.” Eric let it go, not to engage him in a downward spiral of argument, which would do nothing to open him up. “Give me some background. Where is your mother? You said she works. Where does she work?”

“In Center City at an insurance company, RMA. She's in the billing department.”

Eric made a note. “What time does she come home?”

“She doesn't, not every day anyway. She stays in town with her boyfriend. Sometimes she calls.” Max checked his watch and Eric knew he was counting the moments until eight fifteen.

“Does she understand what hospice care is?”

“Of course.”

“And yet she still doesn't come home?”

“Nope.” Max's lips contorted in disgust.

“When she calls, does she ask about her mother?”

“No, but I tell her.”

“Does she ask about you?”

“No, but I tell her that anyway, too.”

“Why does she call then?”

“Why do you think?” Max burst into derisive laughter. “She calls for money! Like, she needed two new tires, and she didn't have the money, so she has to make sure money got put in her account for that.”

“How do you do that?”

“I do it online. My grandmother gave me her password and I pay all her bills online. Gummy puts money into my mom's account every week. I mean, I do, for her.” Max snorted again. “My mom wants me to put it on automatic pay, but if I do, I'll never hear from her.”

Eric suppressed a sympathetic pang. “This must be hard to deal with on your own.”

“Not really, I'm used to it. I do it all the time. I like taking care of Gummy. She needs me.”

Eric heard warmth in his tone, for the first time. “It's a good feeling to be needed, isn't it?”