Every Fifteen Minutes (9 page)

“Yes.” Max smiled slightly, and Eric took that as a plus, trying to create a safe atmosphere in which the boy would open up.

“And, if you blame yourself for the thoughts, you're sending yourself the wrong message about yourself. You're alienating yourself from yourself, and that's not healthy. Just let whatever thoughts you have come, and in time, as we work together, you'll get to the point where you can say, ‘that's just a thought I'm having.' ‘It doesn't mean I'm a bad person.' ‘And it doesn't mean I have to act on that thought.'”

“All right.” Max checked his watch, and Eric knew he was counting down until he tapped his forehead again.

“Therapy is a process that takes time, and it's a process that helps you pay attention to the thoughts you have, even examine them. It helps you open yourself to yourself, and you explore who you are deep inside, your deepest intentions, motivations, scripts, responses. It's like we're in a cave together and you're exploring it, using a flashlight. I'm there with you and I hold your hand. That, in a nutshell, is talk therapy.”

Max smiled. “The cave is me?”

“Yes.”

“What's the flashlight?”

“A phallic symbol.”

Max burst into laughter, which made Eric smile.

“Sometimes a flashlight is just a flashlight. I think Freud said that.” Eric could feel Max responding, beginning to connect, which was a good thing. “Now, let's return to your thoughts, but try and remember, don't judge yourself for having them. Tell me about them. And never forget, they're only thoughts.”

“Okay, well, they're horrible.” Max's brow knit, his smile vanished in an instant. “They always start the same, with me worrying about Ren
é
e, worrying that something will happen to her.”

“Like what?”

“Okay, she's not that great a driver, every time she comes to her tutoring session, she drives herself and she's always on the phone. I see her when she comes, I can look out the window. She turns really fast into the driveway. I worry that if she drives like that and I don't see, she could really hurt herself.”

“Then how do you get into the picture, in your mind?”

“Then I start thinking about her driving, but I see her from the outside of the car, like her hair is all cute and curly, and then I start to look at her face, then her neck. She has this little necklace she always wears, like a gold square, and it says ‘fearless.' I think it's so, cute, but then, I start thinking and it gets weird.” Max squeezed his hands together. “I don't even know how it starts, but I start to imagine like my hands are on her face, and move her hair back from her face, and then I touch the necklace and then, I know it sounds horrible, but my hands are on her neck, and I, like,
strangle
her.”

Eric didn't fill the silence, but waited, remaining calm so Max would be encouraged to talk without judgment.

“It's like, my hands are around her throat, and I'm squeezing and squeezing, but I can't stop myself from squeezing, and then all of a sudden”—Max's upper lip curled with revulsion—“it's
horrible,
she's just lying there
dead.
”

“Tell me more about that.” Eric didn't make notes, to maintain eye contact.

“What more is there to tell?” Max threw up his hands, his boyish features etched with deep guilt. “She's dead, I strangled her, and I get horrible, awful pictures in my head, like you see on
CSI
or
SUV,
or whatever. They always show the dead girl, staring. I would
never
do it, I never want to, it's just a thought that comes in my head and I can't get it out. I want to get it out, but I can't get it out. It's too awful!”

“Try to relax, Max. Breathe in and out.”

“I
know
how to breathe!”

“I can see you're upset, I understand why. Thoughts like that would upset anyone—”

“They're horrible, the worst thing ever! I don't understand why I have them because I like her, I'd never hurt her, she's so cute!” Max checked his watch. “Wait. Stop. I have to stop now, I know it's time. I can tell without even looking it's been fifteen minutes, almost.” Max's attention stayed glued to his watch, completely absorbed. “I have to wait ten more seconds. That's why I have to use my watch and not my phone. It has a second hand. It has to be exact. Now it's time to tap. Fifteen minutes exactly.” Max tapped his temple with his right index finger as his lips moved silently, then he stopped. “Now I'm saying the colors in my head. There.”

Eric watched the ritual end, with compassion. It had to be maddening to endure, a routine that chopped up a life that should be carefree, stalling a future by counting around the clock, a twenty-four/seven source of deep shame. “How are you feeling, now?”

“Fine, better, but not much.” Max sighed. “It's, like, a little relief. There's less pressure, it leaks out, until it builds up again. You have to help me. You have to give me meds.”

“Max, do you ever masturbate to her?”

“Dr. Parrish, that's so random!”

“It's okay, Max. People masturbate.”

“Okay, then … yes. I feel
so weird
telling you this.”

“Do you use pictures of her or anyone else, or just your imagination?”

“Uh, well, both.”

“Where do you get the pictures?”

“Her Instagram and Facebook page.” Max knit his hands together. “And once, well, uh, I took her phone.”

Eric felt a red flag go up. “What do you mean?” he asked, modulating his tone.

“Uh, I didn't really take it, like
steal
it from her. She left it at work, on the chair, and I, uh, I kept it. Her mom called and asked if she left it there, but I said no.”

“So do you have the phone?” Eric didn't like what he was hearing. It crossed a line, and he didn't like any obsessive type having a tangible item that belonged to his object. He made a note.

“Yes.” Max looked down again, his brow furrowing deeply.

“Where is it now?”

“Hidden, in my room.”

“Do you take it out and look at it?”

“I did.” Max sank into the chair, and the cushions bent up as if they were swallowing him alive.

“What do you look at?”

“Her contacts, her emails, but then I stopped. I'm afraid to turn it back on, in case she has an app for that. I don't even know … why I took it. But I have it.”

Eric made a note,
has her phone.
“Are your symptoms worse around her, or better?”

“No, the same, I mean, I'm nervous around her, but I keep it together.”

“You tutor her.”

“The math sections. I do think about her, a lot. I guess I am a little obsessed with her. Can you help me?”

“Yes, I would be happy to work with you. I think we can fix your problem together. It will take time and lots of talk. We also use CBT, cognitive behavior therapy.”

“What's that?”

“A behavioral treatment for OCD, called exposure and response prevention therapy. I'll help you face your fears and recondition your responses to them.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Yes,” Eric answered. He had tried a form of exposure therapy himself, called flooding, for his anxiety, but it hadn't worked. It involved exposing him to the things that made him anxious, but it only made him more anxious. Happily, the prognosis was much better for OCD patients.

“What about meds?”

Eric was worried about the boy, with his grandmother's death imminent. It would exacerbate the OCD symptoms. “Medication is not always the answer, because of side effects. I want to see you tomorrow, and we'll talk about it again.”

“Tomorrow? Sunday?”

“Yes, same time, first thing in the morning, then we'll work out a twice-a-week schedule. Can you do that?”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Eric said, but in the back of his mind was that phone.

 

Chapter Ten

That afternoon, Eric stood on the plastic tarp, surveying the walls of Hannah's bedroom to see if the first coat of paint had dried. The walls were as pink as a newborn, and the air smelled of latex, a clean scent he associated with fresh starts. The late-day sun filled the room, and a box fan on the floor kept the air moving, helping the paint dry. The sounds of the TV next door, playing a golf tournament, wafted through the open screens.

He'd had a long day of seeing patients, but the one that stuck in his mind was Max. The boy presented a fairly straightforward case of OCD, and Eric knew he could help him, but the worst was to come, with the grandmother's death imminent. Her death could aggravate Max's OCD symptoms, and Eric had wanted the boy stabilized, which was why he wanted to see him Sunday, too. Eric worried mildly about Ren
é
e Bevilacqua too, but he didn't have a solid reason to be concerned for her safety, it was just his nerves jangling.

Eric eyed the wall without really focusing on it. He wasn't sure what to do about custody of Hannah, but he felt pleased that he'd gotten around to fixing up her room. Home Depot had had enough selection of pink paint to satisfy every little girl in the tri-state area, and he'd gone with the Powdered Blush instead of Ballerina Pink or Primrose. In his opinion, there was a fine line between Primrose and Pepto-Bismol.

Eric went to the wall and swiped it with an index finger to see if it was dry enough. It wasn't completely, and he'd be pushing it if he put on a final coat now. He shifted plans and decided to go to Bed Bath & Beyond for the comforter and other things. He left the room, headed down the hallway, and went downstairs. Suddenly his cell phone rang, and he reached into the pocket of his khakis, slid out the phone, and checked the screen. Martin Baumgartner, it read, a colleague of his, so he picked up. “Martin, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey, buddy, how have you been? It's been too long, but you know tennis elbow. Recovery takes forever.”

“How much longer do you have to rest it?” Eric hit the ground floor and grabbed his keys from the console table. He realized that if he had full-time custody of Hannah, there wouldn't be a lot of tennis in his future, but he was fine with that.

“Two more weeks, but I already bought court time. I can't wait to kick your ass.”

“Spoken like a true friend.” Eric went out the front door and locked it behind him. The sun was out, the air muggy and humid, and the sounds of the golf tournament sounded louder.

“Anyway, how's Hannah?”

“Fine, why?” Eric answered, puzzled. He realized that Martin didn't know that he and Caitlin had separated, since they hadn't spoken in a while.

“I saw her and Caitlin in the emergency room earlier this morning.”

“What?” Eric crossed the front lawn toward his car in the driveway. “What are you talking about?”

“Wait, didn't you know? Are you out of town?”

“Where did you see them?” Eric chirped the car unlocked, worried.

“At Whitemarsh Memorial, my hospital. We have a pediatric emergency department, and I saw Caitlin and Hannah going into one of the examining rooms, but I didn't find out what happened. I told Jenny, and she gave me hell because I didn't call you to see what happened.”

“Thanks, but I have to go.”

“Okay, buddy, talk soon.”

“Right, thanks, good-bye.” Eric hung up as he jumped in the car and started the engine. He was surprised that Caitlin hadn't called him if there was a medical problem with Hannah. He'd always handled their family's medical problems. He was a physician, after all.

He scrolled to Caitlin's number and pressed Call while he reversed out of the driveway, the phone to his ear. It was ringing, but Caitlin wasn't picking up, then the call went to voicemail. He hung up immediately and called again. Caitlin was supposed to call him if there was a medical emergency on her weekend with Hannah, and his hospital was a lot closer to the house than Whitemarsh.

He straightened the car and drove down the street while he listened to the phone ring. The voicemail came on, and he left a message: “Is everything okay with Hannah, I heard she was in the emergency room. Give me a call.” Eric scrolled to Hannah's number and pressed Call, telling himself to remain calm. It could be anything, it could be nothing. Still, Caitlin should've called him.

He reached Lancaster Avenue and stopped at the red light, joining the long line of people running their Saturday errands. The lush lawns lining the street were dappled with sunlight and the branches of the trees swayed in unseen breezes, but he didn't stop to take in the idyllic scene.

He hit the gas when the light turned green. Hannah wasn't picking up either, but that didn't mean much. She wasn't that good with the phone, which made him proud. She had the rest of her life for the phone, computer, Facebook, Twitter, or whatever electronic horror they came up with next. He'd seen too much depression in kids spending more time with machines than people, and he'd read the papers in his neuroscience journals, their data suggesting that computer and video game use altered brain circuitry. He wondered fleetingly if that was contributing to Max's problems, too.

Hannah's voicemail clicked on, with her cute little voice: “Hi, please leave me a message, thank you!”—she didn't identify herself by name, per his insistence. Eric had treated a pedophiliac during training and he still shuddered to think of the trivial things that triggered the man's fantasies, even the knowledge of a child's nickname. Caitlin had thought he was being ridiculous, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Eric stopped at a red light and left Hannah a message: “Hey, honey, it's Dad and I wanted to say hello and see how you are. Love you, and give me a call when you can. Bye-bye.” He hung up, and when the light turned green, he cruised ahead, heading home.