The Syndrome (13 page)

Adrienne shook her head, wistfully. Ramon would be happy, both that Nikki and he had been on the same page about Jack and—who wouldn’t be?—about the money. She read on. Making a will was so unlike Nikki, and yet …

Adrienne blinked. “‘The secrets of my childhood,’” she muttered. “What ‘secrets’?” And then, a moment later: “‘Come to terms’? She
electrocuted
herself!” The will dropped from her hand as Adrienne fell back in her chair, tears springing from her eyes.

A soft knock came at the door, and Bette leaned in. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I was just—”

“I have to go out,” Adrienne said, grabbing her handbag and jumping to her feet. “Cover for me.”

“But—”

“It’s an emergency,” she explained, and shot out the door.

Henrik de Groot sat slumped in the chair and, at first glance, it might have seemed as if he and Duran were having a casual conversation. The consultation room was a comfortable one, with an array of magazines fanned out on the coffee table between them. A glass of ice-water and a glass of iced tea rested, untouched, on a pair of Sandstone coasters.

Duran regarded the coasters with a look of suspicion. Where had
they
come from? They had a gritty feel, and rasped when he set his glass down. Where had he bought them? What had he been thinking of?

De Groot’s cigarettes were on the coffee table, too, along with a pack of matches. There was no ashtray because Duran did not permit smoking in the office. But the Dutchman was a chain-smoker and since abstinence caused him to be anxious, Duran allowed him to
handle
his cigarettes. When not in a trance, he did this constantly, almost obsessively—sliding a cigarette out of the package, tapping its end against the table, stroking its length, even putting it to his lips and pretending to smoke it.

Pay attention
, he told himself. Even though he and de Groot had been over this material time and time again, it was important that he pay attention.

It was de Groot’s eyes which revealed that he was in a trance. They were open, but slightly out of focus, as if the Dutchman was looking past Duran, past the array of diplomas on the wall, past everything, in fact.

De Groot had been silent for what seemed like a long time, waiting for Duran’s cue.

“You’re in the car?” Duran suggested.

“Yes—in the car. It’s dark in the car and it’s dark outside. It’s the kind of night where it’s overcast and you can feel the moisture in the air. It’s going to rain.”

Duran found himself leaning forward, puzzled by the stiff, blond bristle that covered the Dutchman’s head.

“It’s going to rain,” de Groot repeated.

Duran pulled back when he realized that what he was doing was trying to get a whiff of the man’s hair—trying to discern if the effect was achieved with some kind of mousse or gel.
Pay attention
, he told himself. De Groot was stuck.

“Are there car lights?” he prompted.

On the chair, de Groot squinted and narrowed his eyes, as if the light were shining into them. “Yes. At first, I think it’s a car with its bright lights on. I think ‘Goddamnit, why doesn’t he put his lights down?’”

No
, Duran thought. That’s what
the driver
thinks. “Did your father maybe say that? He’s the one who’s driving, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, my father. Me—I look away from the lights, but they won’t go away. The light—somehow, it’s
inside
me. Like a searchlight in my chest.”

“And then?”

“I am taken up by the light—and then I am
interfered with
.” He squirmed in his chair. “They put something
into
me.”

“What, Henrik? What do they put into you?”

The Dutchman winced.
“The Worm.
Boss Worm.”

Duran sat back in his chair and smiled. And then, in one of those instances that he seemed prone to of late, he caught himself up. He didn’t understand why he should find the integration of the Worm in de Groot’s delusional system … somehow
pleasurable.
It ought to be a matter of indifference to him. He shouldn’t have a
stake
in it.

And behind that thought—behind the idea that maybe he wasn’t maintaining a professional distance from his client—lurked another, even more insidious notion.
Which was that he’d seen all this on
The X-Files.

Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his chair, grimacing in the subdued way of a person in a trance.

“Who’s doing this to you, Henrik?” Duran asked. “Who’s responsible—”

At that moment, Duran heard the intercom buzz. And de
Groot heard it, too, because he stiffened, and his eyes swelled with fear.

“They’re here!” he whispered. “Here!”

The buzzer continued, first a long rasp, and then a staccato series of short ones. It took Duran a second to calm de Groot and, by then, the noise had ceased. The mood, however, was shattered, and although it was a little early, he began to bring the Dutchman out of his trance. Then the front doorbell began to ring, an insistent series of
bings.

“Goddamnit,” Duran muttered, and sprung to his feet.
If this isn’t an emergency …

Seconds later, he was standing behind the door, looking through the peephole—and he could have sworn it was Nico, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in a week. Almost as a reflex, he opened the door for a young woman who, as it happened, was not Nico, after all, but someone who looked a whole lot like her—but with darker dirty blond hair in place of Nico’s platinum mop. Whoever she was, she was in a highly excited state, almost a rage, and she shocked Duran by pushing him backwards with her two hands in a motion so sudden that he stumbled and almost fell.

“You son of a bitch!” she yelled, coming for him again. “You killed her!” She was shoving him—with surprising force—and he found himself walking backwards in the direction of his consultation room. Reflexively, he put his hands up in a gesture of peace and surrender. “Wait a minute! What are you talking about?” he asked.

She stopped, and glowered, then turned her head away, as if to get control of her temper. Duran could see her chest heaving with emotion as she stared at the wall that held his framed diplomas. Finally, she turned back to him, and he could see that the rage was still intact.

“Nikki!” She spat the name at him.

“You mean … Nico?”

“Nikki, Nico—whatever you called her!”

“Where is she?” Duran asked. “I haven’t seen her in—who
are
you?”

The question seemed to infuriate her. “I’ll tell you who I am! I’m her sister. And I’m going to
put you out of business
, you quack son of a bitch!”

The woman’s hostility was like a kleig light, burning in his face. He was stunned by her hatred, and by what she’d said.

“Her sister?” he repeated, sounding stupid even to himself.

“Adrienne.”

He flashed onto Nico’s voice:
Adrienne was only five.
Suddenly, Duran softened. While he’d never believed that Nico’s tales of Satanic abuse
were factual
, he was convinced that in some way she had been abused. And if one child in a family suffered abuse, the others seldom escaped unscathed. In any case, the woman in front of him had suffered a great deal of loss: the unknown father, the junkie mother, the brutal mill of foster care. “Hey,” he said, offering his hand. “Nico told me what you’ve been through,” he said.

“She didn’t ‘tell’ you anything! You put it in her head. And it’s a crock!” With a gasp of disgust and a shake of her head, Adrienne turned on her heel and strode toward the door. “I just wanted to see the person who did it,” she told him. “Because the next time I see you, there’ll be a judge in front of us.” She had her hand on the doorknob.

“But—wait a second—what did you say? About Nico?”

Adrienne looked at him as if he were a stone. “She killed herself.”

It was almost as if she’d slapped him in the face. For a moment, he couldn’t find his voice, and when he did, the words that came were senseless. “But … why? She was making such good progress,” he said.

“Right!” Adrienne snarled. “She was ‘making such good progress’ that we’re having her cremated on Friday.”

She wanted to take a swing at him, but all she could manage in her unhappiness and frustration was a feeble push with her left hand. Even so, it staggered him, and he took a
step backwards. Anger and grief welled in her eyes. “Did you do it intentionally? For the money?”

“What money?” Duran asked.

Before Adrienne could reply, de Groot was in the doorway behind them. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who is this person, Doctor Duran?” He seemed dazed and dangerous, all at once, like a big cat waking from a tranquilizer dart.

Adrienne gave the Dutchman a quick glance, up and down. “Wake up!” she shouted. “And if you’ve got a problem, don’t count on this psycho fuck to help you.” Then she turned on her heel and was gone.

De Groot jumped as the door slammed behind her.

Duran was staggered. For a long moment, he stood in front of the closed door, woozy with shock. Then the world shuddered back into focus, and he found himself beside the powerful figure of Henrik de Groot. The Dutchman was as alert as Duran had ever seen him, poised on the balls of his feet, bouncing slightly. Slowly, the blond man glanced around. Sniffed the air.

“The Worm was here,” he said.

Suddenly, Duran couldn’t get away from high school reunions. They were everywhere—on HBO, STARZ!, CBS and Nick at Nite. There was
Grosse Pointe Blank
and
Romy & Michele
, then
Ally McBeal
and some
Seinfeld
reruns. Everyone was going to a reunion, and Duran was no exception. The invitation was right there on his refrigerator.

As a therapist, attending reunions was the kind of thing he
ought
to do. He was in the business of prodding clients to reconnect with the past, stressing time and again that moving on in life was impossible if they didn’t do the hard work of integrating what had gone before.

Not that he himself had a lot of “integrating” to do. He remembered high school as a pleasant interlude—warm, fuzzy and unremarkable. He’d been one of those well-rounded kids who scored points, not only for the basketball team, but for the “It’s Academic” squad as well.

So why
not
go? He could kill two birds with one stone. First, it would get him out of the apartment. And while that would no doubt lead to a certain amount of anxiety, it was also the only way he knew to overcome the problem. Like any other bully, phobias had to be confronted—or they could ruin your life.

The other thing was: if he went to the reunion, he might be able to resolve some of the problems he was having with memory. It was one thing not to remember Bunny What’s-her-name—that sort of thing happened to everyone. But there was something else going on. At times, it seemed as if his memories were somehow …
overexposed
, like photographs that had begun to fade in the sunlight.

Just then, the kettle shrilled, and Duran headed toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Passing through the hall, his eye fell on his parents’ portraits, displayed in double-hinged frames of heavy silver, resting on a side table.

His father’s picture was a head shot. It showed him gazing serenely at the camera, a self-confident smile on his face. His mother was quite a bit younger-looking—perhaps because the photographs had been taken years apart. And she wasn’t just smiling—she was laughing. She sat on the porch swing at the beach cottage in Delaware, head slightly thrown back, lips parted over white teeth, eyes crinkling in merriment.

Curious about his own feelings, Duran approached the photograph, picked it up and examined the image more closely: his mother’s dark hair and loose curls, her delicately
arched eyebrows … the old-fashioned dress with its square neckline.
What was it like
, he wondered,
to be held by her?

And the answer came back:
It was like … nothing.

He’d been staring at the picture for what seemed a long time, waiting for a gut response—but there was nothing. And that, he knew, was evidence of profound alienation.

Maybe it was the way they’d died—so suddenly, he’d been blindsided. A faulty gas heater at a friend’s cabin on Nantucket. The silent buildup of carbon monoxide—and then they were photographs.

The event had been as unexpected as an avalanche and, obviously, he was still a long way from closure. The funeral ought to have provided that, but … no. In point of fact, he barely remembered the service, even though it had only been six or seven years ago. And while the ceremony should have been engraved upon his memory as deeply as a brand, the truth was otherwise. When he thought of his parents’ funeral, the images had a generic quality, cinematic, and spare as a screenplay.

EXT. Rainy day. Mourners …

He couldn’t remember any real details. He couldn’t remember who’d been there—other than “mourners,” holding their umbrellas against the rain. He must have been grieving. He must have been overwhelmed. And yet …

He put the photograph back on the side table and headed for the kitchen, where the kettle’s whistle had turned to an exhausted howl. What did it mean—what did it say about
him
—that he couldn’t
remember
his own parents’ funeral (except in the most notional way)? And what was worse: when you came right down to it, he didn’t remember his parents either. Or, rather: he remembered what they looked like, things they’d said, and things they’d done. But those memories were about as emotion-packed as long division—and that, he knew, was not good.