The Value of Vulnerability (26 page)

He grunted. “Fine.”

“
I have big plans for your Christmas present,” she said. “When will you be home?”

“January. Mid-month perhaps. Will you miss me?” he asked coolly, as if it did not matter one way or another.

The time frame had her insides clenching with disappointment. “The future tense is inappropriate,” she assured. “I already do.” She rolled onto her stomach. Too afraid of the answer to ask if
he
would miss
her
, she teased instead, “What are
you
wearing?”

“A suit.”

“So surprising. And damned sexy, I know.”

“What have you been doing the last few days?”

“Getting ready for Christmas, solving a major issue at work, celebrating how the world didn’t end on Friday. Things like that. You?”

“Nothing remotely so interesting. Sorry I missed the foray into Mayan eschatology.”

She had no idea what that meant, but she laughed anyway.

“Did you accept either of those job offers?” he asked.

“No. I’ve decided to stay with Xcess. Partly it was because of a very long and persuasive discussion with Spencer, but mostly because my job is changing every day, so it keeps me on my toes. And I’m learning scads of stuff from him. He’s a great boss. Good picking on your part.”

“Oh, thank you,” he replied dryly.

“There was some bull going on about office dress code—somebody got his or her knickers in a twist about jeans or something—but I ixnayed that. Well, with a lot of help from my cohorts. Like I’m going to start dressing up for work. Isn’t that silly?”

“Yes, ridiculous. It
is better for you to ignore corporate policy.”

“It wasn’t policy
yet
,” she chuckled. “Just put out for discussion by Spence. Anyway. Boring stuff.” She traced the pattern of the sprigged coverlet. “I really wish you were here. Or at least in town. The Russell Boxing Day Bash is legendary! You could meet the family. Liana. The Parents Russell. Ask them how they got that label. And Gina, my other sister. You’d like her husband. Doug. The kids. And so many of my friends, too.”

“I’m sure,” he said evenly to this babbling list. “Some other time.”

“I just want to show you off because you’re so beautiful.”

That prompted a slight laugh.

“Dog or cat?” she demanded, since his mood was so cheerful—relatively.

“Is this a lead in to a joke of some sort?”

“No, Ford! It’s one of those simple questions you promised to answer. Like favourite colour.”

“Oh.” A moment passed. “What was the question?”

“Dog or cat. Hasn’t anyone ever—?” She couldn’t contain a laugh. “Are you a dog person or a cat person?” she clarified.

“I do not know what that means.”

“There are two types of people in the world—”

He muttered something about idiots and smart people, but she ignored that.

“—those who like dogs or those who like cats. Which are you?”

“Do I have to be either?”

“It’s a measure of personality. Dog lovers. Cat lovers.”

“Which are you?”

“I like both, but definitely prefer dogs. But don’t tell the Parents’ cat.”

No response.

“Well? Which do you prefer?”

“They both shed.”

“True.”

Silence.

“Ford?”

“May I think about it?”

He had to
think
about it? “Didn’t you ever own a pet?”

“A what? Oh. No. There were horses. I believe Groom had a dog. Some pointer or setter. If I recall, it was a temperamental beast.”

His staccato phrases revealed his discomfort, but she neglected taking advantage as they also fed her imagination, painting a quick image of privileged childhood.

He cleared his throat. “Erin, I
do not want to disappoint you by not providing a comprehensive answer, so I promise to debate the qualities of the canine and feline, and give you a reply once I’ve analysed your scenario.”

That, of course, sent her off in peals of laughter, to which he voiced his confusion as to why she did not appreciate how seriously he was taking her ‘simple questions condition.’

“Oh, I do!” she gasped at last. “I really do.”

They talked awhile longer. She did not want to let him go, but even as impatient Liana rapped on her door and pushed into the room, Ford was disentangling himself from the call. She heard it in his voice, his need to distance himself as though thousands of miles were insufficient. She let him go reluctantly, thanking him again and wishing him safe travels.

The line went dead as Liana leaned on the doorjamb. “I can’t believe you’re seeing him.”

“I know. But I want to. Okay?”

Her sister moved to sit on the bed next to her, lifting Erin’s arm to examine the watch. “God, Erin. Patek Phillipe. At least he knows how to spoil you.”

“I don’t care about money,” she snapped, snatching her wrist away. The comment sullied the moment
. Tarnished the gift.

“Hey, kid! I know that. Of course, we haven’t exactly had hard lives, have we? The folks aren’t rich, but we grew up pretty comfortably. Money matters.”

“It does.” Erin twirled the watch on her wrist. “When there’s too much or not enough, it really does make a difference.”

“How can too much be bad? I’m taking back the lottery tickets I put in your stocking.” Liana regarded her thoughtfully as she smiled at this empty threat. “I trust your judgment, sis.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re awfully cute with your crush, lying here with feet swinging and twisting locks of hair like you’re twelve.”

Erin let go of the hair she had indeed been twining, and straightened her legs.

Liana smacked her butt. “Come on. Let’s make breakfast for the folks. Bacon and eggs and all the fixings. If we don’t eat soon, none of us will have room for turkey!”

Erin removed the watch to examine it more closely, finding the time already set accurately when she compared it to the display on her BlackBerry. Turning the watch, she read the delicate script engraving on the back:

Erin

Christmas 2012

Smiling like a woman more than half in love, she clipped it on again and followed Liana downstairs.

***

Five’s paws kneaded Erin’s foot, reminding her that cats like turkey, too. She slipped a piece of tender breast to him, under cover of the poinsettia-patterned tablecloth.

“Pass the cranberries, please, Liana,” Mrs. Russell said. “That’s a lovely watch, Erin.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Dr. Russell topped up wine glasses. “Seeing someone new?”

“Yes, Dad.”

The Parents exchanged a look. “And?” her mother prompted.

“It’s pretty new,” she said. “Not a lot to tell.”

“That’s a lot of watch,” her father commented and winked at her.

“Have you met him?” Mrs. Russell asked Liana.

“Nope. Not yet. She’s keeping him to herself.”

“What’s he like?”

“Turnip?” Dr. Russell offered.

Liana snickered.

“Thanks.” Erin spooned some turnip onto her plate and shoved the bowl at Liana with a scowl. “He’s . . . different.”

“He’s a socio—”

Erin threw a pea at her.

“A sociologist? Oh, that must be interesting,” Mrs. Russell said.

But Erin caught the deceptive glint in her mother’s eye. “Li’s having fun at my expense, Mom. Nothing new.”

Liana buried her plate in a swamp of gravy. “I’m just teasing,” she assured the Parents. “Erin’s been dating a guy who’s a bit formal. A bit, um, guarded. But, ah, funny. Right, Ere? Good sense of humour.”

“A dry sense of humour,” she half-agreed. “Did you talk to Gramma yet?” she asked her mother, and the subject shifted to family and the guest list for the Boxing Day party.

But she wanted an opinion that did not come from the Internet or her friends. The Parents were intelligent, practical individuals, and she respected them to the end of the earth. So she started seeding the conversation with comments about personalities, mental illness, serial killers, and other good Christmas Day dinner topics.

Liana, rolling her eyes at this sad effort, finally helped. “Erin’s been watching
Criminal Minds
too much again.”

Mrs. Russell shuddered. “Too graphic for me. Though I liked
Silence of the Lambs
.”

Three sets of eyes stared at her.

“Well, it wasn’t
graphic
!” she defended. “The violence was all subtext. Mostly.”

Erin chuckled. “Mom,
Criminal Minds
is primetime. So not graphic.”

“It
feels
graphic.”

“Anywho,” Liana said, gesturing with her wine glass, “we got into an argument about the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Dr. Russell asked.

“Steph and Brooke and us.”

“‘We,’” Mrs. Russell—ever the English teacher—corrected.

Ford would love her,
Erin thought. But said: “So, a psychopath is bad and a sociopath is, um, not so bad, right?”

“No. They’re the same thing.”

“But they said they were different!” Liana objected.

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The Internet.”

“The voice of authority,” Dr. Russell said.

“Some sites said they were the same,” Erin offered, not liking those sites.

“How many sites did you check?”

The sisters looked to each other, shrugging as they thought about it.

“A dozen, maybe?” Erin suggested, and Liana nodded.

“It’s a matter of debate amongst experts,” Mrs. Russell said. “Whether it’s nature or nurture. Whether there’s treatment for the disorders. Even the actual characteristics between the two.”

“What do you think, Mom?” She slipped Five another bit of turkey.

“I think the human mind is a complex thing not easily pigeonholed. I taught a boy a few years ago who displayed sociopathic behaviours. One of the symptoms was his drive to win at all costs. No one dared thwart him.”

“What happened to him?” Erin asked.

“He started a charity, raising money for homeless shelters.”

“That’s not a sociopath, Mom,” Liana scorned. “That’s a nice guy.”

“Oh, he’s definitely a sociopath. And not at all what is meant by a ‘nice guy.’ When I last saw him, I asked about it, as I had been involved in some problems he had had in school.”

There was no point asking for details. Mrs. Russell was too circumspect.

She went on. “He was inspired by a the story of a saint, Camillus de Lellis, who despite being a son of a gun,” she said politely, “focused his entire energy on helping the sick. If you were not sick, he cared nothing for you. My former student—a bright and energetic young man—made that choice also. To channel his lack of empathy for all into mere lack of empathy for those with homes.” She laughed, shaking her head. “As with anything, there are degrees. Gradation. Someone who isn’t inherently sympathetic can learn it. With enough motivation.”

That was hopeful.

“And some people just
appear
to be sociopathic. Introverts. Or someone who has been abused, or has suffered trauma, can come across as reacting inappropriately to normal things. But there’s nothing wrong with being . . .” Mrs. Russell’s voice drifted away.

“With what?”

Mrs. Russell regarded her daughters sternly. “You both know there are good people and bad, and no one—or hardly anyone—is all one or the other.”

“Why does she think we’re twelve?” Liana asked Erin.

“Six, more like,” Erin chuckled, responding again with more turkey to Five’s kneading.

“You’ll always be my children—
our
children—” she corrected when Dr. Russell ahem’d, “so I’ll repeat advice until I’m dead.”

The sisters laughed.

“What I
mean
is, having a mental illness is just that—an
illness
, with no moral implications. It doesn’t make someone
bad
. But some people just
are
bad. Like a choice. As some people
choose
to make good and right decisions, despite traumas—” she bestowed a glowing look on Erin.

“Aw, Mom,” she protested.

“—some do the opposite. It’s important to know the
difference
.”

“Lots of italics in there,” Liana stage whispered behind a wine-glass shield, and Erin grinned.

Mrs. Russell sighed. “My point is that there is help for those who are ill. There is nothing to be done for those who are making a conscious choice to be bad. They can only help themselves. However, there’s nothing
necessarily
wrong with—with being particular about things. Overly formal.” She sipped her wine. “Guarded.”