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“My daughter was born in February. Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m the twenty-eighth.”
“So close to leap year,” I say.
He nods. “What do you do?”
“I’m a psychologist. I work with children.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Why would children need a psychologist?”
“All sorts of reasons. Some of them have trouble in school, some of them have difficulty at home. Some of them have a tough time moving to a new place.”
He says nothing.
“So I suppose that if you’re homeschooled, you have to meet friends outside of class.”
He sighs. “My dad found a swim league for me to join.”
“How long have you swum?”
“Since I was five.”
“You must be good.”
“I’m okay. My dad says I’m capable.”
I nod.
“I’m pretty good,” he admits modestly. “I teach it.”
“You teach swimming?”
“To people with disabilities. Not, like, physical disabilities,” he adds.
“Developmental disabilities.”
“Yeah. I did that a lot in Boston. I want to do it here, too.”
“How did you start doing that?”
“My friend’s sister has Down syndrome, and she saw the Olympics a couple years ago and wanted to learn to swim. So I taught her and then some other kids from her school. And then I got into that whole …”—he fumbles for the word—“scene, I guess.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m not into parties or anything like that.”
“Not your scene.”
“No.” Then he smiles. “Not at all.”
He twists his head, looks at the kitchen. “I can see your house from my room,” he says. “It’s up there.”
I turn. If he can see the house, that means he’s got an easterly view, facing my bedroom. The thought is briefly bothersome—he’s a teenage boy, after all. For the second time I wonder if he might be gay.
And then I see that his eyes have gone glassy.
“Oh …” I look to my right, where the tissues should be, where they used to be in my office. Instead there’s a picture frame, Olivia beaming at me, gap-toothed.
“Sorry,” Ethan says.
“No, don’t be sorry,” I tell him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He scrubs his eyes.
I wait a moment. He’s a child, I remind myself—tall and broken-voiced, but a child.
“I miss my friends,” he says.
“I bet. Of course.”
“I don’t know anyone here.” A tear tumbles down one cheek. He swipes at it with the heel of his hand.
“Moving is tough. It took me a little while to meet people when I moved here.”
He sniffles loudly. “When did you move?”
“Eight years ago. Or actually nine, now. From Connecticut.”
He sniffles again, brushes his nose with a finger. “That’s not as far away as Boston.”
“No. But moving from anywhere is tough.” I’d like to hug him. I won’t. LOCAL RECLUSE FONDLES NEIGHBOR CHILD.
We sit for a moment in silence.
“Can I have some more water?” he asks.
“I’ll get it for you.”
“No, it’s fine.” He begins to stand; Punch pours himself down his leg, pooling beneath the coffee table.
Ethan walks to the kitchen sink. As the faucet runs, I get up and approach the television, haul open the drawer beneath the set.
“Do you like movies?” I call. No answer; I turn to see him standing at the kitchen door, gazing at the park. Beside him, the bottles in the recycling bin glow fluorescent.
After a moment, he faces me. “What?”
“Do you like movies?” I repeat. He nods. “Come take a look. I’ve got a big DVD library. Very big. Too big, my husband says.”
“I thought you were separated,” Ethan mumbles, crossing toward me.
“Well, he’s still my husband.” I inspect the ring on my left hand, twist it. “But you’re right.” I gesture at the open drawer. “If you’d like to borrow anything, you’re welcome to it. Do you have a DVD player?”
“My dad’s got an attachment for his laptop.”
“That’ll work.”
“He might let me borrow it.”
“Let’s hope so.” I’m starting to get a sense of Alistair Russell.
“What sort of movies?” he asks.
“Mostly old ones.”
“Like, black-and-white?”
“Mostly black-and-white.”
“I’ve never seen a black-and-white movie.”
I make full moons of my eyes. “You’re in for a treat. All the best movies are black-and-white.”
He looks doubtful but peers into the drawer. Nearly two hundred slipcases, Criterion and Kino, Universal’s Hitchcock boxed set, assorted film noir collections, Star Wars (I’m only human). I inspect the spines: Night and the City. Whirlpool. Murder, My Sweet. “Here,” I announce, prying loose a case and handing it to Ethan.
“Night Must Fall,” he reads.
“It’s a good one to start with. Suspenseful but not scary.”
“Thanks.” He clears his throat, coughs. “Sorry,” he says, sipping his water. “I’m allergic to cats.”
I stare at him. “Why didn’t you say so?” I glare at the cat.
“He’s so friendly. I didn’t want to offend him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I tell him. “In a nice way.”
He smiles. “I’d better go,” he says. He returns to the coffee table, sets his glass on it, bends to address Punch through the glass. “Not because of you, buddy. Good boy.” He straightens up, shakes his hands over his thighs.
“Do you want a lint roller? For the dander?” I’m not even sure I’ve still got one.
“I’m okay.” He looks around. “Can I use your bathroom?”
I point to the red room. “All yours.”
While he’s in there, I check the sideboard mirror. A shower tonight, for sure. Tomorrow at latest.
I return to the sofa and open my laptop. Thanks for your help, DiscoMickey has written.You’re my hero.
I rattle off a quick reply as the toilet flushes. Ethan emerges from the bathroom a moment later, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “All set,” he informs me. He treads to the door, hands stuffed in pockets, a schoolboy shuffle.
I follow him. “Thanks so much for coming by.”
“See you around,” he says, pulling the door open.
No, you won’t, I think. “I’m sure you will,” I say.
9 (#ulink_9cb81ae9-1595-58d3-8780-78bc5298082c)
AFTER ETHAN LEAVES, I watch Laura again. It shouldn’t work: Clifton Webb gorging on the scenery, Vincent Price test-driving a southern accent, the oil-and-vinegar leads. But work it does, and oh, that music. “They sent me the script, not the score,” Hedy Lamarr once griped.
I leave the candle lit, the tiny blob of flame pulsing.
And then, humming the Laura theme, I swipe my phone on and take to the Internet in search of my patients. My former patients. Ten months ago I lost them all: I lost Mary, nine years old, struggling with her parents’ divorce; I lost Justin, eight, whose twin brother had died of melanoma; I lost Anne Marie, at age twelve still afraid of the dark. I lost Rasheed (eleven, transgender) and Emily (nine, bullying); I lost a preternaturally depressed little ten-year-old named, of all things, Joy. I lost their tears and their troubles and their rage and their relief. I lost nineteen children all told. Twenty, if you count my daughter.
I know where Olivia is now, of course. The others I’ve been tracking. Not too often—a psychologist isn’t supposed to investigate her patients, past patients included—but every month or so, swollen with longing, I’ll take to the web. I’ve got a few Internet research tools at my disposal: a phantom Facebook account; a stale LinkedIn profile. With young people, though, only Google will do, really.
After reading of Ava’s spelling-bee championship and Theo’s election to the middle school student council, after scanning the Instagram albums of Grace’s mother and scrolling through Ben’s Twitter feed (he really ought to activate some privacy settings), after wiping the tears from my cheeks and sinking three glasses of red, I find myself back in my bedroom, browsing photos on my phone. And then, once more, I talk to Ed.
“Guess who,” I say, the way I always do.
“You’re pretty tipsy, slugger,” he points out.
“It’s been a long day.” I glance at my empty glass, feel a prickle of guilt. “What’s Livvy up to?”
“Getting ready for tomorrow.”
“Oh. What’s her costume?”
“A ghost,” Ed says.
“You got lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
I laugh. “Last year she was a fire truck.”
“Man, that took days.”
“It took me days.”
I can hear him grin.
Across the park, three stories up, through the window and in the depths of a dark room, there’s the glow of a computer screen. Light dawns, an instant sunrise; I see a desk, a table lamp, and then Ethan, shucking his sweater. Affirmative: Our bedrooms do indeed face each other.
He turns around, eyes cast down, and peels off his shirt. I look away.
SUNDAY, (#ulink_4c4639ba-851e-5e95-a161-7cfe3ee3be59)
