Afterlife - Douglas Clegg [48]
“Anger is normal. You’re being very confrontational, Julie. You must acknowledge that. You know that Matt has limited resources within himself. Whatever happened when he was young can’t just go away. A lot is going on inside him, and his father’s death probably left him afraid that you’d abandon him, too.”
Julie raised her eyebrows slightly.
“I’m not here just to tell you what you want to hear. Look, give him a break. He’s had too much loss in his life. He’s probably afraid that you’ll give him up. You’re not his natural mother. With his father gone, it’s normal for him to have that kind of fear. Plus, you’re digging, and he doesn’t like it.”
“I feel it’s important.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
“Why are you asking my permission for this trip?” “You’re my therapist.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“She wouldn’t sign my permission slip.”
“This woman has attempted suicide three times in her life. She has a history of violent behavior. God knows what she did to her son in that short period of time when she raised him, but I doubt she was a fit mother for a child. I just think you’re playing with fire here.”
11
Julie called the psychiatric center that afternoon and set up an appointment to see Hut’s first wife.
Chapter Twelve
1
The psych rehab center was just outside Philadelphia in a lovely suburban world (called Greenwood) that had a fringe of country to it. The area was surrounded by woodlands, and she barely saw it off the highway in time to make the turnoff onto Beacon Drive, and from there, to the gates. It looked like an old mansion that had been grafted onto a nursing home, and its bright neo-classic exterior with pergolas and balconies and colonnades belied the monastic sparseness of the interior of the building.
“She lives in West,” the clerk at the front desk said. “I need you to hand over that bag,” she pointed to the handbag. “Any keys, pens, anything sharp, too.”
Julie passed her handbag over. “My appointment was at three.”
“It’s all right. We know traffic can be bad. She probably just had a nap at this point. Go down through the double doors, elevator on right—the red elevator, not green—and take it to the third floor. Make your first left, two doors down is the social worker’s office. That’s Gigi Kaufmann. Gigi. She’ll take you to see her.”
2
The social worker was in her mid-fifties, wore thick glasses, and her hair, nearly white, was wrapped around her squarish face like cotton candy. She spoke in a loud whisper, reminding Julie of being a kid in a library. “She was doing great, up until the news in April. I’m afraid it caused her some agitation. But she’s better now, I think.”
“Is there anything I should know? A way I should talk?” Julie found herself whispering as she spoke.
The social worker strode down the hall as if she were in a hurry to get this over with. The halls were painted a muted pastel yellow, and they passed other patients’ rooms, which seemed uniformly dreary and white. A woman in bed, her hair a bird’s nest tangle of white, sat up and stared at Julie as if she’d brought bad news. Two men, orderlies, stood at the end of the hallway by the barred window, one sipping coffee, the other gesturing as if toward a third person who was not there.
“She’s not dangerous to anyone, if that’s what you mean,” the social worker said. “She’s really a model patient. The medication helps, of course. It grounds her in reality a bit. You’ll find her quite chatty.”
“Is there anything I shouldn’t mention? Any subject matter to avoid?”
The social worker grinned. There was something uncomfortable in the over-familiarity of the smile, like she was sharing a joke. “Well, all I can say is, don’t talk about sex. She has some hang-ups, as they say.”
Before Julie could figure out what that comment meant, they were at the doorway