Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [49]
Completely disarmed, Tom falls back on an old therapist standby. “Did you have reason to believe that Seth wanted to hurt himself?”
“No,” she answers unequivocally. “I’m still in shock. I know he was depressed and was seeing someone, but we talked about it and it seemed within the range of reason for a seventeen-year-old boy.”
“So you were comfortable with Seth being seventeen?”
“Yes, of course. I never asked him to be anything he wasn’t,” she says.
Tom is quiet, watching her. The old therapy trick, only she says nothing further. Unlike his patients, she is not bound to him for a full fifty minutes.
At this point, Amelia stands. She looks at Tom and waits for him to stand as well. “Look, Tom—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts her off. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to hear it.
“You are just the picture of professionalism. That’s all,” says Amelia.
Tom doesn’t take this as a compliment. “I should go.”
Amelia nods, and sees him to the door.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Tom offers awkwardly.
“And I for yours,” says Amelia.
Tom asks if he can come back sometime, to continue the conversation.
Amelia hesitates. “As a friend maybe. I don’t need a therapist. Anymore.” She smiles gamely. He’s seen this look before. Tom wants to say something, but can’t. She closes the door.
Tom stands on her porch and surveys the neighborhood. Children are coming to and from the playground, running ahead of their mothers and babysitters who call out for them to wait when they near a corner.
Reluctantly, he starts down the steps. A young man is mowing the lawn next door. He stops and waves to Tom, but Tom pretends not to see.
Rather than walking by the playground, Tom turns right and takes a shortcut down what the kids of Narbrook Circle call the “secret path” but what is really a short, wood-chipped foot trail between yards that isn’t a secret at all.
From across the stream, Tom can see a black town car parked in front of his house. He hesitates, and contemplates turning around. But where would he go?
Tom crosses the little cement footbridge and starts up the hill to his house. As he draws near, he sees Jackie standing on the front porch. She has the same terrified look on her face she’s worn since she found Seth. All she wants to do is close the pool; drain it, cover it, and forget it all ever happened. The detective on the case won’t let her; he says that for now, it’s still a crime scene. For as long as she looks out the windows of their house and sees the clear blue water collecting leaves and pine needles, as long as the caution tape stays strung around the fence line, she will continue to turn that terrified look on Tom. What pains him most about the look isn’t that she’s afraid he’s capable of doing something awful, she’s afraid he’s incapable of doing something good.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says when she’s within earshot.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” she asks, softening a little.
“Yes, although I probably should’ve driven out to Wissahickon and gotten some real exercise.”
“Well, anyway,” says Jackie, “it’s good you didn’t. Detective Hendricks is here to see you. He’s waiting inside.”
Jackie sets them up in the living room, each with a cup of coffee.
“Dr. Middleton,” begins the detective. He pauses, presumably waiting for Tom to say, No, call me Tom, but Tom keeps quiet. The detective continues, “I apologize if I am repeating myself, but were you prescribing Seth any medication?”
“No,” answers Tom, “you have his file.”
“Yes, it’s true, we do have his file. It’s been very helpful, thank you. But what I’m wondering, Dr. Middleton,” the detective leans forward on the floral couch cushions, “is if there is any information that didn’t make it into Seth’s file.”
Tom repeats the spiel he gave at the station. “I don’t take notes while I talk to patients. It unnerves them. After they leave, I write down all the important aspects of our conversation. It is not a transcript. They’re meeting minutes, more like. We even recorded our moves when we played chess, sometimes. You can have those too, if you want.”
“No,