Iron House

CHAPTER NINE

The doctor was like so many doctors, quiet and certain and spare. He arrived in the company of an unfamiliar nurse, and when the door clicked shut Julian froze, a new attentiveness to his features, a contemplation that seemed to emanate from some especially still place in his soul.

“Julian, my name is Dr. Cloverdale. I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to conduct an examination and fix up your hands. Is that okay?” Julian did not respond, and the doctor said, “We’re all friends here.”

Moving gently, the doctor checked the sound of Julian’s heart and lungs. He shone a light in Julian’s eyes, and Abigail imagined her son’s face turned up in the dark, a small light seen from the bottom of a deep well.

“You’re doing fine, Julian. Just fine.”

The doctor continued his examination, and when the bandages came off Julian’s hands, Abigail stifled a small cry. “It’s okay,” the doctor said; but it was not. The knuckles were scraped and torn and weeping lymph. The meat was white, and Abigail thought she saw a wet, gray flash of bone. The doctor dressed the hands, and then sedated him. Julian did not react when the needle went into his arm. Abigail turned down the sheets, and together they got Julian into bed. At the door, the doctor spoke in a whisper. “The nurse will clean him up.”

In the hall, Abigail put her back against the wall. “His poor hands…”

“There’s no permanent damage.”

“You’re certain?”

“Barring further injury, yes.” The doctor’s face was kind, but serious. “This just happened?”

“Which part?” Abigail felt a hint of panic in her own voice.

“When did this begin? Let’s start there.”

“Three days ago. He went away-we don’t know where-and when he came back, he was like this. I found him in the garage, barefoot and filthy. He wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t go to his own room. He came here and locked the door. He wouldn’t answer when we tried to talk to him, wouldn’t come out. After a day, we brought in the locksmith.”

“Does he often disappear like that?”

Abigail shook her head. “No. Never. I mean, he goes places, of course. But not that often, and never without letting someone know.”

“Where does he go, when he leaves? Friends? Vacations?”

“No. Not really. I mean, he has friends, of course, but not close ones. People from school, mostly. No one person in particular. He goes to New York to meet with his publishers. He does occasional conferences, public appearances, things like that. Mostly, he stays here. Walks in the woods. Writes his books. He’s a very insular young man.”

“Comfortable in his own skin.”

“That might be pushing it.”

“He’s rather old to be living at home…”

“He has his strengths, Dr. Cloverdale; it’s just that he’s complicated.”

“The senator filled me in on his history. I understand he suffered some abuse as a boy?”

“Yes.”

“Was it severe?”

“Yes.” She felt her own madness rise. “It was severe.”

Cloverdale frowned. “Did he have counseling?”

“With minimal effect. He went through the motions, but still wakes up screaming.”

“Screaming?”

“For his brother. They were close.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this kind of self-injury?”

“No. It just started last night.”

Cloverdale shook his head. “This is not my area. He needs a psychiatrist, I suspect, maybe inpatient treatment at Duke or Chapel Hill. Someone who specializes in emotional trauma…”

“Are you suggesting we commit him?”

“Let’s not rush to judgment,” Cloverdale said. “If we did commit him, he would be placed under observation for several days. We can do the same thing here, no problem. Your husband hired me for the week, so I’m here. Why don’t we give it a day or two? I’ll keep Julian calm and comfortable. I’ll watch him. Sometimes these things resolve themselves.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” He showed his calm, doctor’s smile. “Why not?”

She studied his eyes. “A few days, then.”

“Good.” The doctor clasped his hands. “Now, let’s talk about you.”

He made a kind face again, and only then did Abigail realize how distraught she must appear, mud-spattered and wild-eyed. She’d not slept in two nights, barely eaten. She was pale and exhausted, her son’s blood dried to a crust on her cheeks. She touched the nest of hair on her head and felt a sudden blankness move into her eyes as she focused on the doctor’s chin. “I’m fine,” she said.

“If you’re worried I’ll discuss it with your husband-”

“I’m fine.” The stare continued unabated. She knew it, but could not lift her eyes. It was an old feeling, the denial.

“We all need help at times, Mrs. Vane. There’s no shame in it.”

“Thank you, Doctor. No.” She felt her chin rise, and briefly entertained the notion of telling him the truth; but he would dismiss as a misguided boast her claim that he’d never met a stronger person than she. He would make polite noises, and when he saw the senator, he would shake his head and pretend to keep his confidence. But their eyes would meet, and in that touch would be a faint smile shared at the vanity of women. So, she kept the truth as her own. She did not tell the doctor she had seen things that would crush his heart, done things that would break him at the knees.

“I’m fine,” she said.

And when he opened his mouth to disagree, she turned and walked away.