I flip the light switch to the closet and walk in. Balancing on tip toe, I reach for one of several large brown legal boxes shoved behind a linen storage bag. I drag it down, and sneeze from the thin layer of dust that covers the box. Making myself at home there in the dead center of the closet, I take a seat cross legged. I exhale slowly and pop open the lid of the box. Bundy slinks in and gently bonks his velvety head against my elbow.
I scratch his ears and chin, eliciting a deep rumble of purrs. He curls up into himself beside me on the floor, making a perfect black circle, and he doesn’t leave my side.
I spend an hour or so going through album after album. Pictures of our family, back when we were whole, meet my eyes and I am flooded with memories. Rachael and I splashing with our feet in the river. Dad with a cigar in his mouth, and his hands on a fly-fishing rod. Fourth of July dinner spread out on the old oak dining table, complete with red, white, and blue sprinkled cupcakes that Rae and I had baked together.
Fuck, I miss him.
I allow a few tears to fall as I revisit all of our childhood summers here in Greenwood. My fingernails scrape the bottom of the box, and I think I’ve reached the end of the pictures. But then my fingers graze over what feels like something else.
I pull a large manila envelope out and drop it onto my lap.
More pictures?I think, ripping open the black wax seal on the envelope with my finger.
A tiny paper cut splits the flesh along my pointer finger, and a single drop of blood drips onto the envelope. The smallest crimson spot.I pop my finger into my mouth and suck until the coppery taste dissipates. Returning to the envelope, I briefly think of my father’s bronze antique letter opener that is currently sitting on my office desk in town.
A single piece of paper resides within the envelope, folded crisply into thirds.
My brows furrow as I recognize the Washington state crest. Under the crest is a header for Pierce County Public Health. Listed under that is Dad’s name, identifying information, and the address of Pearson House. Scanning quickly, my eyes move down the page. Lachlan Pearson, age sixty-seven… suddenly, words like “evidence,” “screens,” and “lab results” jump out at me.
Then it dawns on me what I’m looking at: This is a toxicology report.
My eyes fly down the page, stumbling over unfamiliar medication names like gemcitabine, nab-paclitaxel, 5-fluorouracil (5-FU), and irinotecan. What were these? They weren’t psychotropics. Moving my index finger down the list of substances, I see morphine.
Fucking morphine? Now that one I know.
Flipping the page over, I look for more on the back, but it’s blank. I frown as I turn the envelope upside down and shake it, checking to see if anything else is there.
A small, ripped piece of paper flutters to the ground. Across the scrap of paper is a name scrawled in black ink: the letters in minute, perfectly formed, tidy caps.
The handwriting isn’t my father’s. His had been a slanting and distinct, looped cursive. Elegant and distinguished, just like him.
Wordlessly, I mouth the name written there.Dr. S. Wagner, MD.
What in the fuck?
9
TAP
KAT
Tap, tap, tap.
Josh’s thin fingers tap against the armrest of the couch. The sound, though subtle, grates on my nerves, almost making me flinch.
“You sure about this?” he asks again.
“I am. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think this is the right time to refer you elsewhere. I believe a different perspective could be... valuable to you, Josh.”
I keep my voice calm and measured. Inside, my pulse thrums against my throat like a hummingbird’s wings against a window.
Again, Josh taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the only outward sign of his inner agitation. He sighs.
“Did I say something wrong? Because I trust you. And you know it’s hard for me to start over with new therapists.”
“This isn’t about anything specific you’ve said or not said. It’s about my boundaries and what’s best for the work. I’ve already compiled a list of therapists I think you might connect with.”
I swallow thickly as I slide a single piece of paper across the coffee table toward him. Josh doesn’t look at it or make any move to take it.
