Dr. Bainbridge nodded thoughtfully. “Master manipulators, antisocials. As I have said before, the psychiatric worker does not exist who has not fallen prey to one at some point.” He shook his head, now staring directly at Susan. In an uncharacteristic action, he walked to her and put a fatherly arm across her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Susan. She’s four years old, and the rules say we have to give children second and third and fourth and fifth chances. Had you asked my opinion, I would have done nothing different. We knew she was dangerous, and her parents knew it, too; yet we all believed that even if she did something bad, an adult could stop her.
“It’s not your fault,” Dr. Bainbridge repeated, “but for a long time it’s going to feel as if it is. If you find it taking over your life, let me know immediately and we’ll arrange some counseling. Sometimes big mistakes have small consequences. And sometimes small mistakes have big ones. You can’t let chance rule your life.”
Susan glanced around at her peers. All of them wore solemn and sympathetic looks. They might harbor other grudges against her; but, at this time, they stood unanimous in support of her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “But I’d like permission to leave rounds early to talk to the Ansons. I’m not sure Neurosurgery has much of a clue about juvenile conduct disorder, and I’m already getting the sense they blame the father. This family doesn’t need any more trauma.”
Bainbridge nodded agreement. “Go,” he said. “We’ll call you if we need anything more from you.”
“Thank you,” Susan said with all the gratitude in the world. She raced toward the operating room waiting area, where she knew she would find the Ansons. She only hoped they would still be willing to see her.
Chapter 18
The surgical waiting room had brilliant aqua walls, a multicolored rug, comfortable chairs, and surrealistic paintings teeming with colored swirls and odd-ball shapes. The Ansons were alone, the mother sobbing in her seat and the father pacing wildly, his left hand and right wrist covered in fresh bandages.
The father stopped moving the instant he spotted Susan. “Dr. Calvin.” His voice emerged in a neutral tone. It was less a greeting than an acknowledgment.
Lucianne Anson’s head jerked up. She stood and faced Susan.
Susan did not wait for her to speak or make her feelings or intentions clear. Tossing her palm-pross gently on a chair, she caught Sharicka’s mother into an embrace. The woman stiffened, then collapsed against her. Warm tears dribbled across Susan’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Susan whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say.
Elliot appeared beside them. “Do you know anything about Rylan’s condition?”
Susan could only shake her head. “Not yet.” She did not say anything about Sharicka. She did not know if telling them the child was safe would soothe or infuriate them.
Before she could say anything more, the father spoke in anguished tones. “It’s all my fault. She behaved so well all evening, I guess I let my guard down. After she fell asleep, I figured we were good till early morning.”
The mother pulled away from Susan long enough to say, “It’s not your fault, Elliot.” She added forcefully, at least partially for Susan’s benefit, “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s . . . her brain. It’s just not right.” She dissolved into tears again.
Elliot Anson eased his wife off Susan. “I just thought . . . I guess I figured . . .” He did not need to finish the sentence.
Susan shook her head. “Stop blaming yourself, Dr. Anson.” She wished she could take her own advice. Despite the mother’s effort to absolve her, Susan only felt guiltier. She had suggested the visit. She had encouraged them, even when Lucianne Anson had voiced serious doubts. She was the one with the medical knowledge, the one who should have known better.
Susan forced herself to continue. “No one could believe a child Sharicka’s age was capable of doing so much harm so quickly. I have to believe people like Sharicka inspired the stories of demonic possession, that they explain the occasional infanticide in ancient cultures. Medical confidentiality is strict, especially when it comes to both mental illnesses and children. Juvenile conduct disorder is rare, and the extreme nature of Sharicka’s case is exceptionally so. I believe other patients this young, this severe, exist; but there is little to no available information about them.” Susan hoped she had made both of her cases: that the cause of Sharicka’s problem was a brain abnormality no one could have seen or prevented and that the degree of her violence went beyond what anyone could have predicted.
Lucianne Anson pulled free from her husband. “Would you think less of us if we . . . never took her home again?”
Susan could barely believe any other option existed, even in the minds of loving parents. “Of course not. Are you wanting to terminate your parental rights?”
The parents exchanged glances. They had clearly discussed this topic thoroughly as they waited for news of Rylan’s condition. Elliot detailed their conclusions. “Sharicka belongs in permanent residential care, where trained professionals can watch her twenty-four/seven; but you’ve told us that can’t happen because of her age. We’re worried if we terminate our rights, she’ll wind up in someone else’s home.”
Lucianne blurted out, “And kill someone else’s children, too.”
Susan wanted to tell them such a thing would not happen, could not happen; but she had a grim and terrible feeling they were right. Kendall’s words came back to haunt her: “In every state in the union, probably in every country in the world, kids under the age of seven are automatically presumed not responsible for their criminal acts, including murder. We just throw a few meds at them, send them home, and wait until they kill someone else, when they’re old enough to prosecute.”
Elliot cringed. “Believe it or not, we will always love Sharicka. She’s our daughter. But, if Rylan . . . if Rylan . . .” Now, tears dripped down his face. He could scarcely squeeze out the words.
Susan wished she could help him, but she did not know what he intended to say.
“If Rylan survives, it would be torture for him to have her in our home. We love our son as well, and he is innocent.”
Susan could see their point. If the Ansons terminated their parental rights, Sharicka would become a ward of the state. She would spend a significant amount of time in the PIPU. All too soon, however, the horror of the moment would fade and people would start to rationalize the murder. They would say the Ansons orchestrated it or abused Sharicka so badly she had to lash out. Someone else would suggest that Misty and Rylan had ganged up to mercilessly torment their little sister until she could stand it no longer. Others would sincerely believe that a preschooler had no capacity for evil, that a girl so young simply had no ability to understand the consequences of her actions. Eventually, Sharicka would learn to manipulate the system, to “remember” nonexistent abuses, to say whatever gained her the compassion she had no capacity to experience herself.
Well-intentioned social workers would foist Sharicka into multiple foster placements, where she would leave havoc and a wake of bodies behind her. The Ansons had an impossible decision. Regardless of their innocence, a cloud of suspicion would always follow them, regardless of whether they chose to terminate their parental rights. Protecting their only remaining son might mean damning so many other children and destroying other families.
Susan reached for her palm-pross. “I have one new option to offer you, still in the research stage.”
The Doctors Anson fixed their gazes on her, clearly interested.
Susan explained the nanorobot study, first superficially, then in more depth. Whether they chose to try it or not, at least the conversation allowed them to take a break from worrying about Rylan. When Susan finished her explanation, the parents did not even bother to discuss it.