She put her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed. I figured we’d chat for a few more minutes and then she’d ask me to leave. She’d want someone who knew what they were doing, of course. This had been a silly exercise and I felt bad for wasting her time, of which she clearly had too little already.
“Interestingly enough,” she said, “your experience might better prepare you for Luke than I could have hoped.”
She took off her glasses, and I saw something in her eyes that I recognized-a deep and fearsome sadness.
“You see,” she said, “we moved here from the city so that Luke could attend Fieldcrest during the school year and over the summer as well.”
“Oh,” I said. “I see.”
Okay, so he was troubled. No problem. Who wasn’t? I mean, I had been classified as a troubled kid and I hadn’t set things on fire. Much. Just kidding.
“At his age, another kind of boy might be approaching the point where he could spend some afternoons at home alone. But I don’t feel comfortable leaving Luke to his own devices. He’s quite smart, and certainly capable of taking care of himself. But he needs someone-” She stopped short of finishing the sentence.
“To keep him out of trouble?” I said.
She looked relieved. “Yes.”
I searched for a tactful way to ask what his problem was, but she asked me if I wanted some tea and I said yes. She motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. I took a seat in a breakfast nook that looked out onto a trim backyard-a square of lawn, a single bare tree, a lonely bistro table and two chairs. Beyond that, there was a thick wooded area. I knew there were more houses on the other side, but I couldn’t see them.
“Luke has had a lot of different diagnoses,” said Rachel, reading my mind. She flipped on the electric kettle. “But none of them quite fit. We thought at first that it was ADHD. One doctor thought it was clinical depression, which runs in my family.” Here a kind of darkness fell over her features, but then was gone. “Another said that Luke was bipolar. He’s been in therapy, taken various medications.”
She took tea bags from a box by the kettle and poured the water into two mugs. She went on about how she’d reached the end of her rope with having to change schools, doctors, how her work (she didn’t mention what this was) was suffering, Luke was growing ever more difficult and hard for her to manage on her own.
Then she’d read about Dr. Charles Welsh and the work he was doing at Fieldcrest. I knew Dr. Welsh; he was Langdon’s direct supervisor, a warm and disheveled man whom everyone adored and held in the highest regard. His work with troubled children and his theories on childhood psychopathy were groundbreaking. When Luke was accepted to Dr. Welsh’s program, Rachel and Luke moved here to The Hollows.
“We left family and friends behind,” she said. She sat down at the table, putting a cup in front of me. The scent of peppermint and honey rose up to greet me. She hadn’t asked what kind of tea I wanted or how I liked it, but it was perfect. “But to be honest, those relationships were becoming very strained. Luke’s behavior. It’s-well, it can be-appalling. Even my family, what little I have, wasn’t equipped to handle him.”
I took a sip of my tea. She wasn’t exactly selling the position.
“I just want to be honest,” she said, maybe reading my expression. “There’s no point in your taking the job if you’re going to be overwhelmed by him.”
For whatever reason, maybe it was hubris, or the naïveté of youth, or just a general lack of foresight, but I wasn’t discouraged. In fact, I felt a bit proud of myself for wanting a job that probably no one else would want. Or maybe it was because, when I was young, my behavior could have been called appalling, and many people had difficulty “handling” me. Or maybe it was this idea I had twisting deep in my psyche about helping people.
She went on to talk a little bit about his behavior, his unnatural attachment to her, his rages, his silences, his manipulations. As she went on, she seemed to get more and more tired, her shoulders drooping, head bowing. I waited to say something about Luke’s father. But she didn’t.
“Things have been-challenging,” she said. I couldn’t see her face at all.
I’d known plenty of kids like Luke at Fieldcrest, and had spent time helping them during the summer program. Often, they did better without the parents around. Those relationships were so complicated, the grooves of manipulation dug so deep, so twisted around each other. Sometimes, not always, troubled kids were more relaxed in an environment that wasn’t controlled by their whims and tempers.
“So maybe I should meet Luke and see if we can get along at all?” I said.
She looked up from her teacup, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Okay?” she said. “Yes. That would be great. Maybe you’d like to come back for dinner?”
“I could do that,” I said.
“Or,” she said, looking around, “I could pay you for the afternoon and you could help me with some unpacking. And you’ll be here when he gets home in a couple of hours. Are you free?”
I didn’t wonder if she’d interviewed anyone else, or why she didn’t seem to have checked my single reference. To be honest, I just liked her. I sensed she needed someone, and I wanted to be that person. I couldn’t have told you why. These things are so complicated, every decision underpinned by reasons conscious and subconscious. What we think of as our “gut instincts” are really a very complex mosaic of past experiences, deep-seated hopes, fears, desires. But that feeling, a kind of giddy, hopeful yes!, came from deep inside. I wouldn’t have thought that I wanted or needed anything as badly as I must have to so enthusiastically sign on for the jobs of unpacking boxes and caring for a disturbed child. But there I was.
So, we passed the afternoon, chatting and unpacking, shelving books and unwrapping glasses. I skirted questions about my family in a way that had become second nature to me, offering vague half answers. Most people don’t press early on.
Where’s your family from? she asked casually.
South Florida, I answered.
Do you see them often? She wanted to know, clearly just making conversation. Well, I was just home for Christmas. You mentioned your family was still in the city? I tossed back.
It wasn’t lost on me that she changed the subject just as quickly when the focus shifted to her family. The relationships were strained, she’d said. No one ever really wanted to talk about that. But then we fell into an easy rapport, chatting about school, my suite mates, her years at NYU, how we both hated Hemingway and distrusted people who lauded his work, were fools for The Sound of Music (the hills are alive!). There was a definite love connection. She reminded me of someone. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell you who, not then.
We were laughing at something, I don’t remember what now, when we heard the front door. Her smile quickly faded and a tension settled into her shoulders. She moved away from me quickly.
“I’m home,” came a voice down the hall. “Mom? I’m hungry.”
“One of the other mothers picked him up today. We carpool,” she whispered. She looked guilty, as if she’d done something wrong and was hoping I’d cover for her. “I lost track of time.”
“In the kitchen, Luke,” she called. “I want you to meet someone.”
There was a pause, where she turned to me and offered a tight smile. Then I heard slow, careful steps approach. I don’t know what I was expecting, but certainly not the slim, handsome boy who stepped into the room. He was her younger, male double, the same creamy, pinched beauty. His eyes were dark like hers, intense and smart. His hair was a tousle, his eyes heavily lidded. I hesitate to say that there was a reptilian beauty to him, because that wouldn’t quite capture the flush to his skin, the shine to his eyes.