Secret Brother

“Good. I’m simply talking with you to see if there’s something we can do to make things easier for you. You’ve been through a great deal of shock, and you’re full of rage. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to see that. There’s nothing wrong with having professional help. It’s a lot to go through. Most adults w

ould be just as troubled, if not worse.”

“The guidance counselor in our school already spoke with me. She’s supposedly a psychologist, too. I think.”

She widened her smile. “She could be, sure. A psychiatrist has a medical degree, and a psychologist has a doctorate in psychology. Our methods sometimes seem similar, but I don’t do counseling as much as diagnose mental illness and often prescribe medication.”

“So they really do think I’m mentally ill,” I insisted.

“Of course not. I’m not here for you. You’re not my patient. I’m here because of the child your grandfather is helping.”

“So I was right,” I pounced. “The boy’s mentally ill? He belongs in a clinic or something, then, doesn’t he?”

“At the moment, he has severe paranoia,” she said, “but a clinical setting could do him more harm than good. Do you know what that means, paranoia?”

“You just told me I was a good student.”

She smirked, and I relaxed a little.

“He’s afraid of stuff all the time? Doesn’t trust anyone,” I said.

“Lots of stuff,” she said. “It’s having an effect on his physical well-being. Just getting him to eat well is an issue.”

“Well, he was poisoned. Why shouldn’t he be afraid to eat? I would be, too.”

“Exactly. But I don’t think he fully understands that he was poisoned.”

“But I told him.”

“Or wants to believe it when he hears it,” she added.

“What’s that mean?”

“Maybe someone he loved and trusted did this to him, or maybe he’s ashamed that he did it to himself.”

I grimaced. “Please. I don’t believe all this. The doctors surely asked him about it when he was in the hospital.”

“He doesn’t remember being brought there. It took a while before he realized where he was, and when he did, he didn’t reveal anything helpful, Clara Sue. He knows he was sick, of course, but that’s about all I can get from him now.”

“So he’s speaking to you?”

“A little, very little. It will take time.”

“Time,” I muttered. I hated the sound of that word now. For me, it had become profanity. I leaned forward. “How do you know he’s not lying about being unable to remember his name or what happened to him or his family or anything?” I demanded.

She thought a moment. Was she pretending I had asked a good question, or had she thought that, too? I decided to pursue it. Maybe I could make her see what was really happening, and she would tell my grandfather, and that would end all this.

“He could have come from a very poor home, and he sees all we have here, and . . . and he sees how easy it is to take advantage of my grandfather because of Willie’s death, take advantage of everyone in the house, everyone except me.”

“All that is a little bit sophisticated for a boy who looks about nine or ten, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“I do, but I will admit that what your grandfather has given him is a way out of his turmoil, the conflict raging in him from what were obviously traumatic events. He has to like and want that, but he’s not conniving.”

“If he hasn’t said much, how do you know all that?”

“I have treated children who were caught in wars and have seen horrible violence. It’s not much different. That’s why I suggested your grandfather hire Mrs. Camden. She’s treated war victims.”