I’ve got to get help from a professional, from someone who Finn tells the things he won’t tell me.
I rush back home and climb in my car. I drive down the mountain, through town and to the hospital. When I get there, I shove the medallion in my pocket. God knows I can’t give it back to Finn. He’s likely to throw it out and I’ll never find it again.
I walk numbly through the halls, past the abstract bird painting and into the Group room. I’m interrupting a session and everyone turns to stare at me curiously. Jason, the therapist, gets up and crosses the room. He’s short and blond, and his steps are long. He reaches me quickly.
“Calla,” he says, assessing my face. “Is everything all right?”
With his arm on my elbow, he leads me into the hallway, so I don’t instill panic into his precious patients.
“There’s something wrong with Finn,” I tell him abruptly. “I can’t figure it out, and he won’t tell me. Do you know?”
Jason stares at me, his hand patting my back, as he tries to figure out how to calm down a frantic woman. I’m annoyed, because like my father and his grieving clients, Jason is supposed to know how to handle upset people. He’s a therapist, for God’s sake.
Finally, he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Calla. He hasn’t said anything to me. But even if he had, you know I can’t share that with you. It’s confidential.”
“Even if he’s a danger to himself?” I demand. “He was on the edge of the cliffs this morning. And then he told me that he was on the edge and it wasn’t a metaphor, Jason. He’s in serious trouble. His hands have been shaking and I’m afraid he’s stopped taking his meds. Has he said anything to you?”
Jason hesitates, then stares seriously into my eyes.
“I can’t say. But what I can say is that Finn hasn’t been to group in weeks.”
Those words slam into me with the weight of a freight train and I stand limply in front of the therapist.
“Weeks?” The word scrapes my lungs. “That’s impossible. I’ve been driving him myself.”
Jason shakes his head regretfully. “You might be driving him here, but he’s not coming in. I’m sorry, Calla.”
He’s sorry. My brother is losing it, and his therapist is sorry.
My blood boils and I whirl around.
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” I demand before I walk away. “You’re supposed to be helping him, for God’s sake.
It’s no wonder Finn always calls out for me. I’m the only one he can count on.
I storm through the hospital and slam my car door hard enough to shatter the half-open driver’s side window.
I’m covered in pellets of safety glass as I sit hunched over the steering wheel.
Perfectus.
To make matters worse, because it’s Oregon, it starts to rain as I drive. I lean away from the door as the rain blows the precipitation in. By the time I get home, I’m drenched.
I slam the car door again, as hard as I can.
It echoes through the yard, or so I imagine.
I take the stairs three at a time, and before long, I’m standing in front of my father again. He’s startled by my drowned rat appearance.
“I just came from the hospital,” I tell him harshly. “Finn hasn’t been going to Group. So if you weren’t worried before, you should be now.”
My father stares at me blankly, something that infuriates me.
“Dad, you’ve got to live in the present right now. I know you’re sad. I know you have gin in that coffee cup.” He looks at his glass and then looks up me guiltily. “Did you wonder why your open bottle was gone the other night? It’s because I drank it and you didn’t even notice. Dare cleaned me up and took care of me, not you.”
My father looks horrified and appalled but I don’t pause.
“Finn needs you. He needs you right now.”