Secret Brother

“No. He’s not dying, Clara Sue. All his vitals are good,” Dr. Patrick replied. “He’s resting comfortably now. I’ve given him something that will help him sleep for a while. I’m sure he’ll be fine when he awakes.”

“But he went kind of nuts, didn’t he? He should be in a psycho ward or something, right?”

Neither of

them smiled.

“No,” Dr. Patrick said softly, “he didn’t go kind of nuts. That’s not the way to put it at all. He had what we call a traumatic flashback, a memory of a traumatic event, experienced as if the event were being relived with all the same intense feeling he had the first time it happened. The patient is forced to process the memory.”

“Well, what was the memory? What did it have to do with the Farmingham mansion?”

“We don’t know yet,” Mrs. Camden said.

“Won’t it happen again?” I asked.

“Maybe not this exact one, but yes, it’s very possible that some other event, some other memory, might trigger a similar emotional response,” Dr. Patrick replied, as if it wasn’t really a big deal.

“Isn’t that terrible?” I asked, looking from Mrs. Camden to her.

“No. Actually, this is something of a breakthrough,” Dr. Patrick said, again in that very controlled, quiet way that made me want to reach out and slap her. She was making me feel foolish for asking anything. “I’ll explore this with him as time goes by and make sure that he understands that whatever it is, it’s not his fault. Often, that’s why the patient sees it as so traumatic.”

“What if it is his fault?”

“We’ll find that out and deal with it.” She paused, a tiny smile at the corners of her lips. “Are you interested in all this now?”

I stepped back. I was, but I wasn’t eager to say so. I think she saw it in my face.

She widened her smile. “You could be of great help, and you’ll learn a lot, too.” When I didn’t respond, she turned to Mrs. Camden. “I’ll stop by late tomorrow morning. Get him up and about as soon as you can. The most important thing,” she added, now turning back to me, “is that we don’t make him feel bad about his behavior.”

Mrs. Camden opened the door for her. Dr. Patrick smiled again at me and walked out. I turned away quickly, my arms folded, my head down, as if my thoughts were too heavy now.

“I don’t think your coming along with us would have changed anything,” Mrs. Camden said. “You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”

“I wasn’t blaming myself, Mrs. Camden,” I snapped back at her.

“Call me Dorian,” she said. She walked past me and up the stairs. I watched her until she disappeared, and then I went into the living room and flopped onto the large settee. I was fuming, but mostly at myself. I wanted so to dislike her. I wanted to despise Dr. Patrick. I even wanted to dislike Myra and My Faith. Most of all, I wanted to hate my grandfather now, but suddenly, none of that was really happening, and I was blaming myself for having wanted to dislike everyone in the first place.

Who was more alone in this house at the moment, the poisoned boy or me?

Minutes later, I heard the front door open and close and looked up as my grandfather appeared. He looked upset, flustered. I had the feeling that he was blaming himself for what had happened. He stood in the hallway, pulling off his leather driving gloves and mumbling. Then he saw me sitting in the living room. He walked in.

“What did you find out about the Farmingham house?” I quickly demanded, before he could utter a complaint about my behavior.

“You heard about it?”

“Yes. So? What did you find out? Did you find his real family, or was he kept there by kidnappers?”

He considered whether he should talk to me and then sat in his favorite chair and unbuttoned his black leather jacket. His hair was a little wild, looking like he had been running his fingers through it madly. He pushed some strands back.

“There was no sign of anyone squatting in the old place now or ever. In fact, it’s in remarkably good shape. Someone’s looking after it regularly. Prime property, actually.”

“So he wasn’t there? He didn’t come from there?” I asked, disappointment practically dripping from my lips.

Grandpa shook his head. “No, but that house would probably frighten any child the first time he saw it. I remember it frightened you because we came upon it at twilight, and it looked like . . . you said a home for ghosts.”

“Apparently, it didn’t frighten me like it frightened him. I didn’t start screaming. Dr. Patrick called it a traumatic flashback.”

“Oh? Dr. Patrick is still here?”