The Newman Resident (13 page)

Harold looked up at the Brooklyn Bridge for a long moment.

“What happened?” Richard asked.

“Then the next morning, Sandra and her husband got a phone call from one of the school psychologists. She said Tanya was in the hospital suffering from a nervous breakdown.”

“A nervous breakdown?”

“How many little children do you know have nervous breakdowns? She said when the school had told her daughter her mother had come to visit her, the little girl fell apart. That’s why they’d called her husband.”

“Had they told the husband that the girl was having a nervous breakdown?”

“No. He hadn’t heard anything about it until the phone call the next day.”

“Didn’t that strike him as suspicious?”

“It gets worse,” Harold said. “The superintendent convinced the social worker at the hospital the parents shouldn’t be allowed to visit the girl until she’s stabilized—whatever that means.”

“How can a hospital tell parents they can’t see their own child?” Richard asked.

Harold shrugged. “That school’s awfully powerful, Richard.”

Richard moved his hand along the railing, looking across the river.

“How is Sandra doing?”

“She’s holding it together, barely,” Harold said. “Her husband is completely supportive of the school, though. He thinks the psychologist is right.”

Richard leaned against the railing with his back to the bridge. “So here’s Sandra, sitting at home waiting to hear how her daughter’s doing, blaming herself for her little girl’s supposed breakdown—”

“And her husband blaming her,” Harold said.

“And her husband blaming her, and she can’t even see the little girl and find out first-hand what’s really going on.”

“Still think we’re paranoid?” Harold asked.

“What if it’s true, though? What if she really had a breakdown?”

“Richard, come on.”

“I know. I’m not taking their side, I’m just confused. I don’t want to be looking for bad guys under every rock.”

“So which is worse, Richard, that the school is lying to the parents to keep them away from their daughter, or that the little girl is so estranged from her own mother that the thought of being with her sends the girl into hysterics?”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

V
ideo #47
: Christopher, about three years old, sits in a circle with his classmates, singing a song about animals.

Video #62
: Christopher’s class is on a field trip to Central Park. They stop every few feet while one of the teachers points out characteristics of a plant. The children appear fascinated.

Video #133
: The children are presenting their science fair projects. No parents are in the audience, because no parents were invited to watch.

Richard spent the rest of the night studying Newman videos on his computer, hoping to find some answers. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. In a way, every videotaped moment looked perfect. And, for some reason, that made him worry.

But then there was Tanya. He’d never met that little girl, but he couldn’t help but be obsessed with her circumstances. How could the idea of seeing her mother make her fall apart? No, Richard was right to be so concerned. Maybe he couldn’t exactly put his finger on the problem, but there was plenty to be concerned about.

As he watched the sun rise, the answer he’d been looking for finally came to him: his parents. He’d take his family to visit his
parents. Today. They had to get away from everything and be together. Get to know each other.

“You can always unlock the door,” Carol said as she sat next to him on the couch. “You know where the key is.”

“If you lock the door, it’s for a reason. If you want me in our bedroom, it’s up to you to unlock it.”

Carol rubbed her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t gotten much sleep, either.

“Carol, when you get a chance, check something on the back of Christopher’s head.” He bowed his head down and pointed to where she should look.

“What is it?”

“I’m not a doctor. Just look at it, would you?” As soon as he spoke, he felt bad for sounding so irritated.

Carol sighed. “How did we get here, Richard?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I know how we can get out.”

“He belongs back at his home,” Carol said, learning forward. “It’s what’s best for him and for us.”

Richard shook his head. “He needs more time with us. With family. We need to take him to visit my folks.”

Carol laughed a little, then paused. “You’re serious?”

“Why not?”

“Think about it,” Carol said. “He’s going back home at the end of the summer—if not sooner. It’s going to be hard enough for him to make the transition back to Newman without having to add your parents and their home. The last thing we want is for him to get attached to your parents.”

“Shouldn’t he spend some time with his grandparents?”

“Grandparents!” Christopher came running into the living room. “We’re going to go see my grandparents? Really?”

“How can we not go now?” Richard asked Carol. “This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

“This is a big mistake, Richard. It’s taking him in the opposite direction.”

“We all need this.”

Carol shook her head. “Unlike some people around here, I can’t just play whenever I want.” She stood up. “Looks like another big decision you’ve made before we really get a chance to talk about it.”

“Hey, Christopher, come over here for a minute,” Richard said. He motioned for Carol to come closer. “I just want to see something.” He pulled back the hair on the back of his son’s head and showed his wife.

“Just a scratch,” Carol said.

“Way too straight for a scratch,” Richard said. “Christopher, do you remember getting hurt or cut or something back here?”

“No. I feel great.”

“Richard,” Carol said, “sometimes a scratch is just a scratch.”

“And sometimes, it isn’t,” Richard said.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

R
ichard and Christopher boarded the train. They could have chosen the Lightning Bolt and gotten to Vermont in half the time, but they agreed to take the older train and spend more time. On the Bolt, the scenery moved by so quickly it was difficult to know what was out there.

The train slowed as it passed through some small Connecticut town, Richard wasn’t sure which. One of those quiet, calendar-perfect New England villages. Richard loved small towns like this—clean, trimmed, proper—and often dreamed of moving to one. “What do people do here for a living?” he’d ask Carol. “Commute” was her standard reply.

Some people who lived there also worked there, he knew: they stocked shelves in stores or made sure people got safely on the trains or accepted deposit slips at banks. And standing at a bank window, greeting neighbors and helping them grow their savings accounts, seemed a universe above practicing law. Of course, he didn’t need Carol to tell him he was being romantic, idealistic. Being a teller in a village bank wouldn’t be the most exciting of lives, but he couldn’t help but wonder how important excitement was supposed to be in life.

He pulled his notebook out of the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. He had wanted to buy a new fountain pen, a rather expensive one, to be honest, to kind of commemorate his starting out as a real, full-time writer, but Carol had pleasantly suggested he buy one with royalties. She had a point. He spent a lot of energy trying to write, but all he had to show for it were dozens of rejection slips for his short stories and a stalled novel manuscript. She’d sometimes call writing his “hobby.” He’d once told her, “Lawyering is how I earn my living; writing is how I earn my keep.” He thought he was being profound, but she laughed and said, “Then you’d better work harder if you want me to keep you.” It was early enough in their marriage that he’d laughed too.

“How’s your writing coming?” Christopher asked, pulling out his notebook and pen.

“What?”

“How is your writing coming?”

“Okay, I guess. How about yours?”

“Fine.”

“And what did you say you’re writing?”

Christopher started putting the notebook away.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Richard said. “Just curious.”

Christopher opened the notebook and started writing. Before they caught the train that morning, Richard had made sure they’d stopped to buy a notebook for Christopher. He insisted on having one exactly like his father’s. Richard bent over his own notebook, writing, and noticed his son checking once or twice to make certain Richard wasn’t trying to read what he was writing.

This was a strange feeling for Richard, father and son, sitting next to each other, writing in the same kind of notebook. He felt
almost as though there were two of him, that sitting next to him was a smaller version of himself.

“Will I ever know what you’re writing?” Richard asked.

“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “Maybe if you’re good.” He looked up and smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I
t was past nine when the bright red Jeep Cherokee, only a year old, drove up the gravel driveway of his parents’ good-sized, two-story home. The front light was on, waiting. Richard climbed out of the passenger’s side, and his father, in his corduroy shirt and blue jeans, climbed out from behind the wheel. His father’s thick white hair, combined with his deep blue eyes and knowing face, made him look almost prophetic.

“Has it changed?” his father asked, smiling.

“Not a bit.”

“Is that good?”

“Perfect.”

The house was part of the land, like it hadn’t been built but had grown there over years like the giant pines and cedars surrounding it. The outside was roughly hewn wood, never painted, and a wide, wooden deck traveled around the entire house. Richard scaled the rock chimney with his eyes like he’d done with his feet so many times as a boy.

“I’ve missed this place,” he said. “A year’s too long to wait.”

“It’s missed you, too.”

Grandpa opened the back door of the Jeep. “Come on out, little buddy,” he said. “We can’t bring the house to you.”

Christopher climbed out, staring at the house.

“Isn’t it great out here, Christopher?” Richard asked.

Christopher looked up at the trees.

“What do you think?” Grandpa asked.

“It’s the most beautiful place in the world,” Christopher said.

“Oh, isn’t this wonderful!” Grandma hurried down the steps from the house. She was in her mid-sixties, but that didn’t stop her from walking with a spry jump in her step. Her hair was long and grey, with a good share of white, pulled back in a ponytail. In her red flannel shirt, jeans, and leather hiking boots, she looked like she’d fallen off a page from that month’s L.L. Bean catalog. She was clearly excited to see her son and grandson, but the person she ran up to was Grandpa, giving him a kiss on his lips and squeezing his arms. They looked at each other, talked to each other, held onto each other not like newlyweds, but like a husband and a wife who had shared forty years of life and were grateful for it.

“Now, where is that grandson of mine?” she asked. Christopher had taken a few steps back as she’d come down the steps, but she ran over and knelt in front of him.

“Hello, Mrs. Carson,” Christopher said, holding out his hand to shake hers.

“What?” Grandma’s voice sounded shocked, but she was smiling.

“Mayday! Mayday!” Grandpa said. “I told you, little buddy, I told you. It’s Grandpa and Grandma. If you don’t want to sleep in the shed, you’d better learn that quick.”

“Hello, Grandma.”

“Put that hand away,” she said as she pulled him up to her and hugged him tight. “I’m not letting go until you hug back,” she said. He brought his arms up around her and hugged her.

“I’m happy to be here,” he said quietly.

“Not as happy as I am, honey.”

“Now,” Grandma said as she stood up, “where’s that man you call your father?”

“Mom,” Richard said as he hugged her.

“It’s been too, too long,” she whispered in his ear as they hugged.

“I know. It’s good to be home.”

They held each other’s arms. “I’m sorry Carol couldn’t make it,” Grandma said, “but I’m glad that didn’t stop you two men from coming.”

“She’s very busy.”

“Come on, Grandma,” Grandpa said as he pulled the bag out of the back of the Jeep, “it’s almost tomorrow. I’ll put the Jeep in the garage later.”

He led the way up to the house. Richard tried to take the bag from his father, but he wouldn’t hear of it, barreling through the front door, knocking the bag against the walls. Grandma and Christopher followed. She reached down and took his hand, holding it as they walked up the steps.

“Is it really almost tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, in less than three hours it will be tomorrow.”

“Then where will today go?”

“Not to worry, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Grandma said. “It just becomes one of the yesterdays. Those aren’t cheap, either. It’s taken me years to have as many yesterdays as I have.”

They stepped into the entry and she closed the door behind them. Grandma and Christopher, still holding hands, climbed the stairs to the second floor and found the two men standing in the hall, looking at the pictures that lined the walls.

“Remember the other one you took of us that same day?” Richard said to his father, pointing to a picture of Richard and his
parents with Christopher in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. “We’ve got it up in Christopher’s room.”

Christopher came up to take a look.

“And I haven’t seen this for years,” Richard said as he took a different picture off the wall and looked more closely. “I’m not sure I even remember why we took this.” It was a photo of two eleven-year-old boys—Richard and his best friend, Andy—leaning against each other, hair messed up, dirt on their face, backpacks beside them. They were each outdoing the other’s grin. “What were we doing?”

“You’ve been breathing that Manhattan acid air too long, son. Don’t you remember the way you talked and talked about how you wanted to camp out, alone, once school let out? Just the two of you, for a whole week. Your mother and I kept saying you were too young. Finally you wore us down, and we said you could do it.”