May We Be Forgiven

Nate says. “Read the book.”
    “All right, then,” I say.
    “I better go,” Nate says.
    And I make a mental note to call again soon, like tomorrow at five-forty-five.

    A shley can’t talk. That’s what her roommate says. She’s in the school infirmary
    with strep throat. I call the nurse.
    “Why didn’t the school call me?” I demand to know.
    “Who are you?” the nurse asks.
    “I’m the uncle,” I say, incredulous.
    “We don’t call uncles, we call parents.”
    “Well,” I say, preparing to deliver an earful, “clearly you’re a page or two behind. …”
    And with that the cat hocks up a hairball, and I simply say to the nurse that I will call again tomorrow expecting to speak with Ashley, and that for now she should give Ashley my love.
    “Are you on the call list?” she asks, but I am already hanging up.

    I almost vomit cleaning up the hairball. Both the dog and cat look at me rather pathetically as I’m down on my knees scrubbing the carpet with seltzer and a sponge.
    When I’m finished, I go into Jane’s Amazon account and send Ashley some books. It’s super-easy: Jane made a list of gifts in the computer. I pick a couple and click “send to Ashley.” I spring for the extra bucks for gift wrap. “Feel Better Soon,” I type. “Lots of Love, Tessie (Your Dog) And Your Cat, aka The Hairballer.”

    A little while later, the sharp clink of the mail slot catches Tessie off guard. She barks frantically as another note slides onto the floor.
    “Tomorrow will come.”
    “Yes,” I say to Tessie, “tomorrow will come, and I should be prepared.” My cell phone rings, startling me. “Hello?”
    “Is this the brother of George Silver?”
    “Who’s this?” I ask.
    “Dr. Rosenblatt calling from The Lodge,” he says, pronouncing “The
    Lodge” like it’s supposed to mean something special, like the words themselves are encoded.
    “You called my cell phone.”
    “Is this a good time to talk?”
    “I can hardly hear you. Call me on the landline, I’m at George’s house.” I hurry into George’s office and pick up the phone on his desk as it starts to ring.
    I’m standing on the “wrong” side of the desk, looking at George’s chair, at the bookcase behind his desk, at the price tags still on the backs of his picture frames.
    “Should I sit down?” I ask.
    “Whatever is comfortable for you.”
    I circle around the desk and settle into George’s chair, facing photos of George’s kids; Jane; George, Jane, and the kids; Tessie; Tessie, George, Jane, and the kids.
    “As far as you know, has your brother ever suffered any head injuries, concussions, comas, any previous accidents other than the most recent one, which I have some notes on?”
    “Not that I know of,” I say.
    “Any illnesses such as meningitis, rheumatic fever, malaria, untreated syphilis?”
    “Not to my knowledge.”
    “Drug use?”
    “What does he say about that?”
    There’s an awkward pause. The doctor begins again: “In your experience, does your brother use drugs?”
    “He self-medicates, medicine for this, medicine for that.”
    “Is your brother a sex addict?”
    “The thing is this,” I say. “As much as you think you know somebody, there are some things that one never knows.”
    “How about his early life? He doesn’t seem to remember much about his childhood. Were you punished, spanked, or beaten?”
    Unexpectedly, I laugh.
    “What’s so funny?” the doctor asks.
    “I have no idea,” I say, still laughing.
    “There are rules,” the doctor says. “Boundaries that exist for a reason.”
    I stop laughing. “We weren’t spanked, screwed, or otherwise taken advantage of. If anyone was beaten, it was George who was beating them—he’s a bully.”
    “So you experienced your brother as a bully?”
    “Not only me, others as well, many others. I could give you names and numbers—the effects are still being felt.”
    The psychiatrist grunts.
    “How would you describe your brother?”
    “Large,” I say. “Inescapable,” I say. “Actually, he is small, medium, and large, it fluctuates. He is a person whose size fluctuates, whose mood fluctuates. He can be very intolerant of others.”
    “Your experience of him is one of intolerance?”
    I pause for a moment. “What about you?” I ask. “How do you describe yourself and what you do?”
    He doesn’t take the bait—maybe he doesn’t even know it was bait.
    “Our approach is to treat the whole person, the family,