Читать книгу Saltus - Tara Gereaux - Страница 8

“So, what exactly are you saying?” Nadine adjusts her denim purse from her right leg to her left and its long, fraying tassels stretch across her thighs like hair. Behind a hefty oak desk, Dr. Goertzen reads through Aaron’s file and avoids eye contact. Beside Nadine, Aaron sits hunched, his back so curved that his dress’s Peter Pan collar is tight against his throat. The dress is a pale yellow with white flowers and short petal sleeves. His taste in clothes is so feminine and pretty. Different from all the black jeans and band T-shirts that fill Nadine’s dresser drawers.

“We’d like Aaron to have a few more sessions with his therapist first, and then we’ll reconvene.”

“A few more sessions? We’ve had six months of sessions already, and another four with a therapist before that who, it turned out, thought Aaron was doing all this just for attention.”

“That was not a therapist we referred you to.”

“No, but it was the only one I could find in Brandon who would take us. It’s two hours to Brandon, and another two to get here to Winnipeg. I can barely afford one trip a month, never mind once a week.”

“If you want, I can see if there’s another therapist in Brandon, an appropriate one, and refer you there. Though I think Ms. Webster is a good fit. What do you think, Aaron?”

He’s unresponsive.

“Another referral means another six to eight weeks’ wait.” Nadine’s aware her voice is rising.

“Aaron,” says the doctor, “can you answer me?”

“I’ll stay with Ms. Webster.” His voice is just a whisper.

Nadine reaches out and touches Aaron’s forearm. “It’s been two years of this now. Appointment after appointment, and all you guys do is refer us to someone else.”

“I’m not referring you to anyone else in this instance. Aaron will continue his sessions with Ms. Webster, and we will reassess in a little while.”

“How long is a little while? And what more do you need to assess?”

“According to Ms. Webster’s notes, there have been a number of events in Aaron’s life recently that she considers to be major stressors. She recommends taking the time to work through these events and stabilize things first. I agree with her. After things are stabilized, then we can look at the best course of action for hormone therapy.”

“Events?”

“I understand that Aaron has been going through some stages of puberty in the last while that have been…” He pauses. “Impactful.” The doctor is unsure or unwilling to explain further.

Nadine knows full well what he means, though. When other kids Aaron’s age started to show signs, Nadine wondered if Aaron was caught in some strange limbo, which was only further proof that he wasn’t like everyone else. But just over a year ago, his voice started to change, and since then it’s felt like an endless series of puberty-related episodes. Hair growth, muscle growth. Each of these things set Aaron off and he’d cover his emotions by blasting grunge behind locked doors. Eventually, sometimes days later, he’d calm down and they’d talk about it. She bought him his own Lady Schick razors, and a bottle of hair removal cream. But they have yet to talk about the underwear she’s been finding in the trash for the past several weeks. She’s told him about wet dreams before, but now that they’re actually happening, he avoids any kind of discussion about them.

“Ms. Webster also indicates that Aaron is no longer attending school but doing his studies by correspondence.”

“That was not our choice. The principal at Beauville is just as small-minded as the parents.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dr. Goertzen clicks his pen a few times. “But isolation can add to what seems to be a very challenging time right now.” He stares at Aaron and Aaron’s chin quivers, but he clenches his jaw and stops it.

“In addition to the continued sessions,” Dr. Goertzen continues, “I’d like to recommend that we start Aaron on a course of antidepressants.”

“Antidepressants?”

“They will help alleviate some of this inner turmoil, and ultimately, we hope, help him cope with these challenges.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“What are your concerns?”

“My concern is that you don’t understand at all.” She twirls a purse tassel in her fingers. “This turmoil you say he’s going through, these stressors, his emotional state—these are all the result of one thing. If you would just fix that one thing, then there wouldn’t be any of these ‘other things.’”

“Miss Gourlay—”

“Stop with the ‘Miss Gourlay’ shit,” she says. “Please.”

“I am trying to help you in the best way I know how.”

“How? The one thing we’ve come to you for is the one thing you won’t give us. And because you won’t, things have gotten worse. And now you’re throwing solutions at us that don’t make sense.”

“Hormone therapy is not a decision to enter into lightly, especially for someone who is only fourteen. And if sex reassignment surgery is still the intended end goal,” he says, closing the file, “well, it’s not something that’s reversible if the client decides they were wrong.”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Nadine says, leaning back in her chair, “the hicks back at home, or you people with all your education and money who think you know better than us.”

“Miss Gour—” He stops himself. “Nadine.”

“None of you know what the fuck you’re doing, do you? Two bloody years of this nonsense. All those framed certificates and degrees that are supposed to impress people,” she says, pointing at the walls, “they don’t mean dick when you can’t do what they say you’re supposed to, which is help people.”

“Getting upset doesn’t help the situation. In fact, it makes things worse for Aaron.”

Nadine falls silent. “You think I’m making things worse for my own child?”

“No, I recognize that you’re trying your best to help Aaron. However, I know things must be challenging for you as well. Money is tight and finding a job in your hometown is difficult. And you’ve mentioned you’re intentionally remaining single because of this situation.”

Nadine hugs her purse to her stomach.

“I think it would be beneficial if you were to discuss some of your challenges with a therapist as well. It doesn’t have to be the same as Aaron’s. In fact, it’d be better if you were to see someone other than Ms. Webster. I can put a referral in the system today.”

Nadine follows Aaron out the doors of the medical building. Rush hour. Endless cars, streams of people. A grey blur. She follows him down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction of their parked car.

“Aaron?”

He walks faster and then tucks into a narrow space between another building and its neighbour. There’s a faint odour of spray paint and urine.

“I’m so sorry,” Nadine says, and puts her hand on his shoulder.

“I keep thinking I’m getting closer but each time it just feels farther and farther away.” His voice is strained, crackly with emotion.

“I know, hon. I don’t know what to say. I thought we were getting the prescription today.” His head collapses onto her shoulder and she stretches up to put her arms around him. He’s had two inches on her for a while, but now his shoulders are broader too.

“He said just six more months.” Nadine squeezes him tighter. “We can do that, right?”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll write a prescription then, though.”

He’s right, but she doesn’t say so. “We can find another doctor,” she says instead.

“He’s the fourth one, Mom.”

“Goertzen is a pompous ass but he has gotten us this far.” The first three doctors they saw diagnosed Aaron with developmental disorders, ADHD, Asperger’s, even undernutrition.

“But how long is it going to take?”

“We’ll get there. I promise.” Footsteps and car horns bounce off the walls around them, almost deafening.

When Aaron’s sobs have died down, she pulls away from him. “Want to hit Shanghai Garden before we head home?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Come on. Deep-fried wontons with sweet and sour sauce?”

“I just want to go home.”

When he was younger, Winnipeg was a safe place for him. But as he grows, each time they come there are more stares, more comments. Nadine imagines punching the concrete walls around them with her fists.

Aaron pulls away and his bangs hang over his eyes. Nadine removes his bobby pin, uses her fingers to comb them smooth to the side, and re-pins them.

The temperature drops that evening and when they arrive home in Beauville, Nadine turns the furnace on for the first time since last winter. Tonight, she doesn’t care about the cost. Aaron changes into his favourite B.U.M. Equipment sweater and fuzzy leggings, while Nadine heats the Shanghai Garden takeout and prepares the TV tables.

When Quantum Leap is half over and there’s a commercial break, Nadine mutes the television. “When is your next appointment with Ms. Webster?”

“Two weeks.”

“I was thinking…” She pauses. “What if you did get a prescription? For antidepressants.”

Aaron turns to her. His mouth open but nothing coming out.

“We just have to get through the next few months so why don’t we bite the bullet and keep the damn doctors happy?”

He still doesn’t respond.

“If you get the prescription then both Dr. Goertzen and Ms. Webster will see that you’re following their advice and might be more inclined to start you on hormones.”

In a surge that startles her, Aaron kicks his TV tray and it topples over. The food that he barely ate falls to the floor. Sticky sweet and sour sauce spatters the rug. He pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his head between them.

“You’re changing your mind,” he chokes out the words.

“No, no, Aaron. Not at all. You don’t even have to take the pills. You could just fill the prescription and pretend that you are.”

“That’d be like admitting that they’re right and they’re not. You said so.”

“I’m just thinking of it like a compromise.”

“Why are you taking their side?”

“I’m not, it’s just to get you your hormones. It’ll only be a few months.”

“What if I get them and then they still don’t give me the hormones? What if they think antidepressants is all I need? They could do that.”

“Then we find someone else.”

He punches the couch cushion. Another and another.

“Stop.” She tries to pull him into her, but he pushes her away with more strength than either of them expected. They sit in stunned silence.

The show returns to the screen. “Can we just forget about it?” Aaron un-mutes the television and picks up the mess he made on the floor.

“How about some hot chocolate?”

Aaron nods. Nadine carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen. When she returns, she puts the hot mugs down on the coffee table.

“I thought this might be nice in our mugs as well.” She dangles a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

“I’m only fourteen,” he says with a smile.

“Fifteen in two months,” she says, not mentioning anything about the bottles of beer that have gone missing here and there. She dribbles some in his cup and pours a good amount into hers. Before she’s halfway through, she tops hers up again. More peppermint than chocolate. When the credits roll, Nadine rises to go to bed and offers a hand to Aaron, but he declines, says he’s going to stay up and watch more television. Tipsy, Nadine kisses the top of his head and moves off to her room, a hand on the wall for balance.

Sometime in the middle of night, Nadine rolls over and opens her eyes, suddenly alert after being sound asleep. It takes her a moment to realize that something woke her. A noise from down the hall. She pulls the covers back from her face and turns her head so both ears are off the pillow, attuned. There’s nothing but silence. She can’t recall exactly what the noise was. A bang, or a thud. Maybe it was just the fridge popping again; it’s on its last legs. But her heart’s beating fast. Even her skin is alert.

Nadine puts a sweatshirt on and stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The flashing blue light on the VCR reaches all the way into the hall, a muted strobe. A shiver runs through her. Turning, at the other end of the hall, a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. Across the hall, Aaron’s door is wide open and the room is empty.

She knocks on the bathroom door and tries the knob at the same time. Locked, and no answer. Without calling out, and running only on instinct, she races outside to the shed, not even bothering with her high-tops. The ground is both icy and damp on her feet. There’s no light in the shed and it’s impossible to see anything. She grabs at the tools she knows are leaning against the east wall and carries them out to the lawn, throwing them down to look at them in the moonlight. Outdoor broom, two shovels, a broken rake, a spade. Many of which they’ve never used in the eight years they’ve been renting the place. Finally, the crowbar.

Nadine wrestles it in the bathroom door jamb and pries it open. The wood around the door frame cracks and splinters. She drops the tool in the hallway and pushes into the room.

He’s in the bathtub, lying crossways, legs dangling over the edge, his back against the far wall. His head’s bent forward onto his chest so it’s not noticeable at first, but the broken shower rod and the shower curtain that’s bunched and crumpled at the corner of the tub add up to one thing. It’s then that the trail of leather belt down the other side of his neck comes into view.

Nadine falls onto her knees at the edge of the tub and reaches over, clawing at the buckle. “Aaron. Fuck.” She loosens it but the prong gets caught in a hole and the loop is still too tight to pull over his head. As she fights with the prong, Aaron stirs.

“Wake up. Come on, honey, wake up!” The belt comes off and she throws it behind her where it clangs against the metal waste bin. “Sweetie, come on.” She cups her hands around his face and holds it up. She’d try to pull him out if she could. Instead, she climbs in beside him. He opens his eyes and immediately starts to cry.

“It’s okay,” she tugs on him so they’re both lying lengthwise, his head on her chest.

He tries to say something but starts coughing and can’t get it out, just alternates between coughing and choking. Nadine strokes his back, shushes him. She’s scrunched and uncomfortable. Soon her muscles cramp and pinch and she welcomes the pain.

There’s a crack in the corner of the window. It’s not a small crack, either. The tiniest of gaps is visible in the pane, and Nadine runs her finger over it, feeling the sharp edge. Hospitals shouldn’t have broken windows.

The door opens and two people in scrubs enter carrying coffees and takeout breakfast in paper bags. They sit in the opposite corner of what was once a cafeteria but is now just a room with tables and chairs. The section where the kitchen would be is shuttered and locked, the food display cases empty.

Aaron begged her not to bring him here. She didn’t want to, either; she wanted to curl up with him in his bed while he slept, but he wouldn’t stop swallowing and holding his throat. She brought him a glass of water, but it was too painful to drink. It was then he allowed her to bundle him up in the quilt from the couch, put him in the back seat of the car and drive forty-eight kilometres to Laurette, the nearest town with twenty-four-hour emergency care.

The doctor told her it was only some bruising and swelling and he would be fine in a couple of days. But they wanted him to stay there until the afternoon when the psychologist would arrive. Aaron is asleep, with the help of a mild sedative. When he wakes, he’ll piece everything together. He’ll know that the hospital will notify Dr. Javid in Beauville, who’s listed as his family doctor, and that Dr. Javid will notify Dr. Goertzen in Winnipeg. Aaron will not be fine at all.