Installment 1 of 2 of the grade-winning short story by Douglas Mason. 

Set in the office of a psychiatric clinic, this story documents the encounter between successful lesbian child psychiatrist Dr. Catherine Murray and her new patient Jeremy

“Can we trust you?”

“Yes.  You can ask any one of my former clients.”  She pushed forward a black three-ring notebook full of names, numbers, and addresses.  It glided smoothly over the thickly-polished oak desk.

The mother picked up the notebook and perused it diligently.  The names all blurred together as she flipped the pages, creating perfectly linear streaks of black against the pages’ fluorescent white.  She stopped at a page for a few seconds.  For the doctor, the wait was excruciating.

“Why is he autistic?” the mother asked earnestly.  Her eyes narrowed.  “Are we bad parents?”

“Autism hasn’t been linked to parenting.”

The father interjected with a deep, resonate voice, “Is it my genes?  I read somewhere it comes from the father.”

“Studies suggest it isn’t hereditary either.”

The mother’s eyes grew more reflective as they filled with tears.  “What can we do?  We sent him to a doctor before… Can we trust you?”

“Like I said, yes.  I have a great track record.”

“Yes, we know.  That’s why we came.  It’s just—“ The mother paused.  “It’s just we’ve had bad experiences before.”

“They say your institute is the best in the nation.”  The father’s feet curled around each other.  No one spoke for a few seconds. 

“If you want to send your child here, just sign the form.” 

The mother already held the form; she had carried it into the office.  She fingered a pen in the purse that was sitting on her lap.  “And you think you can help him?”

“I know we can.”

The father handed the mother a pen, but she refused.  She retrieve a different pen from her purse and removed the cap, holding it tightly with her other hand.  She began to draw tight curves on the piece of paper.  She stopped and held out the form.  “Here.”

The doctor accepted it graciously.  “Thank you.  We will provide the best for your son.”

As the parents left the building, the father held his arm over his wife’s shoulder.  Each took wide steps to avoid the curb as they walked onto the black-top.  Their paths led to a weathered but recently washed minivan with the windows rolled down slightly.  The mother broke away from the father and went to the passenger side.  A boy watched the mother through the car’s darkly-tinted windows.  When she opened her door, bright light penetrated a triangular patch of the passenger seat.  She closed the door swiftly; the father followed suit.

            The mother and the father each held one of their son’s hands.  His gait was awkward, and he made many deliberate steps that confused his stride.  When they approached the threshold the son hesitated.  The mother knowingly let go of her son and walked over to the window blinds to close them.

            “I think that’s unnecessary.”

            “He doesn’t like the sun,” the mother replied.

            As she returned to her son, he had already walked into the office.

            “Well, how are you doing, Jeremy?” the doctor pleaded.

            The mother made an impatient gesture as she led the boy to a chair in front of the doctor’s desk.  He made several strange movements to lift himself onto the seat, but made it finally.

            “How long are you going to have him, again?”

            “Six weeks.”

            “And we can visit him…” the father inquired.

            “Whenever you want.”

            “We’ll miss you.”  The mother kissed her child on the head, mussing his light-brown hair.  Now with the added layers, his hair bore many shades of tan.

            The father patted his son on the shoulder as he and his wife left.  Through the doctor’s window, one could see them at the curb.  There, their paths diverged on the way to the minivan.

            “Would you like something to drink?”  The doctor looked uncomfortable as she held her demeanor.  After an extended silence, she called for her secretary on the phone.  “Could you please come in and bring some-“  The doctor was interrupted by some inarticulate noises.  The boy’s face appeared distorted.

            “Yes?”  But he had already stopped, and his face relaxed.

            “Sorry about that, could you bring in-“ She was interrupted again.  His distorted face stared at her.  The doctor paused a second.  She got up and left the office.

            When she returned moments later, she carried with her three large paper cups each with identical geometric swirls of pastel green and pink.  She held the cup-tray to the boy.  “Would you like apple juice, grape juice, or milk?”  He picked up the apple juice and began sipping.  As he sipped, he stared up at her.  His face bore no discernable expression.

            At this point, the doctor noticed that the boy’s hair was still mussed.  She reached out to flatten it, but before she could touch it the boy’s hand mechanically grabbed her wrist.  Astonished, she held herself still.  He squeezed. 

“Secretary could you come in-“

Jeremy screamed again.  He stopped.

“Secretary could you-“ the boy screamed again, but she didn’t stop.  “Come in here now, please!”

A woman in a dark pant-suit hurried into the office.  For several excruciating minutes, all three stood there in perfect stillness.  Then the boy’s grip loosened, and his cup emitted noises as his sucked out the last drops of apple juice.  He returned his hand to his side, but the doctor held her position.  Then she, too, relaxed.

“Well it’s nice to see that you like you’re apple juice so much.  Would you like some more?”  He returned the cup to the tray.

The doctor and the boy crossed the secretary’s desk as she led them to another room of the building.  The boy’s stride was much smaller than the doctor’s, making a soft rhythmic clash with the doctor’s long, booming steps.  As they approached the double-door at the other end of the room, the quiet rustling of ten or so children grew slightly louder.  When the doctor opened the door, a silence emanated from the room that deafened her.

“I think you’ll have a good time here.”  The boy walked into the room on his own accord.  Five paces in, he turned around. 

The doctor looked down on the boy, waiting for him to do something.  She knew that autistic boys didn’t talk, especially to doctors, but she had harbored a knowledge of their subtle actions.  Tiny inflections of their arms or their faces could mean they needed to go to the restroom, or they wanted to play a game.  She was an expert in her field.  But this time, the boy provided her with no such clues, and her right wrist still ached from the previous incident.  For a second, she was angry at the child, feeling a resentment barely peeping through her eyes before she blinked and washed it away.  She turned around and her secretary closed the door.  Behind the double doors, several staff members attended to the boy. 

Dr. Catherine Murray turned around to face her secretary.  A grin crawled out of her mouth and then exploded into the kind of cheerful smile one would expect on a child with a toy.  Her dark-red lipstick stretched to cover her lips.  Standing there, Dr. Murray realized that her experience with her new patient wasn’t as daunting as she anticipated.  He would take a while to crack, she knew.  But something about him begged, “Read me!  Read me!  I could tell you the world if only I could!”  He wasn’t like other autistic boys.  His silence invited her. 

A blonde woman’s hair flowed over the white pillow with sparse flower print.  It cascaded over the pillows edge into Dr. Murray’s face.  Cathy snuggled the hair.

“I’m glad to hear that it’s going so well for you at the office,” the blonde spoke softly, facing away from her lover.

“You know it’s my job.”  Dr. Murray’s voice was horser than the blonde’s.  It spoke of a past fling with cigarettes.

“It doesn’t matter.  Your heart is big; you love those kids as your own.”  The blonde turned around to face Dr. Murray.  Her slender hand reached to caress the doctor’s shoulder.  Her soft fingers felt the roughness of Cathy’s skin.  “What you do for them is wonderful.”  Sarah loved Dr. Murray.  She kissed her.

The bedcovers ebbed organically to the tender smacking of lips.  Folds receded and re-emerged; undulations created new folds and took them away.  Nothing was permanent, but everything felt it.  Any moment could stop suddenly; there wasn’t any reason it shouldn’t.

When Sarah pleasured Cathy, tears welled in the doctor’s eyes and spread like river deltas over goose-feet.  She interspersed kissing Cathy’s flesh with gentle utterances of “I love you,” and to Cathy these meant the world.  In Dr. Murray’s heart, an intense passion rose like acid and filled her body and her neck.  She wanted to absorb Sarah into her body and her soul.  During the most intense moments, her body and soul were one.

Cathy’s eyes closed shut, forcing out the last few tears.  She belted out a soft groan.  Sarah listened.

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