Magic Binds
Page 18
I stared at the door. Come on, magic scroll.
Come on.
Nope.
I needed to get out of the office and go home. I would feel better at home.
I would get home, work out, cook a big dinner because I felt like it, and figure out what I had to do about Saiman and my father.
• • •
WHEN I PULLED up to the house, Christopher was sitting in the driveway on the grass. That’s right. The meditation.
Living under Barabas’s care agreed with Christopher. Left to his own devices in the Keep, he often forgot about food and after a couple of weeks of self-imposed starvation, he’d look like a stiff wind would make him keel over, until Barabas or I would notice and make him eat. Now that he was staying in the house next to us, Barabas had assumed responsibility for Christopher’s health, and the weremongoose could be extremely single-minded.
I did my best to help. Between the two of us, Christopher ate on time, bathed every day, went with Barabas to the Guild, where he got regular exercise, and wore clean clothes. He was still thin, but his skin had a good color to it, and despite his pale, nearly colorless hair, he no longer looked like a ghost.
The only thing we couldn’t heal was his mind. All the outside pressures were gone now. Christopher was safe, sheltered, fed, and among friends, but his mental health hadn’t improved. We had taken him to Emory University School of Medicine, to Duke University, and even to Johns Hopkins, which was a trip I was doing my best to forget. We almost died, and while we were away, a local family we knew was murdered. Julie and Derek had handled it, but thinking about it still turned my stomach.
The doctors were in consensus: physically Christopher was fine. Psychologically he didn’t match any specific disorder. Christopher always claimed that my father had shattered his mind. The people at Emory and Duke had agreed that someone had magically destroyed his psyche. The psychiatrist at Johns Hopkins was an exceptional empath, with the power to feel what others felt. After he spoke to Christopher, he said the trauma to his psyche was self-inflicted. Something bad had happened to Christopher. He refused to confront it, he didn’t want to remember it, and so he deliberately remained as he was. Christopher offered no feedback. He sat quietly and smiled sadly through it all. He held the key to his own healing and there wasn’t much any of us could do to get him to turn it.
I got out of the car. Christopher looked at me from his spot in the grass among the yellow dandelions and wild daisies. Since most of our annoying neighbors had moved away and taken the budding homeowners’ association with them, Curran mowed the grass when he felt like it, and he didn’t feel like killing the dandelions.
“Meditation?” Christopher asked.
“Not today,” I told him. The last place I wanted to be was in my own head. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
To ask about the book or not to ask? If I asked him and he freaked out, I’d kick myself. Better talk to Barabas first.
“Where is Maggie?”
Christopher pulled out a canvas bag from behind him. A black furry head poked out and looked at me with the saddest brown eyes ever to belong to a dog. Maggie was an eight-pound creature that was probably part long-haired Chihuahua and part something very different. She was small and odd, and her black fur stuck out in wispy strands in strange places. She walked gingerly, always slightly awkward, and if she thought she was in trouble, she’d lift one of her paws and limp, pretending to be injured. Her greatest ambition in life was to lie on someone’s lap, preferably under a blanket.
After Johns Hopkins, Barabas told me he wasn’t giving up. I told him I wasn’t either. I came up with daily meditation. Barabas came up with Maggie.
The little dog looked at me, turned, and crawled back into the bag. Right.
“Have you seen Curran or Julie?”
Christopher shook his head.
A Pack Jeep turned onto our street and slid to a stop in front of our house. The window rolled down and Andrea stuck her blond head out. “I’m free! Free!”
Oh boy. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Keep?” I could’ve sworn Raphael told me during the Conclave that Doolittle had confined her to the medward.
“Screw that. We’re going to lunch.”
“It’s almost dinnertime.”
“Then we’re going to dinch. Or lunner. Or whatever the hell early-dinner-late-lunch stupid combo we can come up with.”
“Now isn’t . . .”
Andrea’s eyes blazed. “Kate, I’m nine months pregnant and I’m hungry. Get in the damn car.”
I got in the Jeep, and Andrea peeled out like a bat out of hell.
“We’re going to Parthenon. We’re going to have gyros.” Her stomach was out so far, she must’ve moved the seat back, because she had to stretch to reach the wheel.
“The look of grim determination on your face is scary,” I told her.
“I’ve been cooped up in the Keep’s infirmary for the past two weeks,” Andrea said.
“Why?”
She waved her hand. “Because Doolittle is a worrywart.”
Crap. “Andrea, does Doolittle know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’ve let him know. Anyway, we are going to lunch!”
“Andr—”
“To lunch!” She flashed her teeth at me.
I shut up and let her drive.
Twenty minutes later she parked in front of Parthenon, and then I watched her try to get out of the Jeep. She scooted back into her seat as far as she could, then slowly edged out one leg, then half of her butt, then half her stomach. Andrea was short and the Jeep sat really high. Her foot was dangling down. I would offer to help, but she was armed at all times and could shoot the dots out of dominoes, and I didn’t want to get murdered.
“Are you going to help me or not?” she growled.
I grabbed her arm and steadied her as she stepped out. “I thought you might shoot me.”
“Ha-ha. Hilarious.” She opened her eyes really wide. A ruby sheen rolled over her irises. “I smell food.”
Uh-oh. “We are going to get food. Right now.”
We burst through the doors of Parthenon like Greeks through the open gates of Troy. Five minutes later we were seated at our usual table in the garden section despite two flights of stairs, which Andrea insisted on climbing, and the heat of late afternoon. The owners had finally gotten rid of the chairs that were bolted to the floor, and I sat so I could watch the door and the two women on the right, who were the only other diners willing to brave the garden section in the heat. We ordered a heaping platter of meat, a pint of tzatziki sauce, and a bucket of fried okra, because Andrea really wanted it, and waited for our food.
Come on.
Nope.
I needed to get out of the office and go home. I would feel better at home.
I would get home, work out, cook a big dinner because I felt like it, and figure out what I had to do about Saiman and my father.
• • •
WHEN I PULLED up to the house, Christopher was sitting in the driveway on the grass. That’s right. The meditation.
Living under Barabas’s care agreed with Christopher. Left to his own devices in the Keep, he often forgot about food and after a couple of weeks of self-imposed starvation, he’d look like a stiff wind would make him keel over, until Barabas or I would notice and make him eat. Now that he was staying in the house next to us, Barabas had assumed responsibility for Christopher’s health, and the weremongoose could be extremely single-minded.
I did my best to help. Between the two of us, Christopher ate on time, bathed every day, went with Barabas to the Guild, where he got regular exercise, and wore clean clothes. He was still thin, but his skin had a good color to it, and despite his pale, nearly colorless hair, he no longer looked like a ghost.
The only thing we couldn’t heal was his mind. All the outside pressures were gone now. Christopher was safe, sheltered, fed, and among friends, but his mental health hadn’t improved. We had taken him to Emory University School of Medicine, to Duke University, and even to Johns Hopkins, which was a trip I was doing my best to forget. We almost died, and while we were away, a local family we knew was murdered. Julie and Derek had handled it, but thinking about it still turned my stomach.
The doctors were in consensus: physically Christopher was fine. Psychologically he didn’t match any specific disorder. Christopher always claimed that my father had shattered his mind. The people at Emory and Duke had agreed that someone had magically destroyed his psyche. The psychiatrist at Johns Hopkins was an exceptional empath, with the power to feel what others felt. After he spoke to Christopher, he said the trauma to his psyche was self-inflicted. Something bad had happened to Christopher. He refused to confront it, he didn’t want to remember it, and so he deliberately remained as he was. Christopher offered no feedback. He sat quietly and smiled sadly through it all. He held the key to his own healing and there wasn’t much any of us could do to get him to turn it.
I got out of the car. Christopher looked at me from his spot in the grass among the yellow dandelions and wild daisies. Since most of our annoying neighbors had moved away and taken the budding homeowners’ association with them, Curran mowed the grass when he felt like it, and he didn’t feel like killing the dandelions.
“Meditation?” Christopher asked.
“Not today,” I told him. The last place I wanted to be was in my own head. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
To ask about the book or not to ask? If I asked him and he freaked out, I’d kick myself. Better talk to Barabas first.
“Where is Maggie?”
Christopher pulled out a canvas bag from behind him. A black furry head poked out and looked at me with the saddest brown eyes ever to belong to a dog. Maggie was an eight-pound creature that was probably part long-haired Chihuahua and part something very different. She was small and odd, and her black fur stuck out in wispy strands in strange places. She walked gingerly, always slightly awkward, and if she thought she was in trouble, she’d lift one of her paws and limp, pretending to be injured. Her greatest ambition in life was to lie on someone’s lap, preferably under a blanket.
After Johns Hopkins, Barabas told me he wasn’t giving up. I told him I wasn’t either. I came up with daily meditation. Barabas came up with Maggie.
The little dog looked at me, turned, and crawled back into the bag. Right.
“Have you seen Curran or Julie?”
Christopher shook his head.
A Pack Jeep turned onto our street and slid to a stop in front of our house. The window rolled down and Andrea stuck her blond head out. “I’m free! Free!”
Oh boy. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Keep?” I could’ve sworn Raphael told me during the Conclave that Doolittle had confined her to the medward.
“Screw that. We’re going to lunch.”
“It’s almost dinnertime.”
“Then we’re going to dinch. Or lunner. Or whatever the hell early-dinner-late-lunch stupid combo we can come up with.”
“Now isn’t . . .”
Andrea’s eyes blazed. “Kate, I’m nine months pregnant and I’m hungry. Get in the damn car.”
I got in the Jeep, and Andrea peeled out like a bat out of hell.
“We’re going to Parthenon. We’re going to have gyros.” Her stomach was out so far, she must’ve moved the seat back, because she had to stretch to reach the wheel.
“The look of grim determination on your face is scary,” I told her.
“I’ve been cooped up in the Keep’s infirmary for the past two weeks,” Andrea said.
“Why?”
She waved her hand. “Because Doolittle is a worrywart.”
Crap. “Andrea, does Doolittle know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’ve let him know. Anyway, we are going to lunch!”
“Andr—”
“To lunch!” She flashed her teeth at me.
I shut up and let her drive.
Twenty minutes later she parked in front of Parthenon, and then I watched her try to get out of the Jeep. She scooted back into her seat as far as she could, then slowly edged out one leg, then half of her butt, then half her stomach. Andrea was short and the Jeep sat really high. Her foot was dangling down. I would offer to help, but she was armed at all times and could shoot the dots out of dominoes, and I didn’t want to get murdered.
“Are you going to help me or not?” she growled.
I grabbed her arm and steadied her as she stepped out. “I thought you might shoot me.”
“Ha-ha. Hilarious.” She opened her eyes really wide. A ruby sheen rolled over her irises. “I smell food.”
Uh-oh. “We are going to get food. Right now.”
We burst through the doors of Parthenon like Greeks through the open gates of Troy. Five minutes later we were seated at our usual table in the garden section despite two flights of stairs, which Andrea insisted on climbing, and the heat of late afternoon. The owners had finally gotten rid of the chairs that were bolted to the floor, and I sat so I could watch the door and the two women on the right, who were the only other diners willing to brave the garden section in the heat. We ordered a heaping platter of meat, a pint of tzatziki sauce, and a bucket of fried okra, because Andrea really wanted it, and waited for our food.
