When Love Comes Knocking, page 9
A soft hoot drew my attention up to the rafters. I could just make out Owen sitting in his corner. Nice to know he was always on guard. Nodding at him as he blinked his big eyes at me, I turned and trudged down the gravel to the house.
As I put my hand on the doorknob, it turned, and the door opened. Mom was standing there, backlit by the small light over the stove. She took my hand, pulled me into the house, and enveloped me in a hug. She didn't say anything, just held me. We hugged like we were the only thing keeping each other afloat in a sea of tears.
After some minutes or hours passed, she pulled back and gave me that intense mom stare, looking into my eyes as if she was reading the pages in my mind. One hand came up to cup my cheek.
“Shower, bed,” she said softly. “A little girl will be up bright and early to have breakfast with her Uncle Jake. She’s missed you terribly.”
I nodded, and for the first time in two days, I felt the first spark of happiness. My niece was what I needed. I left Mom standing there and stumbled back to my room. After a quick shower, I fell into the bed, closing my eyes and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I woke up to an insistent pushing on my nose. I looked into a cute, tousled-haired face just as a pudgy hand pressed on my nose again. When the little nose presser saw my eyes were open, she started beaming.
“Time get up, Unka J.”
“Who dares to wake me from my slumber?” I growled in the deepest, gravely voice I could conjure.
Sarah’s eyes got wide as she started to back up. “Noooooo” she started to say, but my hands shot out and scooped her up into the air. She began shrieking.
“No, Mr. Giant. No. Donna eat meeee.”
I pulled her down to the bed next to me and started nomming on her shoulders, her head, arms, and hands. All the while, she begged me to stop. Finally, just before I thought she would pee on herself, and me, I stopped and gave her a big sloppy kiss on the forehead.
“Morning, Bug.”
She scrambled out from under my arms and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me tight. For a few moments, breathing became impossible as she cut off my airway. Thankfully, she backed off and grabbed my face in her little hands.
“Pancakes!!” she exclaimed and started bouncing on my stomach.
Oof.
“Pancakes!” I exclaimed back, flinging the covers aside to scoop her up.
“Fly!” she shouted.
She was already trying to hold her arms out. I held her up, and she threw her arms out like the wings on an airplane. I made engine noises as we motored into the kitchen.
Mom was already working in the kitchen when I landed my Sarah-plane into her spot at the table. The three of us enjoyed a syrup-fueled family breakfast, backed up by bacon, eggs, and toast. While I put the dishes into the sink, Mom took a dishcloth to Sarah, wiping away the layers of syrup and crumbs that were the usual by-product of Sarah’s normal breakfast.
“Mom,” I started, but she stopped me.
“Not now. Go take care of things and we will see you at lunch.” I nodded, kissed Sarah on the head, avoiding her sticky hands, and went out to catch up with Jason.
I wasn't sure how I got anything done that morning. My thoughts were everywhere but on the chores at hand. Luckily, Jason was there to keep me in line as we looked at the barn board and determined what needed to be done for the week.
One of the round pens had several boards that needed reattaching. While Jason supervised the horse turn out for the day, I started on that. It was mindless work, which was good because I couldn't tell you when I started or when I finished. That seemed to set the theme for the morning.
I came in at lunchtime and Mom had made BLTs. Sarah even had her own small version of it. The only difference was hers wasn’t assembled. Mom spread out all the ingredients on a plate so that Sarah could pick them up with her hands and eat.
We’d just about finished when there was a knock on the back door. It opened and Hannah Stamps, who lived down the road a few miles, came in. She had an old, beat-up UC beanie over her green hair and a backpack on her shoulder. Knowing her, there would be—among other things—a pair of drumsticks and a practice pad in that pack. Hannah was a budding rock drummer and was attending UC on a music scholarship. She’d also been a riding student of Mom’s at one time, and still earned some extra money working around the barn for other owners.
Sarah was finishing some juice when Hannah came in. She popped her cup down and clapped her hands.
“HANNAH! Can you play wid me?” my niece asked excitedly.
We used Hannah as a babysitter when needed. I was surprised to see her since I wasn't aware of anything going on today that required us needing a babysitter.
“Hiya Hannah,” I said.
“Morning, Jake, Mrs. Attwood," she said, coming over to sit down next to Sarah.
She reached over and snitched a small piece of bacon from Sarah’s plate.
“Would you like a sandwich, Hannah?” Mom asked.
When Hannah nodded, Mom began assembling a plate for her. I turned to Hannah, curious.
“Shouldn’t you be in school today?”
She shook her head as Mom sat the plate in front of her, along with a glass of water.
“Nope. Your Mom called me Friday night and asked me to come over to stay with Sarah for a while. I skipped math class.” She smiled and shrugged. “I’ll make it up.”
At Hannah’s revelation that my mom had called her, I looked up at Mom with a perplexed expression on my face. She nodded her head toward the front room. I got up, leaving Hannah showing Sarah how to hold a small drumstick she’d pulled out of her pack. Sarah began beating happily on the table as Hannah quickly pulled a practice pad out of her bag to save the table from too much damage.
Mom pulled me out of range of the doorway and raised one hand, cutting off what I was about to ask.
“We have an appointment in Denver.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “With whom?”
“Dr. Barlow.”
I grabbed her hand, panic gripping me. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?”
She patted my arm, smiling. “No, it’s not like that. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
“Who is Dr. Barlow, and why do we have to see him?”
Mom smiled and turned away, heading toward her room.
“Shower and change clothes. We leave in about an hour.”
I’d had a shitty weekend. I was still mixed up, still raw from the emotions I’d experienced after reading those letters and seeing the doctored photos. I wasn’t in the mood for games. And she was being too evasive for my liking at this point.
Feeling a sudden rush of frustration, I snapped at her, “Go by yourself. I’m not up for any mystery trips.”
Mom stopped, turned, and locked onto me, her eyes blazing. In an instant, I felt like I was ten again.
“Jake Ryan Attwood, do I need to repeat myself?” she calmly asked.
She was pissed. No kid alive, no matter how old they are, ever disobeys when their full name is used.
“No ma’am,” I replied meekly, pushing my frustration out of my voice.
Nodding, she turned and headed to her room.
Mom pulled us into the basement parking garage of a high-rise in Aurora. She tried to make small talk on the way, but I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t like surprises, nor being manipulated.
We took the elevator up to the eighth floor. After exiting, she consulted a small directory on the wall and turned us left. She walked us past two doors before she entered one that had Suite 812 on a wall placard next to the door.
We entered a small but nice waiting room that was painted in a light blue pastel with a light green accent wall. Plush armchairs surrounded a coffee table. Coffee and water were set out on a small credenza along one wall. Several small potted plants dotted the corners. The whole room seemed to radiate calm and comfort.
Mom walked over to the receptionist and spoke quietly to her. The receptionist nodded, picked up her phone, spoke into the handset, nodded, and hung up.
“Dr. Barlow will see you now. Down the hall and to the left,” she replied, pointing toward the back of the office.
Mom thanked her and led us to the door. She knocked and pushed the door open when a muffled voice sounded from inside.
When we entered the office, the occupant got up from the desk and came around to meet us, smiling warmly. He looked to be about sixty, bald, with almost jet-black skin that made the whites of his eyes stand out. He was thin as a rail; a good wind would blow him over.
He came to Mom and shook her hand, the kind smile on his face making his eyes sparkle.
“Mrs. Attwood, how very charming to meet you,” he said.
He had a very deep bass voice, totally out of character for someone as thin as him. His voice reminded me of James Earl Jones. I could see this doctor sitting in a chair, reading ‘Twas the Night before Christmas to a huge gaggle of small children. Something in this man’s manner made me trust him, even though I only had just met him.
He turned to me and held out his hand.
“And you must be Jake. I’ve heard quite a bit about you, young man. Quite a bit.”
I shook his hand, confused, confident in the knowledge that I had never met or talked to this man before.
“Jake doesn’t know why we’re here,” Mom said quietly. A slight wrinkle appeared on the doctor's forehead as he looked quickly from Mom to me.
“Well, then, I suppose we should clear up any confusion. Please, let’s sit,” he said, waving us to the chairs in front of his desk. He sat back down in his chair behind his desk and, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk, turned his attention to me.
“Let me introduce myself. May I call you Jake?” he paused, one eyebrow raised.
I nodded. He smiled.
“Excellent. My name is Dr. Peter Barlow and I’m a licensed psychologist. When your mother called me on Friday, I had been expecting her call. I cleared a few appointments so that we could meet today.”
Affronted, I turned toward Mom. “I don’t need a psychologist,” I said.
“Jake,” Mom said quietly.
Dr. Barlow waved his hand at Mom.
“No Mary, that is quite all right. Please Jake, feel free to speak your mind. As to what your needs are, well, that is not the subject of our talk today.”
“Then why am I here?” I asked. I knew my tone was getting slightly abrasive.
Mom seemed to hear the frustration in my voice. “May I?” Mom asked.
Dr. Barlow nodded and leaned back in his chair, the rich leather creaking when he moved. Mom turned to face me.
“Jake, in the envelope, there was a letter addressed to me from Julia. She gave me Dr. Barlow’s name and number and asked me to contact him. Julia had already talked to him, so he and I discussed that and then I set up the appointment for today.”
I looked from Mom to the doctor and back to Mom. I was starting to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Jake,” said Dr. Barlow. “My understanding is that you’ve had a very upsetting weekend. Perfectly understandable, given the contents of that envelope. My job today is to try to fill in some of the holes and answer your questions.”
I was starting to steam a bit. I didn’t like to be manipulated, and I felt like this was a setup. “Would someone care to tell me what the hell is going on? How do you know about that envelope?”
“I’m Julia’s doctor. I’ve been treating her since her suicide attempt. Julia is who we’re going to talk about today.”
I felt the room closing in around me. I wasn’t ready for this. Dr. Barlow must have sensed my distress.
“Jake, let me explain, if I may?” he asked.
I could only nod, not trusting myself to answer clearly. Hell, at this exact moment, I didn’t trust myself not to run out of the room. I glanced over at the door before turning back to the doctor as he began speaking.
“In a recent session, Julia told me she was ready to talk to you. She also asked me if I would answer your questions. I informed her that the laws and my oath prevented me from talking to anyone but her about her condition. She came back next session with a legal document authorizing me to discuss her treatment with you. The document was very specific. There is virtually nothing, not my discussions or my notes, that is off limits to you or your mom. I tell you, I’ve been a practicing doctor for almost forty years and I’ve never had this situation arise.” He paused at that moment, looking me in the eye before continuing.
“Now, do you have any questions for me?”
I stared at him blankly. Between the envelope, and now this, it felt like someone was trying to make me drink out of a fire hose. Dr. Barlow smiled and leaned forward again, resting on his forearms as he watched me.
“If I may, I bet that right about now you feel like you’re drowning. Julia pops back into your life unannounced, lays that envelope and its contents on you, and now you’re in my office. I can only imagine the turmoil you’re in. Hell, in your position, I’d probably already be halfway down the hall, or down the stairs. Am I close?” he asked.
All I could do was nod. He smiled again and continued.
“So, let me start. Given my discussions with Julia about you, your marriage, and the love you two shared, my guess is that the top question in your mind since opening that envelope is ‘how did Anna manage to manipulate Julia so completely?’ Second to that is ‘if Julia loved you so much, why didn’t she talk to you?’ Is that a fair assessment?”
I stared at him almost blankly. But as he spoke, the questions he outlined solidified the feelings I had been grasping to comprehend all weekend. At that moment, Mom reached over and gripped my hand, pulling my attention to her.
“Ask him, Jake. Julia wanted you to understand, to know. She did this for you. Ask.”
I held her gaze, and she gave me that gentle smile of hers. The one that told me how much she loved me.
I turned my attention back to the doctor, feeling my chest tighten with a nervous energy.
“Okay. Those… those are two of the questions I’ve struggled with all weekend. That second one more so than the first.”
“Okay, Jake. Let me start by asking you a question. Have you ever heard of something called ‘subliminal suggestion’?
I shook my head slightly. “No, I don’t think so.”
“That's fine. What about brainwashing?”
At that, I nodded. The doctor nodded as well.
“Well, subliminal suggestions have been the focus of several studies for years. The most famous study, which was later debunked, accused certain vendors of inserting text frames into a film that had such writing as ‘You’re thirsty and want a soda’ or ‘Popcorn would taste good right now’.
“The subconscious part of your mind would process these frames even as your conscious brain never realized they were there. For some folks, this works quite well, others have a better resistance to them.
“Advertisers are all about evoking responses in you. The old saying ‘sex sells’ is another good example. Attractive young ladies in tight or revealing clothing extolling the virtues of a high-end sports car sends the message that if you have the car, you can have that kind of girl. Follow me?” He watched me carefully, his hands clasped together on top of the desk.
“I think so, just not sure what this has to do with Julia or her walking out of our marriage.”
“I took the liberty of interviewing Ms. Watson shortly after Julia’s collapse. She provided the contents of that envelope, along with the information about Ms. Richards.”
I couldn't help it. I shifted in my chair and clenched the armrests a bit tighter, my knuckles going white. Dr. Barlow looked at my hands and back at me.
“Your anger is very understandable, Jake. If you find yourself needing to talk with someone, I can refer you to some colleagues that specialize in helping you express that anger in a safe and positive manner.”
I shook my head.
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Where was I? Oh, yes. Now, given the information that Ms. Watson supplied, I was able to work with Julia to help her understand what happened, and to help her work through the what, and why, of it.
“Jake, do you grow your own hay and such for your horses, or do you purchase it from others?” He surprised me with his question, and I looked at him, head cocked slightly to the side.
What was he getting at?
“We have some acreage devoted to it. I have someone who works it for me. We sell off the excess and he gets a split of those profits. Why?”
He smiled. “Excellent. I've got a bit of a green thumb myself. Tell me, what happens to your fields if the nutrient balance is off? If the PH levels drop in the soil or you lack nitrogen?”
I shrugged. “I have a reduced yield and lots of weeds.”
He nodded, as if I was a prize student accurately explaining a foreign concept.
“Excellent. So, to get a good yield, or in my case, great roses, you need fertile ground that is ready for planting. Yes?”
I nodded again. This man loved to talk.
“I know it’s a roundabout way to get there, but I wanted to give you an understanding of what we needed to delve into. Was Julia jealous of other women?”
Beside me, Mom coughed lightly, but a glance showed that she really was trying not to laugh.
He looked at Mom, then back at me with a knowing look in his eyes.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ But, let me ask, in the last few months before the divorce, did it seem to get worse?”
I must have looked shocked because it had indeed gotten a bit worse before the divorce.
“She was always a little jealous, but it wasn't anything I thought out of hand. She always complained if she saw me looking at another woman. We would have small fights about it, but they tended to blow over fairly quickly. But you’re right, the last five or six months before the divorce, it happened more often and didn’t go away as quickly,” I said.
We seemed to be dancing around the subject. I was getting tired of this and wanted to move on.
