14
Aligned Design
Ch 49
"Good morning, Detective. How was your weekend?" Dr. Stephens indicated to the other chair. Bobby waited for her to sit and then he sat.
"It was ok."
"This was your weekend off?"
"Yes. Eames and I were called to a scene early on Saturday. Two bodies were found connected to a case we're investigating."
"Did that upset you? Having to go out on your weekend off?"
"Yes."
She looked at him.
"But, it's my job."
"I see. Anything else happen?"
"Deakins took my weapon Friday afternoon. I don't know when I'll get it back."
"How did that make you feel? Your captain taking your weapon?"
Bobby looked at her with, not contempt, but with resignation. "I felt angry, bad, like I'd been castrated. That's how I felt. I still do." Dr. Stephens caught the building anger in his voice.
"Do you know why he decided to take your weapon?"
Bobby stood up and moved to the bookcase as he had on Friday morning, his back to her. "He took it because I have anger problems. I have a temper I cannot control. I'm seeing a shrink three times a week. I cannot be trusted with a weapon. My partner is afraid of me. That's why he took my weapon, Dr. Stephens. Wouldn't you?"
She was quiet, letting him steam off a bit. Then, "Have you heard from Gleason?" She watched his head drop. She noted the change in his posture.
Bobby turned around and said softly, "She came home Friday afternoon. I picked her up at the airport. She's moving to Chicago in a few months. I thought she was pregnant. Apparently, she's not. What else do you want to know?"
That's a lot for so few days, thought Dr. Stephens. He is so full of anger, and he sounds powerless. "Detective, you never answered my last question on Friday. You said you love Gleason. I asked if she loves you. Does she love you?"
Bobby thought a long minute. He returned to his chair. "She says she does. I believe her. She said she will commute between New York and Chicago. She'll be teaching at Northwestern. She's excited."
"How about you? How do you feel about her moving away?"
"I would rather she stay here. But she wants to, needs to, work. I love her too much to ask her not to go. I think it will be ok." Bobby sounded resigned, sad.
"You said you thought she was pregnant. That's pretty big. Why did you think she was pregnant?"
"She had all of the symptoms. She had morning sickness; she was going to the bathroom all the time; she had this thing, this craving for bread." He hesitated, looked down and then added, "Her breasts seemed full, heavy and, and her libido was heightened."
Dr. Stephens looked down and hid her smile. He was embarrassed. This is a good man, she thought.
"You say she's not. How so?"
Bobby tilted his head to the left and squeezed his eyes with the fingers of his left hand. "She claimed she wasn't. She was adamant about it. Then, yesterday, she started her period."
"How old is Gleason?"
"Forty-two; forty-three in April."
"A pregnancy would be a risk at her age."
He was on his feet. "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? She's not pregnant, doesn't want to be pregnant. So it's done." He turned and walked back to the bookcase. He shoved his hands in to his pockets.
Dr. Stephens let him simmer. Then she asked, "How did you feel, thinking she might be expecting?"
Bobby spun around and yelled, "Why the fuck are we talking about something that isn't going to happen?" He glared at the psychiatrist.
Dr. Stephens looked straight at him and asked, "You wanted her to be pregnant, didn't you? You wanted to have a baby with her. Isn't that right?"
Bobby saw red, it was hot, he clenched and unclenched his fists inside his pockets. He breathed deeply several times. Talking about this was ripping off a scab over and over again. He turned his back and put both hands over his face. Dr. Stephens waited, watching.
Finally, Bobby answered softly, "Yes. I wanted to have a baby with her."
Dr. Stephens let that confession ride in the air a moment.
"What kind of father do you think you would make?"
Bobby crossed back to his chair and sat, elbows on knees. He spoke softly, looking at the floor, "I'd try to be a good father. I would spend time with my child. We would play together. I'd take him or her places – the park, the library. I would love my child. Be proud of him, of her. We would read together. I'd put him to bed; tuck him in. I would hold him. I would make it easy for my child to love me."
They sat quietly for several minutes. Bobby sat back in the chair, glancing at Dr. Stephens. She sat, not writing, not looking at him. She was processing everything Detective Goren had said, how he said it, what it might mean.
"Did your father do those things with you?"
Without hesitation, Bobby responded vehemently, "My father was overwhelmed with a schizophrenic wife and two young boys. He didn't know what to do. My father never hit Ritchie or me; he never raised a hand to our mother. He would yell, sure, he would hit the wall, throw things. He drank too much and slept with other women." Bobby paused, and then continued quietly, "My father did what he could, what he knew. But, no, he never did any of those things."
"So you want to be a father to show you are different from your father. That you are not your father."
Bobby stood up again, moved away again, "I want to be a father because I love Gleason and I want us to be a family."
"That's it? You wanting her to be pregnant has nothing to do with you proving you are not like your father?"
Bobby spun and yelled, "Why are we talking about my father? I am nothing like my father. I have nothing to prove to anyone. Can we talk about something else?" He looked at his watch, Jesus it's only been thirty minutes.
"Ok, let's talk about something else. Have you always had this anger, this temper?"
"Jesus, you know all the buttons to push, don't you?" he said angrily. "Given my upbringing, I think my anger and temper are to be expected."
"Tell me about your upbringing, Detective."
Bobby's hand went to his head. "I thought we were going to talk about something else."
"You brought up your upbringing."
"What do you want to know?"
"Talk about your mother."
"I was seven and Ritchie was nine when she first manifested symptoms. That's when Dad and Ritchie started staying away. I stayed close to home. Someone had to make sure things were done. That she was safe."
"You were seven. A little boy."
He looked at her. "Before she got sick, before she got sick, everything was good. She did things with us, we baked, cooked, she would color with us, in coloring books. She was a librarian. Ritchie and I used to help her in the library. We'd push the cart as she would reshelf books. She would show us where to put a book and we would slide it in. She would let us stamp the return date sometimes, for certain people." Bobby leaned back and squeezed his eyes again, with his fingers.
"You had a good time, a happy early childhood."
"Yes, she was a good mother. Even after she got sick, when she wasn't manifesting so much, she looked after us. But it never lasted. Dad called the police once when she was very bad and they took her to hospital. She was in for three weeks. Back then, the meds they used turned her into a zombie. She would sleep all the time, not bathe, not change her clothes. Then she would quit taking them and manifest again. I looked after her. I tried to look after Ritchie and Dad. I would make dinner, wash clothes.
"What about school?"
"I went to school. Everyone knew about her. Kids made fun of her, of me. They made fun of Ritchie and he would beat the crap out of them. I just ignored it." Bobby stopped; he looked at his hands, considering whether to continue. Dr. Stephens waited, watching to see what he would do, what he would say.
A long silent minute passed, and then Bobby said softly, "One time, the school wanted to talk with my father about me. They wanted me to go into a program of some sort. They were going to bus me to another school."
"What kind of program was it?"
Bobby continued to look down. "For special kids."
Dr. Stephens was surprised by this. According to his file, Detective Goren had a genius IQ; he was off the charts on some measures.
Bobby hesitated, then, "They said I was smart. That I 'wasn't realizing my potential.' My father wouldn't sign the papers. He said no kid of his was going to ride the short bus." Bobby shook his head. Then he sat upright and continued, "It was ok, though. I would have had to leave early and would have gotten home late. My mother would have been alone too long. I needed to be there with her. It worked out ok."
Dr. Stephens took a few notes. Bobby glanced at her as she wrote, then he continued, "They divorced when I was eleven. Ritchie was thirteen and already a delinquent. He would steal money from her purse. He started shoplifting. Smoking. Drinking. He's no better today. Now it's gambling." Bobby leaned back, leaned his head to the left and tented his fingers in front of his mouth.
"How is your mother now?"
"She's in a residential care facility, Carmel Ridge. She is safe there; they care for her there. They make sure she gets her medication. She's doing well," Bobby replied softly.
Dr. Stephens nodded, "That is a wonderful facility. It is private, expensive. How do you manage? If I may ask."
"She has social security. And my dad's pension. I sold her house and auctioned her items. That money is in trust for her care. The rest comes from my military retirement each month."
Dr. Stephens looked at the detective with admiration. What a wonderful woman his mother must have been, to raise such a wonderful son. "So, you are still looking after her. Do you have contact with her?"
"I see her every week, and I phone just about everyday. She enjoys when I call and visit."
"Has she met Gleason?"
"Not yet. Gleason knows about Mum, about her illness. I want them to meet."
"Does your mum know that Gleason is a part of your life?"
Bobby hesitated and Dr. Stephens caught it. Bobby sat forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his thighs. He cleared his throat and said, "I've told Mum about Gleason. I'm not sure how much she remembers from time to time. I think once she and Gleason meet, it'll mean more. Gleason will be real to her."
"When do you see that happening, your mother and Gleason meeting?"
"I don't know. Soon. Before Gleason goes to Chicago."
"Why before she goes to Chicago?"
Bobby put his head in his hands. "Because, I want to anchor Gleason here. I want her to know my mum. I want Mum to know her. I want them to bond. I know, I know all about the interpersonal issues with some schizophrenics. My mum is ok that way. She has friends at Carmel Ridge."
Dr. Stephens looked at the good detective and said, "They are the two women in your life. Does your partner make three?"
Bobby looked up at the doctor and said, "Eames is my partner. Partners come and partners go. I love Gleason and I love my mother. Eames is my partner."
Dr. Stephens needed to ask this next question. "Detective, when you thought Gleason might be pregnant, were you concerned at all about your child having your mother's disease? It is hereditary, you know."
Bobby stood up again and pushed his hands into his pockets. He took a few steps, but did not turn his back, did not move to the bookcase. "I know it is hereditary. I kept wondering if I would have it, still do. I guess I lucked out so far. Ritchie doesn't have it." He paused, and crossed to a table in front of the window.
Dr. Stephens waited for him to continue. He did not, so she asked, "Does it matter that a child of yours might develop schizophrenia?"
Bobby closed his eyes and his head tilted left. He forced himself to speak, softly, slowly, "It doesn't matter because I'm probably never going to have children. The woman I love, will only ever love, doesn't want to have children." Dr. Stephens waited again. "Now, can we please talk about something else? I don't know how much longer I can hold it together."
Dr. Stephens looked at this remarkable man. She was delighted to have the chance to work with him. He was fascinating.