The Third Commandment: Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.

Age Nine

The Ward family went to church occasionally. Enough that their children could all make first communion and be in the nativity play on Christmas Eve. They sent the kids to Sunday School less out of a heartfelt desire for their religious formation and more out of a general sense that Sunday School was one of those things that people did.

Grant had mixed feelings about church. It was hopelessly boring. He didn't like the homilies because the priest always seemed to claim that the Bible said they were supposed to do something, whereas Grant had just listened to the Bible passage in question and it said nothing of the sort. It wasn't that he particularly objected to the messages the priest was proclaiming, it was just that Grant was a literal sort of kid and he didn't like being told that the Bible had specific opinions on how he was supposed to work hard in school when all the actual reading said was blessed are the whoevers.

He did like the music, however, and though he'd never want to join the choir, he liked to sing along from his place in the pews. He had a good memory for words (his French tutor had told him that) so he memorized the songs easily and he liked to be petted by the little old ladies who thought it was adorable that he could sing along without a hymnal. Sometimes they had doughnuts and apple cider afterward, which was also a plus.

Of course, for much of the year, they had a more important Sunday tradition, one that involved television, beer, and a desperate love of the New England Patriots.

Problem was, the Patriots had suffered an absolutely lousy year, so Father was reduced to watching old highlight reels instead of the playoffs. Still, football was football. Father wasn't exactly paying attention to Grant, but he at least seemed pleased when the boy echoed his cheers and miserable cries of defeat.

So the NFL was their religion and the living room their house of worship. Grant learned a lot more from Sundays with his father than he did in a hundred church services. He learned that Representative Marcus Reinman was a fucking liar and not to be trusted. He learned that if you wanted someone to like you, it was a good idea to ask that person for a favor, one that makes the other guy feel like an expert. He learned that if you wanted to hold up a vote in Congress, you could just stand up and start talking and refuse to stop, but no one ever did that because it was such a pain in the butt.

Grant learned that his mother was a souse and a pill popper and a wreck. He learned that Christian was an accident, but Thomas was made on purpose just to shut Mother up. He learned that father took a lot of phone calls from nameless women and Grant wasn't to mention that to Mother because it would just upset her and she was such a wreck already.

The Fourth Commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother.

Age 11

"He's aggressive," said Mother. "He's disturbed." She wrung her hands together. "He's so cruel to his younger brother. I just don't know where all this anger is coming from."

Dr. Angela Wolk nodded sympathetically and glanced over at the 'he' in question, to offer him a chance to respond, but Grant Ward remained silent.

Grant didn't say much through the intake. His new psychologist asked him a few questions, but upon realizing that answers weren't forthcoming, she directed most of her queries to Mrs. Ward. It was her job to solve the puzzle, the problem, that was the Wards' middle son. This surly preteen who was well-behaved at school, but a terror at home. Who could display shocking cruelty, but didn't show signs of being a psychopath. Who mostly looked empty and blank, but allowed flashes of sadness or fear to escape when the adults' attention seemed to be elsewhere.

Mrs. Ward told the story of a boy who had been caught mistreating, even abusing, his younger brother many times, including one very frightening incident involving a near-drowning. Grant, according to his mother, rarely denied his misbehavior, but never seemed to take responsibility for it, always blaming someone else for "making" him do it.

"When you talk about 'abuse," asked Dr. Wolk, "can you give me an example of what you mean?"

"Violence, fear, cruelty."

"Sexual behavior?"

"What? No! He's not a pervert."

Mrs. Ward's defensiveness at the question wasn't unusual, but Dr. Wolk still had to ask. Regardless, Dr. Wolk thought it was a bit incongruous, the way Mrs. Ward was so willing to paint her son with a very dark brush, but became self-protective when sexual deviance was discussed.

Almost an hour had passed before Dr. Wolk invited Mrs. Ward to return to the waiting area. "It can't have been fun to sit here and listen to all that," she said to Grant.

He shrugged, head down, chin almost resting on his chest.

"Before we start talking, I'd like to talk with you about confidentiality, things that are confidential. Do you know that word?"

"It's stamped on secret files in spy movies."

"That's right. Confidential means 'secret'."

"And things I tell you are secret," said Grant in a low sing-song that made clear he was echoing the words of a dozen therapists who had preceded her.

"Not exactly," said Dr. Wolk, and she was pleased to see Grant straighten a little as he took notice. "It's absolutely true that I will never tell anything you say to your teachers or your friends at school, but there are limits to the secrets I can keep." Painstaking honesty, she hoped, would win the boy's trust.

"What kind of limits?"

"The first thing you need to know is that there are a few secrets that I can't keep under any circumstances. If you plan to kill yourself or someone else, I'll do what I have to do to keep people safe and that might mean telling a secret. If an adult is very badly hurting a child – you or another child – then the law says I can't keep that secret either."

Grant had heard about these rules before. They were explained to him by Christian in great detail after the incident with Dr. Craig.

"The other thing you need to understand is that children don't have a legal right to confidentiality from their parents. I won't go and blab every little detail to your parents. In fact, I'd prefer to only speak to them with your permission. But, according to the law, if they demand to know what you've been saying to me, I have to tell them."

No one had ever explained that to Grant before. It sucked, but it made sense.

"Do you have any questions about confidentiality?"

"No."

"Your mother had a lot to say about you. I'm wondering what you think about all that."

It wasn't a simple thing to explain. There weren't words for the things that had happened. Saying 'Christian made me do it,' made him sound petty and immature. He didn't think he was the awful person that his mother had described, but he really had done pretty much all the awful things she said. Sort of had done it. Hadn't meant to do it. Or maybe he had. They all said he was so angry and so mean. Maybe he really was. It was hard for Grant to know what his own motives were when everyone else had such strong opinions on the subject.

But that was too much to say, so Grant kept his chin to his chest and said, "She was telling the truth."