The Passing Storm(31)
The indecision was wearing him down.
Although it was Tuesday, family dinners at his parents’ house were now common. Two or three times a week, lately.
Some nights his mother, Winnie, pulled out all the stops, arranging fresh flowers and setting the dining room table. On more casual nights, they ate buffet-style. They filled their plates in the kitchen and carried them into the walnut-paneled family room, where the disembodied heads of his father’s hunting trophies—a 22-point buck and four less mature whitetail—observed the festivities from doleful glass eyes. On those nights, they played Scrabble or Monopoly with the intention of allowing the only child in their midst to win every game.
His niece, Jackie.
Unlike his mother and his sister—not to mention his spineless brother-in-law and thoroughly unbending father—Griffin believed it was time to bring in professional help. Jackie’s condition was worsening. With each passing week, she slipped further away. Granted, none of the unfortunate girls who’d been at the slumber party last fall were taking Lark’s death well.
And why would they? From conversations with his niece, Griffin knew the upsetting details. Katherine Thomerson had nearly called off her daughter’s slumber party. Sometimes winter came early to northeast Ohio, but no one expected five inches of snowfall the week before Halloween. Stella pleaded to keep her plans, and her mother relented.
Once everyone had arrived, Katherine left to run an errand. As the girls watched a movie in the darkened basement, Lark went upstairs alone. She walked outside, slipped on ice, and fell into the empty in-ground pool.
Lark pitched eight feet down. A quick and horrible death.
Pandemonium ensued after Katherine returned from her errand. Spotting young Quinn Galecki climbing over her brick wall, she began screaming nonstop. The commotion brought girls racing up from the basement. They cowered behind the family room’s picture window as Quinn clambered down the steel ladder into the empty pool.
From their vantage point, snow glittered beneath the spotlights. A fine etching of ice crept across the brick wall and the slate stonework. The gleam of black vinyl covering the outdoor furniture, and the pool—a dark, gaping mouth in the center.
Katherine halted at the pool’s edge. As her shrieks rose to fever pitch, Stella backed away from the picture window. She dashed to her bedroom. The door shut with a crack of sound. Another girl fainted, collapsing to the floor unnoticed. The rest of the girls clung together in a whimpering, sobbing mass.
All of them, except Griffin’s niece.
Breaking off from the others, Jackie went outside. Nothing proves a girl’s mettle like her response to calamity.
Taking care to avoid the icy patches, Jackie trod to the pool’s edge. She pressed a calming hand to Katherine’s back. The screaming ceased. Turning away, Katherine fled from the pool’s edge and the scene below. Only then did Jackie allow her fearful gaze to alight on Quinn.
Eight feet down, in an inch of murky water, he cradled Lark. While sobbing uncontrollably.
Pulling out her phone, Jackie dialed 911.
Ever since that night, most of the girls cried easily. They dropped out of school activities. No longer did they socialize in a large, boisterous crowd. The shock of what they’d witnessed drove them apart.
And Jackie was a shadow of her former self.
Christmas Day had offered the final proof. Griffin and his family were clustered around his parents’ elegantly decorated ten-foot spruce. They were about to open presents when Jackie shuffled out of the guest bathroom with her long, chestnut hair cut into short, jagged clumps.
By January, her weight loss became noticeable. She began missing too much school. Jackie complained of stomachaches. She slept at odd hours and for lengthy periods. Sally took her daughter to the pediatrician and a gastroenterologist. She taught Jackie meditation and started her on yoga. Sugar was banished from her diet, and Sally filled a cupboard with herbal teas.
Nothing worked.
To Griffin’s mind, the solution was obvious.
His niece wouldn’t improve without the guidance of an experienced child psychologist. Jackie needed help processing the senseless death of her friend. Since no one in his family agreed—at least, not publicly—he’d stopped broaching the subject. Even if he got Sally on board, her husband would veto the idea. Trenton never put a toe out of line with Griffin’s father.
The hard-edged and successful Everett Marks viewed psychology as a pseudoscience for the simpleminded.
In the grand foyer, light from the chandelier sparkled across the stone flooring. The low thump of music floated down the staircase. Curious, Griffin went upstairs to investigate. The quiet second floor smelled of lemon furniture polish and lavender; he climbed another flight of stairs to the beautifully appointed attic his mother called her own. The large, rectangular space was swathed in feminine accoutrements, from the floral wallpaper to the overstuffed chintz upholstery. Apparently, Griffin’s niece had selected the music playing softly from the built-in speakers: Abbey Road. Recently the ninth grader had discovered the Beatles’ iconic music.
At the attic’s far end, a white table nested beneath the eaves. Winnie sat beside her granddaughter.
Her silvered head lifted. “Griffin! I didn’t expect to see you for another hour.”
“I left work early.” He owned Design Mark, the website design firm across the street from his father’s car dealership not far from Chardon Square. “I was hoping to chat with Sally before dinner.”