The Family Gathering (Sullivan's Crossing #3)(47)

“That’s not what it is,” Cal said. “Bob doesn’t enjoy lining up the towels and alphabetizing the canned goods, but if that’s the price of peace, he can live with that. It’s the insomnia and paranoia. It’s the pacing around the basement and talking to yourself for six hours through the night that’s making him gray! It’s finding you curled up in a ball, sweating and crying, that he can’t take. You need treatment! You need medication! What the fuck is the matter with you? Our lives could have been so different if Jed had been willing to take medication! You have to see a doctor!”

“I did! I did see a doctor a few years ago. He confirmed what I knew, gave me medication that made me feel dead inside, but not better. And I’m convinced my way of coping is better than the drugs. I’m no threat to anyone and I manage just fine!”

“With rituals—walking forward and backward and in circles? Cutting vegetables in precise strips? Slicing meat in perfect pieces? Brushing your hair a certain number of times, doing everything a special way?”

She swallowed. “Don’t you remember how medicine broke him?” she cried. “How it reduced him to a completely emotionless—”

“Treatment is better than it was thirty years ago! You don’t have to be pumped full of Thorazine and dumped like a blob on someone’s couch! You’re a psychologist, for God’s sake!”

The sound of a door opening and feet on the stairs caused them both to turn their heads. Maggie was coming down the stairs. “In two more minutes, you’ll wake Elizabeth, and if you do, she’s all yours.”

“Sorry,” Cal said. “It’s an emotional issue.”

“Go put on the coffee,” Maggie said. She tightened the belt of her robe and sat on the edge of the ottoman facing Sedona. “I know you’re upset and terrified, but there’s no guarantee of his diagnosis. I always encourage my patients to get a second opinion, if there’s time. You have no idea what’s going on, and until you do, enough hysteria. Bob is absolutely right—until you see a doctor and get all the facts, you can’t call the shots. You could have a brain tumor for all you know.”

“I don’t have a brain tumor,” Sedona said. “I’ve run all the tests.”

“You can’t run your own tests,” Maggie said. “In this family Cal is in charge of criminal law, you are in charge of personality disorders and I am in charge of brain tumors. You’re a PhD in clinical psych, and from what I’ve been told, you specialized in adolescent testing.”

“A smoke screen,” she said. “Psychologists and psychiatrists are notorious for studying mental illness because they fear it and want a leg up on their own problems. I did the same thing. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t crazy. Like our father. I’ve studied schizophrenia since I was fourteen.”

“Well, you can relax now, Sedona,” Maggie said. “You don’t need the pressure of knowing everything. I know some of the best psychiatrists in Denver. I want you to stay with us or you can use my house in Denver. Probably not for very long, just until I can arrange an evaluation and possible treatment plan for you. I’ll walk you through it. I won’t let you fall. Working with the brain is a sensitive journey and requires patience. I will be your patience and your crutch. But in case you’re confused about what happened here this morning, we just pulled the rug out from under you. Because we all love you, including Bob and your children. It’s time for a diagnosis and treatment recommendation. This was what we know as an intervention. I don’t think you’ll find anyone to help you propagate your denial. And I’m pretty sure it’s not schizophrenia, but I’m no expert.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked, sniffing back her tears.

“You’re functional. Socially normal. One of the hallmarks of the disease is thinking you’re functional when you’re not, thinking your delusions are real and the real world is a delusion.”

“It’s just a mild case...”

“We’re going to let a medical doctor tell you that.”

“Do Sierra and Dakota have to know about this?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Well, not today,” Maggie said. “For today, on a whim, you decided to stay awhile. That’s good enough for now. Eventually you people have to talk, for Pete’s sake. You’re all skipping fearfully around this same gene! At least share your information!” Then she looked at Sedona more calmly. “How bad are your symptoms?”

“Sometimes very frightening,” she said. “Sometimes I feel pretty normal.”

“Tell me about very frightening,” Maggie urged.

Sedona looked down. “When I hear voices, when I can’t relax, when I’m paranoid and imagine people know what I’m thinking.”

“Anything else remarkable?”

“When the inside of my head is so loud and busy I can’t sleep, sometimes for long periods of time. And then, of course, the symptoms get worse and the sleeping aids don’t work. Then there are some that work a little too well and I’m afraid of addiction or of not waking up. I don’t think we really know how bad Jed’s schizophrenia is with all the pot he smokes.”

“I suggested that at this point it might be counterproductive,” Maggie said. “Sedona, those symptoms, while suspicious and disconcerting, don’t necessarily prove schizophrenia. You might’ve been describing an overworked, stressed-out, exhausted neurosurgery resident. I’ll make some phone calls today. What else can we do to give you some peace of mind?”