Mike thought about that, about that sweet kid pushing his glasses up and thought again, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him die.
“Are you sleeping?” Mike asked.
Susan Loriman shrugged.
“You want me to prescribe something?”
“Dante doesn’t believe in that stuff.”
Dante Loriman was her husband. Mike didn’t want to admit it in front of Mo, but his assessment had been spot-on—Dante was an asshole. He was nice enough on the outside, but you saw the narrowing of the eyes. There were rumors he was mobbed up, but that could have been based more on looks. He had the slicked-back hair, the wifebeater tees, the too-much cologne and the too-glitzy jewelry. Tia got a kick out of him—“nice change from this sea of clean-cuts”—but Mike always felt as though there was something wrong, the machismo of a guy who wanted to measure up but somehow knew he never did.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Mike asked.
She shook her head.
“You guys use the Drug Aid on Maple Avenue, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call in a prescription. You can pick it up if you want.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Mike came back toward the car. Mo was waiting with his arms folded across his chest. He wore sunglasses and was aiming for the epitome of cool.
“A patient?”
Mike walked past him. He didn’t talk about patients. Mo knew that.
Mike stopped in front of his house and just looked at it for a moment. Why, he wondered, did a house seem as fragile as his patients? When you looked left and right, the street was lined with them, houses like this, filled with couples who had driven out from wherever and stood on the lawn and looked at the structure and thought, “Yes, this is where I’m going to live my life and raise my kids and protect all our hopes and dreams. Right here. In this bubble of a structure.”
He opened the door. “Hello?”
“Daddy! Uncle Mo!”
It was Jill, his eleven-year-old princess, tearing around the corner, that smile plastered on her face. Mike felt his heart warm—the reaction was instantaneous and universal. When a daughter smiles at her father like that, the father, no matter what his station in life, is suddenly king.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Jill hugged Mike and then Mo, flowing smoothly between them. She moved with the ease of a politician working a crowd. Behind her, almost cowering, was her friend Yasmin.
“Hi, Yasmin,” Mike said.
Yasmin’s hair hung straight down in front of her face, like a veil. Her voice was barely audible. “Hi, Dr. Baye.”
“You guys have dance class today?” Mike asked.
Jill shot a warning look across Mike’s bow in a way no eleven-year-old should be able to do. “Dad,” she whispered.
And he remembered. Yasmin had stopped dance. Yasmin had pretty much stopped all activity. There had been an incident in school a few months back. Their teacher, Mr. Lewiston, normally a good guy who liked to go a step too far to keep the kids interested, had made an inappropriate comment about Yasmin having facial hair. Mike was fuzzy on the details. Lewiston immediately apologized, but the pre-adolescent damage was done. Classmates started calling Yasmin “XY” as in the chromosome—or just “Y,” which they could claim was short for Yasmin but really was just a new way of picking on her.
Kids, as we know, can be cruel.
Jill stuck by her friend, worked harder to keep her in the mix. Mike and Tia were proud of her for it. Yasmin quit, but Jill still loved dance class. Jill loved, it seemed, almost everything she did, approaching every activity with an energy and enthusiasm that couldn’t help but jazz everyone around her. Talk about nature and nurture. Two kids—Adam and Jill—raised by the same parents but with polar opposite personalities.
Nature every time.
Jill reached behind her and grabbed Yasmin’s hand. “Come on,” she said.
Yasmin followed.
“Later, Daddy. Bye, Uncle Mo.”
“Bye, sweetheart,” Mo said.
“Where are you two going?” Mike asked.
“Mom told us to go outside. We’re going to ride bikes.”
“Don’t forget the helmets.”
Jill rolled her eyes but in a good-natured way.
A minute later, Tia came out from the kitchen and frowned in Mo’s direction. “What is he doing here?”
Mo said, “I heard you’re spying on your son. Nice.”
Tia gave Mike a look that singed his skin. Mike just shrugged. This was something of a nonstop dance between Mo and Tia—outward hostility but they’d kill for each other in a foxhole.
“I think it’s a good idea actually,” Mo said.
That surprised them. They both looked at him.
“What? I got something on my face?”
Mike said, “I thought you said we were overprotecting him.”
“No, Mike, I said Tia overprotects him.”
Tia gave Mike another glare. He suddenly remembered where Jill had learned how to silence her father with a look. Jill was the pupil—Tia the master.
“But in this case,” Mo continued, “much as it pains me to admit it, she’s right. You’re his parents. You’re supposed to know all.”
“You don’t think he has a right to his privacy?”
“Right to . . . ?” Mo frowned. “He’s a dumb kid. Look, all parents spy on their kids in some ways, don’t they? That’s your job. Only you see their report cards, right? You talk to his teacher about what he’s up to in school. You decide what he eats, where he lives, whatever. So this is just the next step.”
Tia was nodding.
“You’re supposed to raise them, not coddle them. Every parent decides how much independence they give a kid. You’re in control. You should know it all. This isn’t a republic. It’s a family. You don’t have to micromanage, but you should have the ability to step in. Knowledge is power. A government can abuse it because they don’t have your best interest at heart. You do. And you’re both smart. So what’s the harm?”
Mike just looked at him.
Tia said, “Mo?”
“Yep?”
“Are we having a moment?”
“God, I hope not.” Mo slid onto the stool by the kitchen island. “So what did you find?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Tia said, “but I think you should go home.”