Stephen White - Critical Conditions

Either this sincere guy had totally missed whatever it was that had been troubling Merritt, or this family was hiding something from me.

I didn’t know which was true.

Other than bumbling through another session with a still mute Merritt Strait at Community Hospital, the next day developed in a way that felt almost normal.

I had been home from work for less than an hour when the phone rang. The thought of what to do about another dinner alone had been perplexing me for a good five minutes. I was deciding between throwing together some sesame noodles or making a big bowl of popcorn. Popcorn was winning. I answered the phone with eager anticipation, expecting to hear Lauren’s sweet voice in my ear. But the voice I heard was bold and defined.

“Dr. Gregory? Brenda Strait.”

I was disappointed and I was defensive. I was always defensive when a patient, or someone related to a patient, phoned me at home. It left me feeling as though I were in the witness protection program and somebody with a grudge had managed to track me down.

I wanted to snap, “How did you get this number?” but restrained myself, quickly remembering that I had left it on the back of the business card I’d given to Merritt. I said, “Hello, Brenda,” as evenly as I could.

Her manner was crisp, and she anticipated my aversion to being disturbed after work. “I tried your office number and got voice mail. I know how much Trent hates getting calls like this at home, so I apologize for bothering you. But this can’t wait until morning. When I’m not working on a story I’m usually not this intrusive. Please trust me that this is important. I’m at home. I’d like you to come over here right away. Before you say no, let me assure you that it’s about Merritt and her welfare and I’m afraid it’s terribly important.”

I pressed Brenda for the reason I was being beckoned, but she wouldn’t say.

“I don’t want you to hear it from me. I want you to see it yourself.”

“See what?”

“Soon. I don’t think you’ll like what you find here, Dr. Gregory. But you won’t regret coming over.”

For no particular reason, I believed her.

The family home was in Wonderland Hills, a subdivision in northwest Boulder, and a good trek from where I lived. I fed the dog and threw ice cubes into her water dish before I left. I didn’t want to waste the time it would take to make popcorn, so I grabbed a handful of almonds and a bottle of lemonade and jumped into my car. The drive across town ate up most of twenty minutes. Boulder’s traffic was beginning to drive me crazy.

The Trent/Strait household occupied a two-story cedar and shake affair that, with the exception of the distinctive basketball hoop in the driveway, and the key and free throw line that had been painted meticulously on the concrete in canary yellow paint, looked just like a third of the other houses on the block.

The yard showed signs of recent neglect, not surprising given the circumstances in the family. Newspapers that had been tossed up the walk littered the base of the low privet hedge that led to the front door.

I parked my car on the street. I was halfway up the path when the garage door began to slide in its tracks. Brenda called, “Dr. Gregory? Over here. Why don’t you come in this way?”

Brenda was dressed for work. I couldn’t tell whether she was coming home from the station or going to the station. I made a mental note to check out one of her reports on Channel 7. Her hair was just so and her makeup was fresh and applied without sufficient restraint. Her avocado business suit was tight across her bosom and hips. She had kicked off her shoes and was standing on the concrete pad in her hose.

“Hi, Brenda.”

“Thanks for coming. Maybe calling you wasn’t the smartest thing in the world, but I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe I should have called Trent first, but he’s with Chaney and I didn’t want him to leave her. And for this he would have left her. Follow me, this way.”

She walked me through a kitchen that looked like a museum of takeout containers from Boulder’s franchise restaurants, down a short hallway, and upstairs to a wide landing. Outside a closed door, she stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Here’s what happened, what, an hour ago, is that all it was? This is Merritt’s room, and I was snooping. I admit it. Merritt can’t stand it when Trent or I go in her room. We respect that. Usually, anyway, we respect that. But today I was snooping. I was looking for a diary, although I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t even know if she really keeps one. This whole suicide thing doesn’t add up to me. Yes, Merritt’s upset about her sister. Yes, Merritt’s been neglected lately. Yes, she has plenty of reason to be depressed. But suicide? Sorry, I figure there has to be something more. My best guess was that there’s a boy someplace that I don’t know about. I called her friend, Madison, to ask her but she hasn’t returned any of my calls since…you know. And Merritt still won’t say a damn word to me, or anybody else for that matter. Has she started talking with you?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t think so. So I make the fateful decision that I’ll snoop a little, see if she has love notes from Troy or doodles about Todd or whomever. It’s a long shot; she’s not that into boys, but…who knows, maybe I might get lucky and find a diary she’s been keeping with a long explanation for why she did this.”

Brenda still hadn’t opened the door.

“But you found something else instead?”

She turned the knob.

Facing me on the far wall were basketball posters. Grant Hill. Antonio McDyess. Sheryl Swoopes. The biggest poster on the wall was of the victorious USA women’s Olympic basketball team.

To break the ice, I said, “She really likes basketball, doesn’t she?”

Brenda wasn’t above a sarcastic retort. “Pretty perceptive of you, Doctor. Yes, basketball is her passion. She plays forward for Boulder High. It’s been good for her, helps her feel okay about being so tall.”

Maybe if I walked into the bedrooms of a hundred different adolescent girls I would have a better idea of what to expect. But I haven’t, and I didn’t. This bedroom seemed normal enough. A four-poster double bed with a Battenburg lace comforter and a few stuffed animals seemed to be the room’s solitary altar to femininity. A tiny bedside table held a clock radio and a stack of vigorously thumbed copies of Seventeen and Sports Illustrated and a paperback horror novel by John Saul that looked like it had been read more than once.

On the wall between the bedposts was an elegantly framed poster of the Nike “If you let me play” advertisement. It made me smile.

Behind where I was standing, the double closet doors were plastered haphazardly with rock ’n’ roll memorabilia and posters. Merritt seemed to be into Beatles-era oldies, Phish, and Alanis Morrisette. A pile of CDs the size of a loaf of bread was stacked next to a boom box that sat on top of a cherry trunk under the room’s only window.

Merritt kept her space neat. A pair of leggings had been swung over a club chair, but everything else was put away in drawers or on shelves.

“Is she always this tidy?”

“She wasn’t back in Kansas. This compulsive phase started when we moved here. We haven’t had to bug her about her room since she took over this space.”

“Impressive,” I said, while I wondered what else Merritt had been doing to cope with the stresses she’d experienced after the family move to Boulder. “You know, Brenda, I’m at a real disadvantage right now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing. Is there something out of place, or something missing? What am I supposed to notice?”