Kimberly Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming

“I don’t need a therapist. My mother doesn’t need a therapist,” he growled at the doctor and jerked his thumb at his siblings. “You two...may I have a moment, please?”

Miranda sent a quick look of apology to the doctor as they followed Wade a few feet away. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said to Wade. “You haven’t seen the house so you don’t know what we’ve been dealing with. What I’ve been dealing with! I knew something like this was going to happen and I hate to say that it sucks to be right. That house is not the house you remember—because it’s buried under a half ton of mess!”

“Settle down. I think we’re jumping the gun a bit,” Wade said, trying to rein his own temper. “Let’s just stop a minute and assess before we run off half-cocked, making decisions that have long-reaching consequences.”

“How much more of a consequence needs to happen before you realize what’s going on? Our mother is a hoarder. She nearly died in her own house because the paramedics couldn’t get to her,” Trace added in a harsh whisper. “Remember how I asked if you were going to be part of the problem or the solution? Well, now’s the time to decide.”

“And I told you I’m here,” Wade reminded him, trying hard not to clench his teeth. The Sinclairs had never been accused of suffering a shortage of stubbornness and that stubbornness was in full swing among all three. “But I’m not about to be reprimanded by the two of you for my supposed shortcomings. We have a situation that needs to be taken care of, so I suggest we do it without causing further embarrassment to our family.”

Miranda flushed and nodded but she looked as if razors were stuck in her throat. “Fine. But you have to accept that Mom needs help and has needed that help for some time now.”

“Perhaps. I am reserving judgment until I have seen for myself this supposed condemned situation at our parents’ home.”

Trace chuckled with a shake of his head. “Fine. You stubborn jackass. See for yourself. I’m done with this conversation and done with your holier-than-thou attitude. Miranda, he’s all yours.” And then Trace stalked off, leaving Wade and Miranda to deal with the doctor.

“That was real mature,” he muttered, bracing his hands on his hips as Miranda shook her head as if ticked off with both her brothers. “Let’s get this settled,” he said and returned to the awaiting doctor.

“I apologize for the flared tempers. We don’t always see eye to eye,” Wade said. “Thank you for coming down but I don’t think we’ll be needing your services. My family prefers to handle the situation privately.”

Dr. O’Hare blinked as if she didn’t quite understand and then shook her head, puzzled. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear but due to the circumstances, I am required to give your mother a full mental-health evaluation.”

“She doesn’t need a mental-health evaluation,” he said, looking to Miranda for help, but she remained silent, and he knew he was on his own. “Listen, my mother has been under some strain but I think with the help of her family, we can mitigate whatever concerns Adult Protective Services has.”

Morgan pushed her glasses farther on her nose with a small, precise movement and said, “I can appreciate the terrible strain your mother has been under as well as your entire family, given your circumstances, but the evaluation is mandatory.”

Wade was losing ground quickly. He crossed his arms. “This is borderline ridiculous.”

“I agree.” She smiled but he got the distinct impression she was referring to him and not Adult Protective Services. Opening her file, she selected one of the glossy eight-by-ten photos taken by APS when the house was condemned. “Mr. Sinclair, I find a picture to be worth a thousand words in these types of situations.” She handed him the photo with a brisk but apologetic smile. “It can be a shock to see a family member living like this, and denial is common. But as you can see...your mother was living in very dangerous conditions.”

What the... Wade stared at the photo, unable to comprehend what he was staring at. Nothing looked remotely familiar from his childhood. He wasn’t even sure what room he was staring at because everything was obliterated by floor-to-ceiling junk. “What the hell...?” he breathed, shooting a shocked look at his sister. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Miranda was neither shocked nor surprised and proceeded to explain. “That’s the living room. Or at least, it used to be. See that tiny, clogged walkway? That’s the hallway toward what used to be our bedrooms. Simone’s bedroom is off to the left. And the kitchen...well, you ought to be lucky that picture isn’t a scratch-and-sniff. She’s been sleeping in the bathtub for months.”

Wade stared at his sister. His mother had been sleeping in a bathtub? “How do you know this?”

“Talen told me. She tried to deny it but it’s true.”

Wade returned the photo, sick to his stomach. The pounding behind his eyeball had turned into a battering ram against his skull. He’d wanted to believe that his siblings had exaggerated, that somehow this was all some big misunderstanding but there was no misinterpreting that picture. Mounds of unrecognizable garbage and clutter filled every nook and cranny that he could see. And if the entire house was like that? “How’d this happen?” he asked, talking out loud mostly to himself. He didn’t expect an answer.

“It’s too early to tell until I’ve done a full evaluation but I do know a little bit about your family’s personal history, and I’d say this may stem from grief that never found an appropriate outlet.”

Simone. Everything always spiraled back to Simone. Of course it did. “My sister.”

“Yes.”

Miranda piped in, saying, “Mom won’t let anyone into Simone’s room anymore. It’s weird, almost as if she’s trying to forget that Simone is gone. She spends a lot of time in that room.”

“Have you been in there?”

Miranda shook her head. “She guards it like a watchdog. I don’t know what’s going through that head of hers.”

So much for a quick three-day trip to sort out details. “What do you need from us?” he asked, resigned.

“Just your cooperation. She’ll need your support but she also needs to know that you’re not going to enable her to hurt herself again. It’s a delicate balance of support and tough love. I won’t sugarcoat things...these types of situations are hard on everyone involved but I have seen positive outcomes with proper therapy.”

“My mom will never agree to therapy,” he said grimly. “I can tell you that right now.”

“Well, you’d be surprised what motivates people. That’s where the support comes in. I’ll wait to introduce myself until tomorrow, seeing as I’ve already made contact with you. Likely, what I have to say is going to be upsetting.”

Upsetting? That was too mild of a word. He nodded. “What time?”

“How’s 10:00 a.m.?”

He looked to Miranda. “That works for me. How about you?”

She nodded. “I’ll check with Trace.”

“Thanks.” He had no wish to talk to his brother at the moment. He returned to the doctor. “We’ll be here.”

Dr. O’Hare smiled. “Excellent. It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances.”

It was probably a standard comment meant to relax people but Wade caught a flash of genuine emotion in her eyes. Or at least, he thought he did. Hell, maybe he was seeing things. Everything in his world had just been tipped on its ass. He ducked his head to the doctor in goodbye and he and Miranda left the hospital to go pick up his mom’s car.

His last thought as Dr. O’Hare walked away—inappropriate and flustering—was how pretty she was and how he wished she’d been a wizened old man with a bald head and knobby knuckles.