Chris Bohjalian - Before You Know Kindness

“For now,” Dr. Warwick repeated.

She nodded. She thought of that Saturday afternoon in the summer when everyone had been sitting on the porch in Sugar Hill talking about the party at the club that night-maybe six or seven hours before the accident would occur-and she’d decided to go wandering around the house to the cutting garden. She’d knelt amid the purple flowers that smelled so much like this woman’s perfume. She wished she could go back there now. To that moment.

“It sounds like a lot of work,” the doctor continued.

“Having vegetarian cats? Oh, yeah. It’s hugely difficult. But what else could we do? I mean, think of who my dad is. He and his boss, Dominique, are, like, two of the most notorious vegetarians in the country. Dad’s been on The Today Show, you know. Twice. And he’s been on the CBS Early Show and Nightline and tons of other news programs.”

“You sound like you’re very proud of him.”

“I am. But being Spencer McCullough’s daughter is a lot of work. Do you know something?”

The doctor shook her head and waited.

“I have never been inside a McDonald’s. I may be the only teenager in the developed world who hasn’t been inside a McDonald’s. My friends, even the ones who don’t eat meat-and there are a few-think it’s pretty extreme.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

She sighed and savored the smell of the perfume. That day had been warm, the parents had all arrived, and she thought she was going to dance at the bonfire that night with… Connor. At least she thought now the teen boy’s name had been Connor. Had she really forgotten? Was the boy really that forgettable? In any case, she knew she had been very happy that afternoon. She remembered putting one of those purple flowers in her hair, slipping it underneath her headband and imagining that she’d wear it that night to the bonfire. Then she remembered taking it out because she feared that she looked like a hillbilly.

“Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“You said it wasn’t easy being your father’s daughter-even before his injury. Would you like to tell me more about that?”

“About being Spencer McCullough of FERAL’s kid?”

“Is that who you are?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Not Charlotte McCullough?”

“Oh, I’m her, too,” she agreed, but she understood now what the doctor was driving at. Still, here in New York she was Spencer McCullough’s daughter-even, often enough, at Brearley, where if she had been anybody other than simply Charlotte she should have been Mrs. McCullough’s kid. Or, if it was one of the older English classes filled with juniors and seniors who her mother insisted call her by her first name, Catherine’s kid. But even at Brearley she was frequently defined in terms of who her father was and what he stood for. It was always good-natured and sometimes kids were impressed by her father’s notoriety, though there was no shortage of celebrity moms and dads among the Brearley parents. Other kids’ parents were important politicians, or they ran big corporations and were frequently in the New York Times business section or the Wall Street Journal, or they were simply richer than God and everyone (somehow) knew it. Sometimes their mom or dad-or their grandmom or granddad-was a famous actor. Nevertheless, what her dad did stood out, and so he was the subject of conversation as often as any other student’s parent. FERAL did some pretty outrageous stuff, and whether it was photos of naked models at some antifur extravaganza or the those horrible photos of monkeys from research labs that her father’s group plastered on the bus stop kiosks, it was going to be of interest. Heck, the fact that she herself had never eaten a Sabrett hot dog was of interest, what other people ate in the lunchroom when they sat beside her was of interest. I hope you don’t mind my eating the lasagna today, Charlotte-it’s got meat in it. Charlotte, how can you not eat roast beef? I only eat chicken: Is that okay? What’s wrong with eating fish? They’re, like, cold-blooded, aren’t they?

“Is there a difference?” It was the doctor.

“Excuse me?”

“Is there a difference between Spencer McCullough’s daughter and Charlotte?”

She thought about this. Of course there was. Especially in New Hampshire, where Grandmother’s friends and the kids at the club viewed her more as a Seton than a McCullough. It was completely different from New York. She guessed there were people in Sugar Hill who weren’t even aware of what her dad did for a living. If anyone there made a big deal about vegetarianism and animal rights, it was likely to be her. Either she would be trying to torment Grandmother for force-feeding her cousin sausages or she would be turning up her nose with great drama at something that was cooking on the long barbecues at the club. Even the night of the bonfire, she’d made a point of telling one of the older girls what really went into a hot dog.

And that garden. Those gardens. Her father’s gardens. The day of the accident when she’d wandered alone into the cutting garden: That hadn’t been the first time. Did she go there as Spencer McCullough’s daughter or as Charlotte? She’d actually spent more time amid those flowers in the weeks before all the parents had arrived than either her cousin or her grandmother. Yes, she hated weeding. But didn’t everybody? Weeding, after all, was a chore. But flowers weren’t all work. They weren’t even mostly work. And alone in July she had meandered among the rows of loosestrife, astilbe, and phlox; she’d knelt before the daisies and lilies and savored the rich aromas that rose up to her from the flowers.

Especially those purple ones.

Now she breathed in Dr. Warwick’s perfume and closed her eyes, recalling those days before she had shot her father. Shot. Her. Father. Oh, to be back in the garden on an afternoon smack in the middle of the summer, your parents on the porch on the other side of the house, everything the way it had always been and forever would be.

If only she could go back.

If only.

She was aware that she was crying now, the tears creating small, shallow runnels along the sides of her nose. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the therapist was handing her a box of tissues. She took one, and then she took the box. She thought she had finished crying back in New Hampshire. Apparently, she was wrong. Apparently, she was a complete mess.

She remembered she was supposed to answer a question that had something to do with her father, but she was no longer sure what it was. And so she just shook her head and blew her nose and let the psychiatrist sit there and watch since-as she’d noticed before-the woman really did seem happy enough when her patients didn’t say a word.

WILLOW KNEW it was exactly 289 miles from the end of her family’s driveway to the garage on Ninety-second Street in Manhattan where they parked the car when they visited Grandmother. She’d been picked up at school today which added another two miles since they had to double back past their house, and so when she looked over the headrest at the odometer she saw they were still a few miles short of the point at which they would be precisely two-thirds of the way there. But they’d been on the Taconic for easily forty-five minutes now, and she felt clearly as if they were in the home stretch. Even though they had stopped twice in the first half of the trip so they could have lunch and then change her baby brother’s diaper, they would still be in the city by seven.

Beside her Patrick blinked in his sleep in his car seat, and he scrunched up his face as if he’d just eaten a lemon. She knew he’d probably wake up pretty soon. He’d given her almost two hours of peace in the car while he’d napped, and that was about all she could expect. And so she leaned over and reached for the bottle with the breast milk Mom had pumped before leaving her office. Willow guessed that the first thing her mother would do when they arrived at Grandmother’s apartment was get Patrick latched onto her chest: She could tell by the way her mother was fidgeting in the front seat that her tanks were getting pretty full and it was time to start dumping fuel.