Page 38 of What Boys Learn

For nine years, I had juggled college and grad school with single parenting, and for the last year, I’d stayed busy learning the ropes of a new job. Now, for the first time, I was unmoored, with too much time on my hands. Aside from a few boxes of books and some unrecycled empties in the living room, everything was put away. I’d even had time to organize better: spice bottles and spice refill packets coordinated, small toothpaste and dental floss samples from the dentist rounded up in one place, dry pens thrown away and good ones in a countertop jar where we could find them. I still hadn’t located several missing things, but that was normal in a move.Everything floats to the top eventually, my mother had always said.

One of the final things I emptied was the banker’s box from Summit. Several thick books were in the bottom, including aDSM-5. I lifted the psychological diagnostic manual in my hands, feeling its weight, and remembering how proud I’d been, buying it as a graduation gift to myself, to replace the previous, outdated edition I’d bought cheap as a first-year counseling student. The field of psychology changes, after all. Labels, treatments, assumptions.

I stood in the living room, fully aware that our limited bookshelves were already packed so tight even a slim book wouldn’t fit, never mind this doorstop. But then my gaze went to the low black bookcase next to the couch. Therewasspace, actually. A two-inch-wide spot on the bottom, in the middle of a shelf of college psych textbooks.

I wandered over and squatted, trying to understand what was missing, but all the old familiars were there—Abnormal Psych, Intro to Clinical, Child and Adolescent Development. It bothered me. Stress had a way of doing that—of making everything seem equally significant, from an argument to a letter to shit gone missing in a new and disorganized apartment.

Then I heard the sound of a whistling mailman, heading around the side of the house to drop our mail. The mail came earlier to this apartment than our last one. I’d have to be vigilant. I put the question of the missing book out of my mind and hurried to intercept the mail.

On Saturday, the next letter from Ewan arrived.

Someone’s been asking me about you. I could give you hints. I owe you that, don’t I? You owe me a lot more, baby sister. A visit with my nephew would be a good place to start.

Someone was talking to him about me, or he wanted me to think so. And he wasn’t forgetting about Benjamin. I needed help.

I dialed before I could lose my nerve.

“Abby!” came Curtis Campbell’s voice after two rings. “I’m in my car. Can I call you from the house in fifteen minutes?”

“Perfect,” I said, trying to match his optimistic tone.

“Before I let you go. I sent that job posting to you but it bounced back. I must have entered your email wrong. First name Abigail, last name Rosso, at gmail dot com, right?”

Relief flooded me. “You forgot the middle initial.” I spelled out the full address again.

“Great! I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’ll send the email and call you then.”

When he phoned ten minutes later, I heard keys clattering, as if into a bowl. I pictured him in the cool hallway of an impeccable house: gallery-style lights positioned to show off framed artwork, fresh flowers, underlit kitchen cabinets.

“Really sorry about that mix-up,” he said, voice loud one moment and muffled the next. “Just a minute.”

He greeted someone or something, his pitch rising.

“You have a dog?”

“An old one with a weak bladder. But now that Sammy’s in the yard, I can pay better attention. There. Better.” He exhaled. “Abby.”

He said my name as if he was charmed to have a reason to talk. No hurry. No agenda. Just a caring voice.

He asked, “Have things gotten any better at your school?

Is there a professional question you’d like to discuss?”

“Yes. But it’s also personal. I’m calling about Benjamin. He was closer than I thought to the girl who just died—actually, both girls. I think their deaths are upsetting him in ways he’s not mature enough to confront.”

“That would be natural.”

“I’m afraid he’ll go looking for support or consolation in the wrong places. He needs to talk to someone, and the new counselor at school . . . never mind about him. School’s over now anyway.”

This time Curtis said nothing. I didn’t even hear an empathetic sigh.

“Dr. Campbell? My son needs help. You’d be the ideal—”

He cut me off. “Abigail, I’m very sorry. My book deadline is closing in.”

“You’re writing a book about boys. You’d be more likely to understand than anyone. And you know Benjamin, already. You’ve seen what he’s like. Intelligent, disciplined, but oppositional as well.”

In the pause that followed, I could feel him considering. “It’s not just my upcoming deadlines, unfortunately. I’m also spending more time every week near Fond du Lac, checking on my father. He’s determined to ‘age in place,’ but he isn’t doing well.”