Part 23 (1/2)
”Plenty of time. Dr. Stover was called out on an emergency. It could take a while,” said the secretary. ”Do you wish to wait? We can reschedule.”
Do I wish to wait?Keely thought.No. But I will. I'm not leaving until I see him.
”I'll wait,” she said firmly.
It was nearly two hours later when the secretary put down her phone and turned in her chair. ”Dr. Stover is ready to see you now,” she said.
Smothering a sigh of frustration, Keely rose from the chair and entered the office.
Dr. Stover, an overweight, bearded man in his sixties, stood up and came around the corner of his desk.
”Mrs. Weaver,” said Dr. Stover. ”I'm sorry you had to wait.”
”Well, I wanted to be sure I saw you today,” Keely said, unsmiling.
”I'm glad you're here,” he said, resuming his seat. ”I wanted to see you as well. Just give me another minute.”
Keely sat down in the chair he indicated. While Dr. Stover shuffled through some papers on his desk, Keely looked around the office at the framed diplomas on the walls, the shelves of psychiatric textbooks.
”Now, Mrs. Weaver,” he said.
Keely sat up straight in the chair.
”Let's talk about Dylan. His suicide attempt came as a great shock to you, I'm sure.”
”It certainly did,” said Keely.
”Does your son have any history of psychological problems? Has he ever been treated by a psychiatrist, or a psychologist before?”
Keely shook her head. ”No, never.”
Dr. Stover raised his eyebrows. ”Not even when his father committed suicide?”
Keely immediately felt the rebuke in his words. ”No,” she admitted.
”Did you consider getting him some professional help? That had to have been very traumatic for Dylan.”
Keely took a deep breath. ”Dr. Stover, my husband . . . Dylan's father was . . . tormented-I can't think of a better way to describe it-tormented by migraine headaches. No treatment seemed to help. Dylan was aware of this. I mean, even as young as he was. Our lives very much revolved around Richard's headaches. So, even though I realized his death was a shock to . . . to both of us, I didn't think . . . I thought Dylan would be able to accept it in time. With a lot of help from me.”
”In retrospect,” he said, ”do you think that was the right decision?”
Keely looked at him squarely. ”I did the best I could at the time. I don't see any point in wis.h.i.+ng I could change the past.”
”And yet, when your second husband died, you still didn't seek any help for your son. Is that right?”
”It was so recent,” Keely said, hating to make excuses for herself.
”I have a note here that you did call me on the very day of Dylan's suicide attempt. Did he exhibit any behavior that indicated he was suicidal?”
”Like what?” Keely asked.
Dr. Stover looked at her in surprise. ”I would have thought you would be aware of those signs after the death of your husband.”
Keely stared back at him for a moment without speaking. She could hear the disapproval in his voice. ”I don't know what you mean,” she said.
Dr. Stover nodded. ”Well, for example, we often find that people who are suicidal talk about doing things for the last time. They'll take leave of a person and remark that they won't be seeing that person again. They often give away prized possessions just before the act. Entrust them to others. Say they won't be needing them.”
”They telegraph their intentions, in other words,” she said, ”hoping someone will stop them.”
”Yes, they often do.”
”No. The answer is no. Neither one of them did.”
Dr. Stover frowned.
”I'm not saying that to exonerate myself,” said Keely. ”I failed Dylan, okay? I failed both of them. I admit that. I'm not making excuses. But, no, those things you said-no, they didn't.”
”You seem like a perceptive woman, Mrs. Weaver. Are you saying that you had no warning?”
”I knew my first husband was suffering. But he wasn't a man who liked to talk about his feelings. He was a scientist. He prized . . . objectivity. He tried any number of drugs to try to cure his headaches. Nothing helped. He never talked about ending his life, but obviously, he thought about it. As for Dylan, well, I knew he was depressed. Under the circ.u.mstances, it seemed . . . reasonable. I was depressed myself.” Keely sighed. ”What's the use of wis.h.i.+ng I could change the past? I have to think about today. How my son is doing right now. I mean, you've had a chance to talk to him. How does he seem to you?”
”He's anxious, depressed, I would say-not severely, surprisingly.”
”He told me you prescribed medication.”
”That's right,” he said. ”I've prescribed a mild antidepressant for him.”
”What will this drug do for him?” Keely asked. ”I mean, is it something he's going to have to take for a long time?”
”As long as I feel he needs it,” said Dr. Stover. ”It's meant to calm his anxieties, keep him from sinking too low.”
”Side effects?” she asked.
”Sleepiness. Often there's a loss of appet.i.te. It has a dulling effect on the libido in some people.”
”Nothing permanent, I hope,” she said.
”No, nothing permanent. I want him to take it in addition to regular therapy.”
”That would be good,” she said. ”I think he needs someone to talk to.”
”Does he talk to you, Mrs. Weaver?”
”Not as much as I'd like him to,” Keely admitted.
The doctor s.h.i.+fted in his chair. ”Have you and Dylan ever talked about his own father's suicide?”