“We’re new in town.”

“No family?”

He paused before he said, “Unfortunately, none close enough to help with this.”

If I didn’t already know about Sherry and Sam, I would have been left to believe that John Trent’s use of the word “close” was a geographical reference, not an emotional one. I noted the obfuscation.

I said, “That’s too bad.”

“Believe me, I’m not callous to Merritt’s needs. Far from it, I’ve been worried about her and I’ve tried to pay attention to what’s going on with her and I’ve tried to stay in touch with her but these last few weeks have been…can you hold just a second?”

The line was quiet for a moment. John came back on and said, “This will take a minute or two. Please wait. I’m very sorry.”

I could hear a distant beeping and a female voice entering into a conversation with John. Finally he said, “Good, that’s great, thanks, Terry.”

He came back on the phone. “Chaney had a kink in her IV line. We took care of it. Where were we?”

“Merritt’s isolation.”

“That’s it. But she wasn’t isolated, not in a depressed sense. I was watching for it. She was doing okay with all this. I mean, she was desperately worried about her sister, and she missed our family time together, but she was handling it. I thought she was, anyway. She was staying in touch with her friends, her schoolwork was getting done, she called her father whenever he was available, which isn’t often. He’s in the Persian Gulf somewhere on an oil platform.

“No matter how bad things have been, we’ve made a point of having at least one dinner together a week. Brenda and Merritt and I, away from the hospital somewhere. She likes the chicken dinner on Sunday nights at this place close by called the Aubergine Cafe. It’s right by Channel 7. We’ve gone there a few times. And Merritt has been appropriate, in terms of mood and affect. I thought she had been, anyway. I don’t know, maybe I’m just trying to rationalize the fact that I missed it, how depressed she really was, is. But she hasn’t been withdrawn, she hasn’t changed the way she relates to me. Her appetite seemed fine. She eats, sometimes a lot, sometimes not. Her schoolwork had slipped a little, but she was getting it done. And she was still playing basketball whenever she could.

“You should see her play. God, is she graceful. She has this fallaway jump shot that you can’t stop. She kills me with it. We play a lot of one-on-one.”

“I’d love to see her play.” I’d love to see her do anything but be in the hospital.

“What’s remarkable about her game is her patience. She doesn’t take bad shots, doesn’t make bad passes. When she gets a little stronger underneath, a little more comfortable with her size, watch out. One game this year against Fairview she was up against this big girl, I mean big. The girl was manhandling Merritt on defense and Merritt wouldn’t take bad shots. She just moved the ball around and found her open teammates. She ended up with eleven assists from the forward position. Twelve points and eleven assists, a double-double. Her game is all patience and good judgment.

“Do you know that Ceal Barry, the CU women’s coach, has come by to see her play twice already? Merritt’s that good; she’s really good.”

“It sounds like it.” I was hoping my platitude would bring him back. It did.

“I can twist it every which way, I can put it under any microscope I can find, but I just didn’t see it. I love that girl, Dr. Gregory, and I didn’t see it coming. That’s the bottom line.”

I wanted to keep him focused on Merritt. “You didn’t mention much about her friends, John. Just that she stayed in touch.”

“No,” he said. He seemed distracted.

“Any changes there?”

It was at least ten seconds before he spoke again. “Chaney is so restless on these drugs they’re giving her. She doesn’t really sleep.”

“Do you need to attend to her?”

“No, no, I think that I’ve taken care of it for now. Umm, Merritt and her friends? That’s where we were?”

“Yes.”

“She has one close girlfriend, Madison, the one who found her after the overdose. They hang out other places mostly, not at our house. I don’t know Madison well, but she’s not like the kids that Merritt usually gravitates to. Madison’s boy crazy and nonathletic and she smokes and has a tattoo. You know. But I don’t know her well. I’m sure Brenda has her phone number, though, and who knows, maybe Madison knows something. You know what it’s like with teenage girls and best friends.”

I thought, Only in theory. “Nothing else?”

“I wish. I can’t think of anything.”

“Do you mind providing me some general history, John? Whatever you can tell me about Merritt since you became involved with the family.”

John knew precisely what I wanted from him and after absorbing my empathy and my dispensation over whatever were his sins of omission with his stepdaughter, he settled in to providing me with a history of his involvement with Brenda and Merritt, the birth of Chaney, the family move to Colorado, and their adjustment to a new home. He related their history with the dispassionate accuracy of a mental health professional who had heard it done a few hundred times before.

He did, however, leave out any mention of Sherry and Sam Purdy.

He offered nothing that piqued my interest in regard to the genesis of the suicide attempt. No red flags. No yellow flags. Nothing.

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.

Nine

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.