Read Online The Binding by Nicholas Wolff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicholas Wolff
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Prescott, you can’t lock your daughter up.”
“Nobody is locked in here.”
“Then . . .”
“These are to keep things out . Protection from outside is whatis needed here. Becca is free to go wherever and whenever she wants. She only has to knock.”
Prescott now seemed to have come fully awake. Genuine emotion worked in the old man’s face. Nat remembered that he was here to treat his daughter for a nasty little mental quirk and decided to cut the guy a break.
“Okay, then. But I have to ask her about all this.”
Prescott stood back.
“You do remember coming by last night, don’t you? I wasn’t dreaming?”
Prescott laughed thinly, but his eyes were uncertain. “What are you talking about?”
Nat stared at him. “When you came to the door, you didn’t seem to recognize me.”
Prescott’s eyes went dead. “Of course I did,” he said. “ My mental faculties aren’t in question here.”
Nat studied him, then said: “I’ll talk to you after I’ve had a chance to meet Becca. You’ll be here, right?”
Prescott stared, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Where else would I go, Doctor? Where else would I go?”
Prescott suddenly walked away and was swallowed up by the gloom, with only the sound of his shuffling feet coming back to Nat as he traversed the hallway.
Nat reached for the door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered Becca’s room.
CHAPTER NINE
N at found himself in the typical room of a certain kind of teenage girl. More precisely, the kind who loves books. Rows of them were lined up in a white five-shelf bookcase to Nat’s right, and more were packed onto shelving that lined walls covered in light green wallpaper. There were no posters of movies or bands or anything like that, but there on the pale cream-colored wall opposite him was a painting that might have done by a nineteen-year-old girl: a landscape with dark jagged mountain ranges and what appeared to be a man walking along a fringe of forest and entering the tree line at the bottom of the hills. There were two sconces on the wall, throwing light out into the small room, and two amber-colored candles on the windowsill, unlit. There was an old quilt on the wrought-iron bed and many pillows. Two stuffed animals—a zebra and a bear—looked down at the pillows from the window shelf. If Becca opened the window regularly, the bear and the zebra would have been moved somewhere else. So, like the curtains, the window remained closed.
The room smelled sweet, as though she’d sprayed rose water into the air sometime before he’d opened the door.
Becca was sitting at a small antique desk, the right side of her face in half profile. She didn’t move, only stared ahead at the book she was reading.
“Becca?” Nat said.
She turned slightly in the chair to look at him. Her eyes were widely spaced, brown, and fixed on Nat with a kind of repressedurgency. Her nose was slightly flat and dented in the middle—like a young Ellen Barkin, Nat thought—her skin pale and her face oval-shaped. Becca was attractive, even if she was almost severe-looking, especially with her brown hair pulled back. She was wearing a white turtleneck and a pearl gray skirt that reached to the knees. She appeared . . . oddly composed, Nat thought. Not what he’d expected.
“Yes?” she said.
Nat breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t display the usual psychotic or schizophrenic affect, or appear to be entranced or possessed or zombified either. She was a nineteen-year-old girl whose brothers had committed suicide and whose father had lost himself in grief.
Nat Thayer’s insta-diagnosis? A girl raised under sad circumstances.
“I’m Dr. Thayer. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Her eyes seemed to blaze up for a few seconds, then calmly searched his face. She got up and moved to the bed, leaving the desk chair for Nat.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting down. “I’m not sure if your father—”
She shook her head.
“He
“Nobody is locked in here.”
“Then . . .”
“These are to keep things out . Protection from outside is whatis needed here. Becca is free to go wherever and whenever she wants. She only has to knock.”
Prescott now seemed to have come fully awake. Genuine emotion worked in the old man’s face. Nat remembered that he was here to treat his daughter for a nasty little mental quirk and decided to cut the guy a break.
“Okay, then. But I have to ask her about all this.”
Prescott stood back.
“You do remember coming by last night, don’t you? I wasn’t dreaming?”
Prescott laughed thinly, but his eyes were uncertain. “What are you talking about?”
Nat stared at him. “When you came to the door, you didn’t seem to recognize me.”
Prescott’s eyes went dead. “Of course I did,” he said. “ My mental faculties aren’t in question here.”
Nat studied him, then said: “I’ll talk to you after I’ve had a chance to meet Becca. You’ll be here, right?”
Prescott stared, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Where else would I go, Doctor? Where else would I go?”
Prescott suddenly walked away and was swallowed up by the gloom, with only the sound of his shuffling feet coming back to Nat as he traversed the hallway.
Nat reached for the door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered Becca’s room.
CHAPTER NINE
N at found himself in the typical room of a certain kind of teenage girl. More precisely, the kind who loves books. Rows of them were lined up in a white five-shelf bookcase to Nat’s right, and more were packed onto shelving that lined walls covered in light green wallpaper. There were no posters of movies or bands or anything like that, but there on the pale cream-colored wall opposite him was a painting that might have done by a nineteen-year-old girl: a landscape with dark jagged mountain ranges and what appeared to be a man walking along a fringe of forest and entering the tree line at the bottom of the hills. There were two sconces on the wall, throwing light out into the small room, and two amber-colored candles on the windowsill, unlit. There was an old quilt on the wrought-iron bed and many pillows. Two stuffed animals—a zebra and a bear—looked down at the pillows from the window shelf. If Becca opened the window regularly, the bear and the zebra would have been moved somewhere else. So, like the curtains, the window remained closed.
The room smelled sweet, as though she’d sprayed rose water into the air sometime before he’d opened the door.
Becca was sitting at a small antique desk, the right side of her face in half profile. She didn’t move, only stared ahead at the book she was reading.
“Becca?” Nat said.
She turned slightly in the chair to look at him. Her eyes were widely spaced, brown, and fixed on Nat with a kind of repressedurgency. Her nose was slightly flat and dented in the middle—like a young Ellen Barkin, Nat thought—her skin pale and her face oval-shaped. Becca was attractive, even if she was almost severe-looking, especially with her brown hair pulled back. She was wearing a white turtleneck and a pearl gray skirt that reached to the knees. She appeared . . . oddly composed, Nat thought. Not what he’d expected.
“Yes?” she said.
Nat breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t display the usual psychotic or schizophrenic affect, or appear to be entranced or possessed or zombified either. She was a nineteen-year-old girl whose brothers had committed suicide and whose father had lost himself in grief.
Nat Thayer’s insta-diagnosis? A girl raised under sad circumstances.
“I’m Dr. Thayer. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Her eyes seemed to blaze up for a few seconds, then calmly searched his face. She got up and moved to the bed, leaving the desk chair for Nat.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting down. “I’m not sure if your father—”
She shook her head.
“He
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