Read Online The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel by Keith Donohue - Free Book Online Page B

pushed the food with his fork and sipped at a mug of lukewarm cocoa, stealing glances at his father, who was spying on him from behind the newspaper. With a bit of effort, he thought he could dawdle all day, but his father folded the sports section with a crisp crease and laid it down beside his empty coffee cup. “Time to go.”
    Condemned, he pushed away from the table and followed his father to the mudroom. First came the dark sunglasses, which made the day into night, and then his coat and hat, his scarf and mittens. He tried to screw his feet into the floor, but he hadn’t the strength to resist his father’s tug at his hand. On with the red boots. They marched to the doorway, and Tim left him standing at the threshold while he went to start up the Jeep. The sun fell brightly upon his face and the cold air wormed its way through the layers of clothing and fingered his skin. He tucked his chin against his chest and shivered. The engine roared to life and his father came trudging from the driveway with an old stadium blanket they kept in the back for just such occasions.
    “I can’t,” Jack Peter said.
    “Of course you can,” his father answered, and he threw the blanket over Jack Peter’s head and shoulders and wrapped him up so tightly that only his face could be seen. With a firm hand against his son’s back, Tim guided him onto the driveway. On the first step outside, the boy let out a low moan that rose to a steady wail as he was herded the few feet to the car. His father pushed him into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door behind him. Jack Peter banged the seat with his back over and over until he was strapped into place. His cries subsided to a quiet singsong whimper that Tim drowned out by turning on the radio.
    “Honestly, Jip, can you cool it just this once?”
    Behind his dark glasses and buried in his swaddling, the boy whined softly all the way to the psychiatrist’s office. Once a month to Dr. Wilson. Once every other month to the state-provided therapist. Twice a year to the dentist’s. The odd trip to the pediatrician for other maladies. Every time a little hell.
    Even so, it was better now than in the beginning. They had not understood at first what triggered the seizures, and it was only through months of tribulation that they realized that it was being outside that made him panic. When their son first started having the attacks, Tim had to carry him, seven years old, bawling like a rabbit in a trap, pleading not to be taken from inside.
    The ordeal with Dr. Wilson took the rest of the morning. First, they had to move from the car to the medical building and then unwrap the blankets once inside. Then Jip had to adjust to the new environment of the pediatric waiting room filled with people. He liked to sit on an end seat with his father next to him, but no two seats together were available, so they stood by the water cooler affecting a casual air. As usual, they went in together for the interrogation.
    Wilson rose from his chair, a giant of a man, and reached down to shake Tim’s hand in his huge paw. Emerging from his bushy beard, his smile of greeting was alarming, for he usually wore a severe expression on his face. His joker’s grin was his attempt at appearing nonjudgmental, which often had the opposite effect. While he settled into his throne across from them, Wilson invited them to sit on the couch. He gave Tim one last cursory glance and then turned to the boy.
    “So how are we doing these days, Jack? Ready for Christmas?”
    Jip said nothing and tucked his chin to his chest. The doctor bent forward, made himself smaller, and put his face closer. “Come now, it’s me. What’s new and exciting? Are you working on anything?”
    “He’s doing much better,” Tim volunteered. “Been drawing, haven’t you?”
    Like a hummingbird, Jip’s hand darted forward and he used one finger to trace a pattern in the air.
    “What do you like to draw?” Dr. Wilson asked.
    Jip dropped