Deep Trauma

Joe was sitting with his back to the door when Riley knocked and entered. The couple sitting across from him in matching armchairs looked like they hadn’t slept in days. The woman was in her midfifties, Riley guessed, rail thin with faded ginger hair cropped at the shoulders. The man eyed Riley from behind a pair of thick glasses, his full beard skirting a wide face that looked like it had seen its share of sun.

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” the man said, standing to leave as soon as Riley entered. The woman watched him go, saying nothing. She held a box of tissues in her lap as if she were cradling an infant.

“This is Dr. Brighton. She’s the one who found—” Joe paused before quickly rephrasing the introduction. “She was the first responder on the scene after the accident.”

Riley could only deduce Joe’s hesitation was a reflection of confusion regarding which pronouns to use for the victim. That made sense. It was also unclear how much he was allowed to reveal before the detectives arrived.

“It’s Riley—just plain Riley.” She gave the woman a soft smile. “How are you holding up, ma’am?”

“This is Ms. McAllister,” Joe clarified. “She’s the mother of . . .” Again, Joe seemed unsure of how to proceed.

“Clive,” the woman interjected hurriedly, glancing up at Joe as she set the box of tissues on the table. “He wanted to be called Clive.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Ms. McAllister.”

“It’s Valerie, you can call me Val.” She extended both hands to clasp Riley’s.

Riley sat next to Joe and across from Val. The woman’s face was drawn and pale, she was leaning forward in her chair as if she didn’t have the strength to hold herself upright. She rested her elbows on a set of bony knees, dropping her head into her hands as she added, “Ron can’t handle this. He hates LA. He just wants to get back to the farm. Forgive him for being so rude.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Val. We all have our ways of handling grief.”

“He doesn’t handle much of anything to do with feelings, I’m afraid.” She looked up at Riley with red-rimmed eyes. “When Clive transitioned, Ron lost it. He took it personally. He said our baby was gone. Forever erased. He never got used to the new name and the pronouns. Sometimes I slip up too.”

“That’s understandable.”

“But now, none of that matters. Our only child is dead.” Val’s body shook momentarily. The guttural sound that came out of her was raw, almost animalistic, as she clenched her jaw and slapped the tears from her face violently with the palms of both hands.

Riley locked eyes with Joe. She motioned toward the door with her head, and he took the cue.

“I’ll wait in the lobby for Detective Roberts to arrive. That way I can keep Ron company. I’ll text you when she gets here, Riley,” he added, darting his eyes to the left, indicating that she should exit through the side door when leaving to avoid running into the detective.

Once they were alone, Riley said, “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of questions for the police, and I’m sure you’re not feeling much like talking right now, so I’ll be brief, Val.” The woman stared back at Riley as if she was still taking in where she was. “When was the last time you saw Clive?”

“Just over a month ago. He and Ron were always falling out. Clive said he was going to the city to help an old friend. We never heard from him again. I just assumed he was cooling off somewhere.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“Fresno,” she said, wiping her nose. “Ron’s family has a farm out there, but Clive had been coming to LA on and off since high school. He had friends in Venice. We just assumed he’d be home for Thanksgiving. I try not to ask . . .” She stopped for a minute, pulling another tissue out of the box on the table. “I tried not to ask too many questions. I didn’t want to seem overbearing, but I worried about her. Him. I worried about him.”

“You were worried something might happen to Clive?”

“Yes, he was just . . . so small, you know? Still petite, even though he’d been taking the testosterone for over a year. Something really bad happened to him the first time he came here, when he was still in high school. Someone hurt him, and he was never the same. I can’t help but think it was part of the reason he transitioned. I was worried someone might hurt him again—” Val’s voice cracked. “A mom never stops worrying.”

Riley nodded. She could only assume this was true. She’d heard it enough times from her own mother.

“Clive was such a smart child,” Val went on. “He taught himself to read at four years old. Ron was so proud. In those days, he used to say that ‘our baby girl could grow up to be anything she wanted.’ And that’s it, see. He just didn’t expect his little Clair-bell to grow up to be a boy. As I’ve already said, my husband took it poorly, but it got way worse than that. He went ballistic when Clive legally changed his name.” The woman paused for a moment, tears running down her cheeks. She swallowed hard. “But I would tell him, ‘Ron, we prayed every day during my pregnancy for that baby. We never once prayed for a boy or a girl; all we wanted was a child that was healthy and happy.’ That’s what I don’t understand about Ron. Why couldn’t he just love Clive the same as we did before he was born? Before we knew if he was a boy or girl.”

Riley felt her nose tingle in the way it usually did before her eyes filled up.

“I understand,” she said, automatically placing a hand over Val’s. But the truth was she didn’t understand. She couldn’t fathom the loss of a child. She forced herself to come clean. “Actually, that’s not true,” she whispered. “In all honesty, Val, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. I’m terribly sorry.”

“You don’t have children?” Val asked, wiping her face with a fistful of tissues. Riley shook her head, unable to speak. Val passed her a tissue. “You’re lucky, Doctor. You have no idea how lucky you are. There is nothing—nothing—worse than losing your child. And Ron would argue that we lost ours twice.”

Silence funneled in, punctuated solely by Val’s sniffling. Riley, again, had no idea what to say—losing a child was completely out of her reference. Yes, she knew how badly grief could cut. She’d learned that lesson early in life, and often. But losing a child? No, she couldn’t fathom grief on that scale. All she could feel was sorrow for Val who was plagued by so much regret.

“Maybe one day,” Val went on, “Ron will see how he could have loved Clive. How Clive was the same person as his little Clair. How our child was always our child—the same heart, the same spirit. The biggest difference honestly after the transition was . . . Clive was so much happier than Clair had ever been.”

Riley swallowed the tightness in her throat. “Maybe it’s easier for your husband not to see how he missed that opportunity.”

“I don’t think he’s ever going to forgive himself when it hits him.” She looked up at Riley, her expression morphing from grief into something darker. “And maybe, I’ll never forgive him.”

“It’s time for me to go now, Val.” Riley stood as she read the text message on her phone from Joe. “I just wanted you to know Clive didn’t suffer—he went fast. I couldn’t stop thinking about him . . . ever since that morning. I’m glad I got to connect with you.”

She dared not say more; the detectives would be the ones to break the news that Clive’s death hadn’t been an accident. And for the second time in less than five minutes, Riley realized she’d lied to Val.

Clive had suffered. He had suffered terribly before the end.