Free An Act of Love by Nancy Thayer

young man, Whit could have posed for Ralph Lauren ads, and he seemed so much more sophisticated than Bruce that Owen and Linda were a bit baffled that Whit would want Bruce as his guest over Thanksgiving.
    There was no doubt that Bruce wanted to go. “Let it be my Christmas present,” he’d urged.
    “It would have to be,” Owen had replied. “Roundtrip plane fare to New York, money for cabs, we’re talking three hundred dollars.”
    “His parents will pay for theater tickets—”
    “No. We’ll give you money and you’ll pay for your own.”
    “Great! Then I can go!”
    Linda said, “I’m afraid you’ll get up to something wicked in the city.”
    Bruce laughed. “Linda, we’ll be with his parents every minute. Oh, it’ll be so cool! Thanks, you guys. You’re the best.”
    Now Linda took a deep breath. “Owen, there are several other ways to impress consequences on Bruce. But I don’t think we should take this trip away from him. He’s worked hard; he’s been an exemplary student for three and a half years now. Guys get in fights all the time. Remember your own adolescence, remember some of the stuff you told me you got up to, and I’m sure you didn’t tell me everything. Think of what some of his friends have done … pot, drinking, smoking in the bathrooms, hotel parties … Bruce hasn’t done any of that. I think he deserves some credit. Some points.”
    “You’re always too lenient,” Owen said.
    “You’re always too harsh,” Linda countered. “Make him muck out the stalls when he’s home for Christmas. Or cut a cord of wood. Something useful. Owen, I feel strongly about this.”
    “All right,” Owen said. “Fine.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “I have to bring him his dress coat.”
    “Let’s do it tomorrow. We have to be back at the hospital tomorrow evening for Family Group with Emily. If we get Bruce his clothes by late tomorrow morning, that should be time enough. Their vacation doesn’t start until noon.”
    “We might as well go home. There’s nothing left we can do for Emily today.”
    “Wait, Owen. I think there is something we can do.”
    “What?”
    “Talk to the people at the Methodist church. Find out if she confided in anyone there.”
    “Good idea.”
    “You could do that. While I talk to Jorge Avila.”
    “Why don’t we both talk to him?”
    “Because you would intimidate him.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Come on. You know he’d react differently if he spoke to me alone. If I enlisted his help in a nonthreatening way. He might be willing to tell me anything he knows about Emily. But with you standing there glowering …”
    “I won’t glower.”
    “Please. We’ll save time, too, if we do it separately.”
    “All right,” Owen conceded. He wasn’t pleased, but he could see Linda’s point. He was beginning to experience a bit of the old stag/young stag tension with Bruce; he’donly get Jorge’s back up if he questioned the young man about Emily. To say nothing of how his own blood would rise.

    They had weighed her and tapped her and cuffed her and taken more blood, as if through scientific analysis they could discover a suicide-provoking microbe that they’d extinguish with the proper antibiotic. Now Emily sat in yet another office, facing Dr. Brinton, the ward psychiatrist. A bald man with a bulging cranium, he looked almost extraterrestrial and the eyes behind his glasses were not kind. Why had they chosen this creep to interview her? He had little tiny bloodless lips. Couldn’t they see how spooky he was? Who would ever tell him anything?
    He asked, “Have you often had thoughts of suicide?”
    Perhaps if she answered some questions, he’d let her out of the room and away from him. Probably that was why they’d chosen him. She could lie. How would he know? Although if anyone had the power to read minds, this zombie did.
    “No.”
    “Have you ever harmed yourself before?”
    “No.”
    “Want to tell me about those scratches