The Sister by Max China Page B

The more she thought about it, the redder she went. "I'm so sorry," she said self-consciously. Men often assumed the reason she blushed so hard because she was attracted to them. Most of the time it wasn't true, and certainly not in Ryan's case.
    He reassured her with a sympathetic smile. "You know Ellen, there are treatments available for that . . ."
    The heat generated by her blushing formed a slight sheen of perspiration that glossed her skin. "We'll get my son sorted out first, then perhaps . . ." she fanned air towards her face with magazine in a futile effort to cool it. Bruce glanced at her with irritation. He knew she'd never sort it out, opting out with a comment like: 'I find it too embarrassing', as she always did.
    He gestured for the boy to follow him. "Shall we begin?"
    They disappeared through the door, and it closed behind them. A few seconds later, the red indicator bulb illuminated.
    Mrs Milowski felt Penny's eyes boring into the back of her head as she walked out of the room.
     
     
    The doctor walked to the window and opened the Venetian blinds; the light coming through the horizontal slats projected across the room onto the opposite wall, recreating the image, distilled into alternate grey and white bars. When he returned to his seat, Bruce had switched places, sitting in the chair that his mother had occupied last week. From there, he could see the books on the shelves better. He narrowed his eyes to focus, but could make out only the larger titles printed down the spines: Strategies of Representation in Young Children, Children's Drawings, Foetus Into Man. Below piles of old Nature magazines stacked on top of a range of sliding glass-fronted cabinets that were filled with similar reading.
    "Have you really read all those?" he said, indicating the bookshelves.
    He sat and revolved around on his chair to look at them and then spun back to face his patient. "No," he chuckled. "But they look pretty impressive don't they?" His glasses had slipped to the end of his nose, and he pushed them back up. Almost immediately, they slid down again.
    The silver pencil that shone so brightly last week was resting on top of a pile of loose notes. He tried to get a closer look without being noticed.
    "Are you looking at my pencil?" he asked him. "Would you like to have a closer look?"
    Picking it up, he handed it to him. It was far heavier than Bruce expected. It appeared to be very old, the engravings on the barrel worn away to a shiny, polished surface where his fingers rubbed. He saw his face in miniature, as if he were looking into a fairground novelty mirror, all big nose, receding jaw and bulbous top of the head. Faintly amused, he moved it back and forth, and then clicked out the lead, two, three clicks. Ryan watched his patient warily, as if he was afraid he would run off with it at any minute.
    "It's beautiful," he said, returning it.
    "Yes, it was my grandfather's. It's been in the family for years, and it's been with me almost since the beginning of my career. Made by Sampson Mordan . . ."
    He snapped out of his memories quite suddenly, "Right, we digress." Clicking out the lead to the correct length, he tested it against his thumbnail. Perfect.
    "Last week, you were telling me about the feeling you had, just before your first friend fell into the water." He scrutinised him over the top of his half-moon glasses. One of his eyes appeared faded, and watery; the other strong and deep blue. He seemed able to see right into Bruce, who shifted uncomfortably.
    "Now I understand he was messing about when that happened, he stopped dead on top of an old shoe that caused him to lose his balance and fall."
    "I don't remember telling you that, but yes - it's true." There was a note of concern in his voice. The psychiatrist continued, ignoring his comment. "Then one by one, the others launched themselves to the rescue, and they all perished . . ." He allowed his words to trail.
    He nodded without speaking, he appeared to be