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That was another problem. One he suspected it would be just as difficult to solve.
“CAN YOU TELL US, Doctor, how many patients you’ve treated who think they have psychic ability?”
Meredith stood in her kitchen, coffee cup in hand, listening to the portable radio on her counter. She’d been there fifteen minutes and had yet to fill the cup.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Thank God. The psychologist had an impressive list of credentials. In Oklahoma and beyond. Apparently he’d written several books that were used in psychology classrooms at many of the nation’s top universities.
“Because the number is far too large to count,” he added, and weight dropped like lead in Meredith’s stomach. “Many of the psychosomatic illnesses I treat, as well as various psychoses, cause delusions of psychic ability. It’s common for people suffering from mental illness to claim psychic counsel as a motivation for their actions. Many, many crimes are committed in the course of such delusion.”
“What happens to these people?” Talk show host Delilah White had just the right amount of concern in her voice.
“Many of them, if they’re brought to trial, are found not guilty on grounds of diminished capacity and are committed to psychiatric confinement.”
The cup in Meredith’s hand slipped, shattering on the floor at her feet and spraying her ankles with tiny shards of porcelain. She bent to clean up the mess. Picked up the biggest pieces before going for the broom. Her ankles had dots of blood on them now. She’d deal with them later.
Clever of Barnett, really. Implying through his expert witness that there were many like her and that her “kind” needed to be committed, because they were a danger to society. Clever, too, in that he hadn’t really come out and said so. Because that would be slanderous.
The show went on painfully. Larry Barnett had given his spiel at the beginning. Nothing new or original there. And after Delilah White had thanked each guest, Barnett added his own sickening bits of humble gratitude.
First was the book-writing therapist, then a child psychologist to talk about what a vulnerable age eight was and how a child’s perception of his parent could be permanently damaged if the evidence was strong enough to sway him; and about how kids thought of their teachers as godlike, often believing that everything they said was true.
The psychic was the worst. She admitted that she made a good living predicting futures over the telephone—and that it was all in good fun. That she didn’t think anyone really believed what she told them.
A brain surgeon followed, talking about the fact there was no proof that humans possessed any kind of psychic ability. He lost Meredith, and she supposed most of his audience, with his talk of monitored brain waves and neural reactors, but his doubt about anyone who claimed to find truth without tangible, measurable input was crystal-clear.
Meredith’s phone rang, but she didn’t answer it. Instead she went for the broom. Couldn’t find it. Cleaned up the powdery remains of the cup with a paper towel. And then, with the towel still in her hand, sat down on the floor.
Delilah White invited listeners to call in. One after another, citizens expressed their outrage at young children being exposed to psychic teachings in the classroom. At the shocking fact that young children were being taught by someone who wasn’t stable. There were the usual diatribes about society and what it had come to. Open-ended questions about where it would all lead.
And as was common with radio talk shows, there were other people who supported Meredith’s right to believe what she believed, and to speak of what she believed as long as she didn’t teach it as part of the curriculum, as long as she didn’t hurt anyone.
“Not hurt anyone?” Larry Barnett piped up. “How can an accusation of abuse not be harmful?”
“I’m sorry, listeners, but I agree with Mr. Barnett on that one. Clearly harm has been done here. The question is, what is the Bartlesville public school system going to do about it?”
Clearly harm had been done. Only one side had been heard. There’d been no trial. But judgment had been made. Meredith jumped up. Grabbed the phone. Dialed the number that Delilah White had been repeating ad nauseum.
She had to try six times to get through, and then she was asked to hold. But only until she said her name.
“We have Ms. Meredith Foster on the line, ladies and gentlemen. Ms. Foster, I’m sure our listeners are eager to hear what you have to say.”
“I am a teacher of children,” Meredith spoke slowly, quietly, with great effort. “I teach the board-approved curriculum—and only that. For the past four years, my students have scored significantly higher on aptitude tests than any other third-grade class in Bartlesville. As a teacher of young children, I am often exposed to emotional outbursts or withdrawals, as children this age haven’t yet learned to filter or control their feelings. Because of this, I’m often aware when they’re struggling. Any time unusual behavior occurs, I go straight to the parents. My only other option is to remain silent, and I believe there are more parents out there who care enough to want to know what could potentially be going on in their child’s life than those who don’t want me to speak of anything but ABC’s.”
“But, Ms. Foster, in the most recent incident, I’m told the student didn’t give you any information. That, in fact, you inferred that there might be a problem and on evidence as flimsy as a sense of…knowing…you w
ent to the boy’s mother with claims of child abuse.”
“I’d like to ask Mr. Barnett, why, if he’s so concerned about his son, he’s making a public issue of the fact that I thought the boy was unhappy. It seems to me that all this attention would be more damaging to a child than anything I said in private to his mother.”
“My son is used to living in the public eye, Ms. Foster.” Barnett’s tone remained placidly, warm, congenial. “And he’s the reason I’m pursuing this matter. I want Thomas to know that I have nothing to hide. Emotional abuse is insidious. By its very nature, one cannot be sure one is suffering from it. That being the case, once the claim was made I had to do everything in my power to assure the boy that he was not a victim.”
The man was good. Which was why he was a D.A. Why on earth had she dared take him on? How could she possibly have believed she might win?
“Ms. Foster? Do you deny that you claim to use some kind of psychic ability in your work with your students?” Delilah White again.
“I am no psychic.” Meredith stared at the paper towel in her hand. If she squeezed it, she’d cut her hand. Bleed. She should throw it away. “I have no abilities that every single one of you doesn’t also have. I am merely perceptive. An opportunity we all have.”
