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And I wasn’t sure if Daniel’s words were his or my own.
* * *
“Are you ready to talk about the Weet-Bix guy?” the psychologist asked.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I whispered.
“Take your time.”
He said nothing as I stared blankly at the wall.
“There were lots of boxes,” I mumbled.
“Weet-Bix boxes?”
“Yeah. He was a hoarder. His house was full of them.”
“Where were they?”
“Rising up the sides of the hallway. There was just enough room to walk between them if you were careful.”
“Are they what you think about the most?”
“Whenever I see a Weet-Bix box at the supermarket, it reminds me.”
“Is that all that reminds you of that job, Kylee?”
I shook my head. He held out the box of tissues. I took one and blew my nose.
“He was on the floor of the kitchen. He’d pulled bits of newspaper and whatever he could reach over his body to stay warm. He’d messed himself. I think he was more embarrassed about that than the fact that he’d been lying there since Boxing Day.”
“That’s quite a sight,” Gareth commented.
I nodded.
“Is that what you think about the most?”
“We cleaned him up as best we could. Pulled his pants back up. Reassured him. We couldn’t get a stretcher down the hall, so we had to carry him out. I took his feet; Sean held him under the arms.”
“You were working with your husband?”
I huffed out a laugh. It was borderline hysterical.
“We don’t work together often,” I said.
“No,” Gareth offered.
“Sean drove. I was in the back with the patient. His daughter followed behind in her car. She hadn’t seen him since Boxing Day.”
“So you said. That bothers you?”
“Of course, it bothers me. He’d been alone.”
“Is that what you think about the most?”
“He had a low blood pressure. Erratic heart rate. He was so cold.”
Gareth didn’t say anything. I kept going.
