The Syndrome by John Case Page A

that was it. It was odd, in a way. After four years of classes and games, track meets and banquets, science fairs, dances, and field trips—the best he could do was ‘short and blond’?
    It was depressing. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he remembered about school. Almost nothing, really. A couple of names and faces. The headmaster, Andrew Pierce Vaughn, his jovial face frozen in laughter. The front of the school. Commencement in the garden behind Zartman House. But of the friends he’d had, and the teachers … there was nothing.
    It was a little unsettling, actually. Enough so that, even though it wasn’t at all his kind of thing, he wrote the date on a Post-it and stuck it to his computer monitor:
Sidwell reunion: Sat. Oct. 23.
What the hell …
    His four p.m. appointment with Nico came and went—without her. He thought about calling, but decided against it. The responsibility for maintaining the connection between them had to be hers, or the relationship wouldn’t work. Like many children who’d been orphaned at a young age, Nico had a long history of dependence, of seeking parental surrogates who would care for her. As an adult, she needed to take responsibility for her own life, rather than relying on authority figures. Otherwise, she’d fall into new patterns of abuse, confusing sex with love, debasement with penance.
    So. When she didn’t show up, Duran wondered about it—but he didn’t call. Autonomy was important for Nico and he’d made a point of establishing from the very start that she, andshe alone, was responsible for getting well. He could help her. But he was not her father, her husband, or her caretaker.
    And so he watched Ricki Lake until it became time for dinner. Going into the kitchen, he glanced around with a sense of hopelessness. The room was well outfitted, with pine cabinets and tumbled marble countertops, a magnetized bar holding a dozen sharp knives, and a queue of food processors and other appliances. But cooking wasn’t something that he did—or, at least, he didn’t do it much. Most of the time, he just ordered out.
    There was a small CD player on the counter, and he peered through its glass top to see what it held. Cowboy Junkies. He forwarded to the fifth song, pressed
Play
, and flipped through a sheaf of take-out menus as the singer lamented that she’d
    “rather smoke, and listen to Coltrane,
than go through all that shit again …”
    He could order Thai food—that would be okay. But only if he had some beer and, preferably, Singha. Pulling open the door to the refrigerator, he glanced from shelf to shelf. There was Perrier, milk and Coca Cola, and a bottle of Pinot Grigio, but no beer.
    He looked at his watch and frowned. He’d just been shopping. Why hadn’t he remembered beer? It was a little after seven, which meant that the Safeway in the basement was closed, and that if he wanted beer, he’d have to walk to the 7-Eleven. The thought made him queasy, as if in the corner of his eye he’d seen something skitter under the couch. Something dark and fast. A toxic sensation passed through him like a chill.
    With a sigh, he removed the Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator, pulled the cork, and poured himself a glass. Then he pushed the button on the telephone that automatically dialed Chiang Mai Garden. He gave his order, and the man on the other end converted it.
    “One numbah foh, one numbah twenny-two. Very good. Fifteen minute!”
    He tried to tell himself that wine was just as good with Thai food as beer. But the truth was, it wasn’t. As good as the Pinot Grigio was, he could almost
taste
the cold, hoppy beer that he longed for.
    It was only three blocks to the 7-Eleven. He ought to go, but …
This is ridiculous
, he thought. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he sipped his wine and shook his head.
    Had he always been like this?
    No. At least, he didn’t think so.
    Since when, then? When had it begun?
    He ministered to people