Olivier filled in the blanks, “You were called away for business a few times, missed the day, rescheduled, and then missed it again. Did this lead to an ultimatum from Father O’Hugh?”
James shook his head. “Not as such. He called me while I was in New York last, told me that I was doing a disservice to the Church, wearing his patience thin. But mostly he said I was risking Laura’s soul to leave her unsealed so long after the Age of Reason.” He stood, jabbing a finger in Olivier’s face. “You. Are you telling me that my daughter is, what? Possessed? That the devil came for her because of this? What kind of psychologist would believe any of that!”
Olivier remained still, subtly covering his notes with one arm as he met James’ trembling gaze. He took a breath and forced a languid quality into his voice, a sound shaped by hours in a library, pages turned and aging in grand halls of learning. “Mr. Wilks, I am not here to accuse you or to create questions. When a child faces trauma like your daughter has, they regress into iconography, symbols, broad feelings of comfort and stability. There need not be anything more real behind your Catholic heritage than there needs be behind the notion that the full moon causes lycanthropy. What is important is that Laura be introduced to symbols and be able to draw upon them. If she were speaking in Portuguese or drawing Senegalese Yoruba on the wall, that would be of concern.”
James sat down, his hands and legs trembling. “I just need answers, Mr. Kelley. We can’t keep going like this.”
Olivier tapped his notes for emphasis. “I’m getting a clearer picture. If you would stay with me a bit long, I have a few more questions.”
James nodded.
“Now then,” Olivier started, “the paintings and murals upstairs. From the initials, I assume that Laura participated in the work but that you, Mrs. Wilks, are the primary artist?”
Elizabeth remained fetal on the couch, her voice a patchwork of croaks and sobs, “Does it matter? Does it help Laura?”
Olivier offered James a warm smile. “I ask because any information will narrow down the options and help me find answers faster. Why don’t I ask my other question to James while you collect yourself. A few minutes of your time and then I’ll be gone. For now. I’ll return once I’ve followed up some leads, but I am confident Laura has a strong chance of recovery.” He considered pushing an emotion into the space but balked. It was so much to ask of them after his initial offer of hope, he couldn’t tip the scale any further.
Elizabeth unwound from the couch and stood shakily. James moved to steady her. She clung to her husband and sobbed. “James, give me a moment to collect myself. Make us some coffee.” She stepped past him, moving beyond the stairs and further west into the house to a small washroom opposite the kitchen.
James watched her go, his thin mask of bravery cracking even before she closed the door. “If you’ll join me in the kitchen, Mr. Kelley? I’ll answer any questions while I prepare something.”
The kitchen, unlike the parlor, was decorated in a modern, minimalist style. Black tiles ringed the cooking surfaces and set off the eggshell walls. The appliances were high-end, polished silver metals gleamed from the range to the fridge to the dishwasher. Despite the décor, the kitchen was original to the house and featured a dumbwaiter in one corner. It was sealed with a heavy brass padlock. “Just Oliver is fine. Now, the east wall is quite different from the other parts of the mural and the hallway. Whose idea was that?” Oliver held his notebook ready, displaying rapt, but courteous, attention.
James opened a cupboard and pulled out a small bag of coffee beans. A simple brown bag, the logo featured a rustic, stone-aged shovel standing in soil that had produced a small sapling. Above the shovel’s handle, the name of the brand, Adamah, beneath the soil, the same in Hebrew script. James scooped beans into a grinder and noted Olivier’s interest. “A gift from some uncle of Elizabeth’s. Single source Ethiopian. Not Fairtrade, I’m afraid.”