Mission Hill by Pamela Wechsler Read Free Book Online Page B

computer science. He lived in Mattapan with his girlfriend and their two short-haired cats. Now he lives alone in Healey House, a rehabilitation facility on a quiet residential street in West Roxbury.
    My first visit to Healey House was when I was prosecuting drunk-driving cases. The victim, a seven-year-old girl, was in the backseat of her mother’s minivan, en route to Chuck E. Cheese’s. The mother, drunk and stoned, passed out and crashed head-on into a delivery truck. My most recent visit to Healey House was to meet an MIT student who had fallen off the roof of his fraternity during a drunken hazing ritual.
    â€œI don’t know why they call this place a rehab,” I say. “Most patients never get better.”
    â€œMaybe they should call it a place to stay, somewhere between life and death, ” Kevin says.
    â€œThat’s catchy, but I think they’re probably better off sticking with rehab.”
    Kevin pulls into the parking lot behind the building, and we get out of the car. Tim used to talk about Denny Mebane, how painful it was each time he came here to meet with him and his mother. When we get inside, I take a breath and steel myself while Kevin signs us in at the reception desk.
    A nurse directs us to Denny’s room, which is on the third floor.
    â€œLet’s hoof it,” Kevin says. “I need to stretch my legs.”
    I follow him into the bile-green stairwell, where the stench of cleaning solution makes me gag. The sharp, disorienting symptoms of a migraine start to take hold.
    The door to Denny’s room is halfway open. Inside, his mother, Adele, is sitting on a metal folding chair by his bedside, her back to the door. She’s wearing a white cardigan and black wool slacks. Denny is wearing a hospital johnny and a bib. Adele spoon-feeds him something the color and consistency of oatmeal, singing “The World Is Not My Home.” We pause and listen to her soothing voice. And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.
    Adele wipes goop from Denny’s chin. Kevin looks at me to be sure I’m ready and then taps on the door. Adele turns, rises, and greets us each with a hug and a smile. She takes my hand and walks me up to the edge of the bed.
    â€œDenny, this is the new lawyer I was telling you about, and this is the detective.”
    She talks to her son as though he were healthy, something I wasn’t expecting and am not sure how to handle. I hesitate, then decide that the polite thing to do, the only thing to do, is to go along with it.
    â€œI’m Abby. Nice to meet you.” I start to extend my hand, but catch myself and pull it back.
    Denny seems to have a permanent grin plastered on his face. He lets out some primal grunts, and his eyes shift periodically. Even though his features appear distorted, it’s obvious that he was once a handsome man with big brown eyes complemented by giraffe-like eyelashes.
    â€œWhat did you say, honey?” Adele pauses and waits, as though he might respond.
    She’s so hopeful that I’m almost convinced he’s going to speak.
    â€œTim spoke highly of you both,” I say.
    â€œWe’re praying for him. Did he have a family?”
    â€œA wife and daughter.”
    â€œThen we’ll pray for them too.”
    I grew up Episcopalian, attending services at the Church of the Advent on the flat of Beacon Hill. As a child, I loved the formality, the weight of it all—the Victorian Gothic structure, the rhythmic sound of the bells, the somber service, the smoky incense. After Crystal died, I went there to meditate and reflect, finding solace in the music and the predictable rituals. When I joined the DA’s office and my assignments took me deep into the depravity of murder, the heavily perfumed clouds of smoke pouring from the swinging thuribles began to give me a headache. The choral service of evensong became overbearing, claustrophobic.
    Now the only appeal for me at the