The Enumerations Page 5

  Noah wasn’t much good at debating – he was too concerned with making sure all data was delivered accurately, preferably from at least 3 credible sources. Not easy to deliver reams of information in the short time each speaker was allowed, especially when his team members were as concerned with inflaming passion and arousing indignation as they were with hitting the opposition with the facts. But hard facts were what Noah was good at. Give him a topic and he would research it until the last trail had run cold.

  ‘Look,’ said Zoe Glynn at break time, when they met to discuss the topic, ‘why don’t you second, Noah. Stick to the facts, dazzle them with graphics. I’ll open and Janice can conclude.’

  ‘Keep your side of things short and sweet,’ Janice added. ‘But don’t forget we’ll be relying on you, Noah. If they come up with info that’s inaccurate, let us know. Pass us a note or something.’

  ‘And you can help us with our prep,’ Zoe said. ‘Research as much as you can. Relevant stuff that they won’t be able to argue against.’

  Noah nodded. That he could do. He’d get onto it at once, email them everything they needed. They could bring emotion, he’d provide the shocking, incontrovertible truth.

  Gun Control or Gun Rights?

  That was the topic Mrs Simpson had given them for the debate, and Zoe, Janice and Noah were arguing for Gun Control.

  He set to work the moment he got home. Typing in key words, following leads from site to site, trying hard to concentrate on facts and figures as he clicked from stories of children killing other children with firearms found in the home, to suicides that might have been prevented if guns hadn’t been available, to gang-related shootings and active shooters out on a killing spree.

  He watched clips from Bowling for Columbine, saw footage of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, found a list of the weapons they’d carried in duffel bags to kill their school mates: a pipe bomb that failed to go off; a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun; a 9-mm Carbine; a 9-mm semi-automatic handgun; and a 12-gauge, double-barrelled, sawn-off shotgun.

  He saw Michael Moore opening a bank account and being given a free hunting rifle; he watched the two planes crashing into the World Trade Center to the accompaniment of ‘What a Wonderful World’.

  He read articles that tried to explain the behaviour of recent shooters: theories ranging from narcissistic arrogance, to being bullied at school, to listening to alternative music, to religious mania, to schizophrenia. Irrespective of the circumstances and regardless of the justifications, Noah established one common denominator in the American shootings: most of the perpetrators had opened fire using legally obtained weapons.

  Noah also found the stats for gun-related deaths and murders in South Africa. The Firearms Control Act 60 of 2000 was meant to regulate the ownership of guns by civilians, but there were still plenty of unlicensed weapons in circulation, many of them responsible for daily shootings and deaths.

  The statistics were staggering. He watched YouTube clips of distraught mothers, fathers, teachers and friends calling for a halt to gun-related violence. It was shattering and, as he read on and watched more and more footage, mind-numbing.

  He scrolled through multitudinous comments on gun sites where gun owners bemoaned the influence of ‘libtards’ who wanted to control them, violate their Second Amendment rights. He documented the weapons used in active shootings, showing how semi-automatic handguns outnumbered the use of other types of firearms. He compiled a list of suicides, accidental fatalities, homicides and justifiable homicides per capita per country, with a promise to Janice and Zoe that he’d construct graphs to push the point home.

  There wasn’t time to collate everything, but after a couple of days he felt ready to send them his material. He listed the reasons proponents of gun rights gave for wanting to be allowed to buy guns, then countered each of those with arguments from people who demanded increased gun control. Janice and Zoe would have no shortage of ammunition – Noah winced at his inadvertent use of the word, remembered Michael Moore walking into Walmart and buying bullets over the counter.

  He sent it all off midweek, leaving Janice and Zoe plenty of time to shape it into an impassioned argument for Monday’s debate. In the meantime he’d get to work on the graphics, let deep red blocks on bar charts illustrate the points they would be making.

  Janice replied almost immediately: Thanks Noah! This research is gold. Wouldn’t it be great if we could get rid of all the guns in the world?

  Zoe’s email followed shortly.

  Noah closed his laptop, leant back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He couldn’t imagine how Team 2 could find anything to dispute the hard evidence his team would present. His data spoke for itself.

  And then, that Friday, 22 July 2011, in Norway, Anders Behring Breivik carried out 2 lone-wolf terrorist attacks. The first, a car bomb explosion in Oslo, killed 8 people and injured over 200. The second, an attack on the island of Utøya in Tyrifjorden, Buskerud, where the Workers’ Youth League of the Norwegian Labour Party had organised a summer camp. Wearing a fake police uniform, Breivik picked off young people with cool precision, killing 68, injuring more than 110. A 69th victim died 2 days after the massacre.

  Noah sat in front of the tv, watching the news footage over and over again, flashing back to scenes from his research: mounds of flowers at the sites of mass shootings, accidental deaths, homicides, suicides … more funerals than he could bear to contemplate. And now there were going to be so many more.

  Noah wondered if Mrs Simpson would cancel the debate. He hoped so. In the wake of such a brutal massacre, who needed even more evidence shoved down their throats? Breivik’s actions had taken Noah’s facts and turned them into the faces of grieving parents, classmates and teachers. This wasn’t something edited by Michael Moore to drive home a point, valid though that might be. This was raw, uncensored footage, and Noah found it devastating to watch.

  The forces of the universe seemed to have gone berserk, off-course, rampaging wildly out of control. Noah felt the scales tipping. And then, 4 days later, all sense of balance was blown away.

  19.

  26 July 2011 / 19:22

  They were waiting inside the gate as Noah and Kate pulled into the driveway. Three men, concealed in the shadows. They stepped forward and took shape when Kate opened her car door. She tried to close it, but she was too slow.

  They wanted her atm card, her pin and her iPhone. Oh, and her car, of course.

  When the police officer came to take Kate’s statement, he said, as if it would be of some comfort, ‘Audis are very popular these days.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Dominic ushered him out of the house as quickly as possible, away from his wife, his children.

  20.

  14 February 2013 / 15:56

  Before Noah can start his programme at Greenhills, the Groomes have to meet Ellen Turner.

  Dominic leaves work early and Kate sends a note excusing Maddie from gymnastics. Noah, naturally, just needs to be able to get in the car. Kate watches her son push the front door handle down (up-down-up-down), sees him counting his way to the driveway. He’s counting out loud again, has been ever since the Greenhills decision was made.

  Greenhills. Kate doesn’t allow herself to think ahead to the next trip they’ll make, when they’ll be leaving Noah there for three months. Three months! She forces herself to concentrate on how the next couple of hours will pan out.

  ‘Fancy,’ Maddie says, as they pull up to a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates.

  It’s easy to imagine it in its halcyon days, a large and gracious home. Yes, that’s the way to see it, Kate tells herself. Noah is taking up residence in a beautiful old Victorian house. He’ll be here for a few weeks and then he’ll come home and they can put all of this behind them.

  There’s a guardhouse at the gates, a stone building with a large glass window and two doors, one outside the gates and one inside. A man approaches the car, carrying a clipboard. Nothing unusual in that, Kate t
hinks. Just like any gated community.

  Dominic, giving their details, tells him who they’ve come to meet. ‘Ms Turner,’ he says. The man speaks into a walkie-talkie that crackles back at him.

  ‘She’s expecting you,’ he says. ‘Drive through to the main parking lot and then turn to your left. You’ll see a smaller building. Our adolescent wing.’ He glances inside the car and Kate wonders if he can tell which of her children is going to be making Greenhills their home for the next three months.

  ‘When you leave, after you’ve signed out, I’ll lift the boom. Make sure you drive over this square.’ He points to a yellow square with an x inside it. ‘The weight of your car will activate the gates.’ He pushes a button and the gate facing them swings open. There are two booms, paired end to end, and the guard raises the one on their side to let them in.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he calls, ‘the yellow square with the x on it.’

  Dominic waves in acknowledgement and the Groomes enter the grounds of Greenhills.

  16:01

  Ms Turner is waiting for them at reception. ‘Thanks, Sally Anne,’ she says to the woman sitting behind the counter. ‘I’ll see the Groomes to my office. Could you ask Mr Bill to meet us there in half an hour?’

  She leads them up a long staircase, along a corridor and down a short flight of stairs.

  ‘Bit of a rabbit warren, I’m afraid,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I’m still finding my way around here.’

  ‘You’re new?’ Noah’s father asks.

  ‘New to Greenhills? Yes. This is my third week here.’

  Ms Turner smiles at Noah. ‘We can learn our way around together, Noah,’ she tells him.

  He doesn’t reply.

  Ms Turner’s room is large and bright with deep sash windows that look over the front lawns. To the left of the door is her desk, pushed against the wall, her swivel chair facing a black and white poster of two men walking a railroad track. Tucked in alongside the poster are the same sort of framed certificates that Noah’s seen hanging in his previous therapists’ rooms.

  Further in is an easy chair, upholstered in a botanical print, a scattering of delicately drawn sugarbirds and proteas on a cream background. Ms Turner’s chair, Noah reckons; it’s within easy reach of the desk. A comfortable 2-seater couch covered in warm sun-yellow corduroy faces her seat, flanked on either side by wicker chairs, their cushions made up in the same floral material.

  The botanical theme carries into the rest of her room: framed prints of bold orange Clivias, delicate pink belladonna lilies, pincushion proteas and wild irises touched with yellow and mauve. Noah recognises most of them from his father’s indigenous garden.

  ‘Sit,’ she says, ‘please, sit.’

  Noah’s parents take the couch, Maddie and Noah the single chairs.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ says Ms Turner. ‘Just a quick intro as to what Noah and I will be doing while he’s here.’

  Noah listens intently as Ms Turner talks about appointments and routines and how his days at Greenhills will be organised.

  ‘It’s all here,’ she says.

  He looks down at the sheet of paper she hands him. His day, sectioned into neat blocks. Meals, 3 a day, of course, plus morning and afternoon tea. Exercise, ‘group’, open-door time, room time, activities like art and pottery and ‘free time’, with accompanying suggestions about walking and going to the meditation circle.

  ‘Mr Bill will explain it in full detail, Noah. You’ll be one of his group. If you have any problems, you can go directly to him, or come to me, of course.’

  All the while Noah’s family sits quietly.

  ‘Do you have any questions?’ Ms Turner asks.

  His mother laughs. ‘So many, I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘It is all a bit overwhelming at first,’ Ms Turner says, ‘but you’ll be surprised at how quickly Noah settles in.’

  Noah wants to laugh out loud at that, but he can’t. He’s trying not to tap, trying to keep his body still. His right hand is in his pocket, his fingers run over and over the 5 small stones. Slow breaths, deep breaths. In. Out … 2 3 4 5.

  A new timetable, Noah? A room to organise? Steps from here to there to Godknowswhere? There will be no settling in. Let this Turner woman know.

  Noah’s left hand is at his ears, his fingers stroking 5s as unobtrusively as possible.

  Ms Turner goes on. ‘And, of course, we’ll have family counselling sessions as well. Give everyone space to talk. I’ll want to meet with your family as a group, Noah, and there’ll be a few sessions with just you, Mr and Mrs Groome.’

  Even though she knows the answer – ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll see you two weeks after you check in for visiting time’ – his mother still asks when they’ll be allowed to visit.

  ‘Not for the first two weeks, Mrs Groome.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course…’ Her voice fades and she looks down at her lap.

  Ms Turner leans forward and looks at them more seriously. ‘I’ve looked at Noah’s file,’ she says, ‘and I know a programme like this isn’t what you’d have chosen. He has had therapy, after all.’

  Noah nods slightly.

  ‘Yes,’ his mother says. ‘It’s all there, in his folder.’

  Hours spent holding in words and thoughts, all 4 therapists having settled on the same diagnosis: OCD, without a shadow of a doubt. And all 4 have suggested medication to calm the anxiety that eats at Noah if any part of his day is thrown off balance.

  ‘Everything is fine, so long as Noah’s routine isn’t disrupted,’ his mother tells Ms Turner. ‘That’s why we all try to—’

  Ms Turner raises a polite hand. ‘But it’s not really, is it?’ she says. ‘It’s nowhere near “fine”, especially for Noah.’

  No one says a word.

  His father’s jaw is working furiously. Maddie’s looking at him, clearly worried.

  Noah’s mother sighs. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing’s fine.’

  ‘Chances are that outpatient counselling would eventually have been successful,’ Ms Turner says carefully. She glances at the file. ‘However, the best thing about an intensive residential programme like this is that Noah can concentrate, we can all work together, and move more speedily.’

  She leans forward and smiles. ‘OCD is treatable,’ she says. ‘And it’s more common than you think. I’m not promising miracles, no one can do that, but I am saying there’s hope. Noah can learn to manage and minimise its effects. We’ll be using a form of therapy called cbt. You’ve probably heard of it.’

  Kate nods. ‘Cognitive Behavioural Therapy,’ she says. ‘One of his therapists mentioned it.’

  Ms Turner smiles. ‘Unfortunately, not all therapists are fully trained in cbt,’ she says. ‘But it is one of my specialties. Noah and I will be using a combination of cbt and something called Exposure and Response Prevention, or erp. It sounds complicated, but we’ll take it one step at a time. Basically, I’m hoping that Noah will be able to identify thoughts that distress him and tackle them head on.’

  She looks kindly at Noah, trying to reassure him. She’s not terribly successful. If anything, the thought of sitting here, session after session, makes his fingers move faster over his pebbles, heightens his urge to let his feet tap.

  ‘Dr Lovelock wants him to stay on the increased dose of medication, and then, when he’s settled in, we’ll start slowly lowering it until we find a happy medium.’ Ms Turner’s still talking. ‘The process itself is all about Noah learning to face his fears, using controlled, measured exposure. We’ll introduce situations that trigger his obsessions, and then work on strategies to prevent his usual coping mechanisms. For example, we’re all aware of Noah’s need to count.’ She looks at the Groomes as if she’s talking about the weather.

  ‘Yes, but we don’t … That’s to say … We never talk about Noah’s counting.’ His mother’s tripping over her words.

  We certainly don’t. And nor should this Turner woman. Stop her.

&n
bsp; Ms Turner leans back in her chair. ‘We will though,’ she says. ‘Bit by bit. Hopefully, we’ll get to the point where he can look beyond his rituals and compulsions to their underlying cause.’ Once again, she smiles at them.

  ‘The more we do, and the more Noah learns to react differently, the more his compulsions should decrease and his obsessions feel less powerful. I’ve got plenty of material you can look at if you’d like.’

  ‘Would that be acceptable?’ Noah’s mother looks uncertain. ‘One of his other therapists didn’t encourage me to do too much research. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing” is what he said.’

  ‘I disagree,’ says Ms Turner. ‘The more you research, the more you’ll understand. Please, read, and then come to me with any questions. Any time. There will be challenges,’ she continues. ‘I’m not saying the circumstances that brought Noah here were ideal. Not in the least. But now that he’s at Greenhills, this could be a golden opportunity to break his ocd cycle as effectively as possible. Give Noah some head space to call his own.’

  Your own? What exactly is she getting at?

  Noah begins to 5. Left foot, right. Cheeks, twice on his lips.

  His father notices and frowns. His mother and sister pretend they haven’t seen.

  Ms Turner has noticed. Of course she has. ‘It’s nearly time for Mr Bill to show you around,’ she says easily. ‘There’s quite a bit to see, and a lot to take in. Just one last thing, Noah.’ She says his name firmly and he raises his head. ‘How well you do here greatly depends on you. All I ask is that you try to be as open with me as you can.’

  Noah’s feet tap faster.

  ‘I’ll be asking you to keep a list of all the things you feel compelled to do, what time of day you have to do them. Things like that. We’ll work together.’

  Together? The only together is you and me.

  ‘That’s it,’ Ms Turner says pleasantly, ‘for now.’