198. Communication is the problem

“I would like us to return to Saturday, Detective Beckett.” She appears startled to be addressed. “You have described your actions and emotions. Please now describe how Mr Castle appeared to you.”

“Like he’d had enough,” Detective Beckett says. “Everyone else had made their choices and he’d had to cope with all of it.” She considers for a moment. “He was punch-drunk.”

“Elucidate.” Mr Castle clearly requires elucidation, since he is staring at Detective Beckett without a single sign that he has understood her words.

“Everything hit him and none of it was his fault, but he was still blaming himself.” Her mouth contorts. “I recognise that,” she says bitterly, and pauses to collect her composure. “Anyway. It was the same when I got back after dinner. He wasn’t expecting me, and he didn’t want to talk” – how astonishing, Dr Burke thinks, without the slightest hint of sarcasm – “so I didn’t put any demands on him.” Detective Beckett swallows. “After all, he never put any on me to talk.” She turns to Mr Castle. “All you seemed to want was just that I was there.” She swallows again. “Was I wrong?”

Mr Castle shakes his head, without emitting words. Detective Beckett relaxes marginally. Her hand slips into Mr Castle’s.

“So. Sunday morning he was still upset but he was so damn nosy once he worked out I’d gone to see Martha that he forgot to be miserable.” Dr Burke does not approve of the comment, but Mr Castle appears more complimented than offended by the description of his curiosity. “Until she turned up, anyway. So I shut her in with them as I went out.”

“That was deliberate?” Mr Castle squawks.

“Yep. And when I came back I thought you’d been throwing up. You were green. But all you wanted to do was hang on to me. You still didn’t want to talk. So we didn’t. All weekend you didn’t want to talk, but you were wrecked. So I left it up to you, because that worked when you left it up to me.” Detective Beckett shrugs. “And here we are.”

“Talking,” Mr Castle says with a flash of smile directed only at Detective Beckett. “You were right.” It is fortunate that Detective Beckett appears to comprehend Mr Castle’s meaning. Dr Burke considers his statement to be at best ambiguous. “I’m sorry. I’ve worked it out now. It was just so weird looking to someone else…” Again, Detective Beckett appears to understand. Her fingers have closed over Mr Castle’s. It seems to make him happier.

“Over the weekend, therefore, Mr Castle received the support which he needed and wanted.”

Mr Castle nods.

“Now, Mr Castle, please return to your feelings regarding your mother’s behaviour, starting with the arrival of the removal workers and your retirement from the emotional turmoil which she was creating. How did you feel once you had removed yourself from the scene?”

“Mostly guilty,” Mr Castle admits heavily. “And a lot relieved that she wasn’t yelling at me. Mother never yells at Alexis, so I didn’t worry about that. I left the door open so I could hear if any of that started, and” –

“You would naturally have intervened.”

“Yeah.”

“And then what?”

“I went up to see how they were going, and to remind Mother of the time. When she’s upset she can be a bit scatterbrained, especially about time, and I didn’t want her to be late to the pre-matinee rehearsal.”

Dr Burke sips his tea. It is evident that the discussion had been painful. As Mr Castle relates the exchanges, he understands that it had been excruciating, in a way in which only a loving family can achieve. While Mrs Rodgers is undoubtedly the one at fault, Mr Castle’s words in response can only have stung. It appears that there are some substantial disadvantages to being a writer, in particular the ability to inflict severe damage with one’s choice of language. The use of Not that you seem to appreciate it must have been particularly cutting, especially when followed with the cold shoulder which Mr Castle had turned. Dr Burke understands why Mr Castle had done so, in order to avoid exacerbating the already tense position: however, the cumulative effect on both parties has been extremely hurtful.

“So she left, and about five minutes later Beckett arrived,” Mr Castle concludes. “And” – he turns to Detective Beckett, and pouts childishly – “you told me off like I was four and sulking about having to share my colouring crayons.”

“Bet you didn’t share.”

“Did so.”

Dr Burke feels it necessary to intervene, again, and does so with a sigh. Had he wished to be a kindergarten supervisor, he would not have undertaken medical training.

“The next time you saw your mother, then, was Sunday morning?”

Mr Castle acquires an expression of slight surprise. It is possible that he had expected Dr Burke to deal with one meeting at a time. However, it will be much more efficient to deal with all of them at once.

“Yeah. She showed up. I – er – wasn’t exactly receptive.” He colours. “Beckett left, like she said, and shut Mother in. Then Alexis got into the mix, and Mother called her sweetie. It’s always been her pet name for Alexis. But Alexis said Don’t call me sweetie and it was just like when Beckett said I’m not Katie to her dad, right here.” Dr Burke blinks. Detective Beckett winces. “I couldn’t bear it if we ended up like that. So I asked Alexis to go upstairs and took Mother into the office to find out what she wanted. She said we were a family and she did love me and she was sorry.”   Mr Castle’s face is hard. “But she’s said that before, and it didn’t change anything. So I told her that, and told her to go home and really think about her words and actions, and then we’d talk. I wasn’t going to talk then.” He pauses. “I did tell her I still loved her,” he says heavily. “But I could barely stop myself asking if she really loved me, ever.”

“I am impressed that you did stop yourself. It must have been a particularly difficult situation.” Dr Burke sits forward in his chair. Mr Castle tightens his grip on Detective Beckett’s hand. “Following on from that event, Mrs Rodgers advised you on Monday that she would attend on you today, which, for reasons which we need not presently repeat, you did not mention to Detective Beckett.”

Mr Castle does not seem anxious to relate the most recent meeting. He is, in fact, concentrating on drinking his coffee. Since, to Dr Burke’s certain knowledge, most relatively young neurotypical children are capable of drinking without mishap, and Mr Castle is not a child, despite behavioural traits to the contrary, this is quite clearly a deferral mechanism. Dr Burke flicks a glance at the clock, and finds that there remains a reasonable time to conclude the session, assuming, of course, that Mr Castle ceases to be evasive.

“Yeah. Well. She showed up exactly on time.” Another mouthful of coffee passes Mr Castle’s tight lips. It appears to dissolve Mr Castle’s inability to speak. The words spill from him with, again, that precise recall of the exact sentences and phrases used.   Detective Beckett does not allow Mr Castle’s hand to escape hers for so much as an instant.

“And you have come straight here from that meeting?” Dr Burke queries, with some amazement.

“Yeah.” Mr Castle slumps into himself, which is almost instantly converted by Detective Beckett into a collapse into her. She favours Dr Burke with a combative glare, which is quite unnecessary. Dr Burke has no intention of interfering with Detective Beckett’s provision of some comfort. Indeed, he would be positively ill-advised so to do.

“I see. Emotions have run very high, but that is entirely unsurprising, and is certainly not irredeemable. You have displayed commendable, although potentially excessive, restraint for the majority of these discussions, and it is not, in fact, problematic that your mother should realise that your patience and forbearance have boundaries. We have, of course, discussed boundaries to a certain extent before now.”

Mr Castle emits a long sigh of considerable relief. Dr Burke considers that he is most in need of reassurance that his actions have not created a permanent breach with his mother, which, in Dr Burke’s expert and experienced opinion, they have not. Were that to be likely, Mrs Rodgers would have behaved quite differently.

“Now, Mr Castle, how would you like to approach the remainder of the session? We may discuss potential strategies for your discussion with your mother tomorrow, or we may discuss the feelings which currently distress you, or we may simply conclude the discussion. If either of you so desire, we may use any remaining time to discuss any matter over which you or Detective Beckett have concerns.”

There is a brief pause while Mr Castle considers the options. Detective Beckett has already shaken her head to indicate that she has no need of the remainder of the session. Dr Burke considers that Detective Beckett may, unforeseen events aside, quite safely reduce her attendance to twice per month at most, and indeed after no more than two months reduce it further. It is even possible that she need not continue with a formal schedule of appointments at that stage, while being made aware that she may return if necessary. Her recent progress has been most pleasing, although he would not wish to discharge her fully without that structure in place.

“I don’t know what I think,” Mr Castle emits. “I don't know what to say to her” – Dr Burke correctly assumes that to mean Mrs Rodgers – “or what to do. I’m so angry that she could believe that but I still do love her,” he ends piteously. “I even put up the poster that I was going to present to her at her party, I was so furious with her. I don’t want to be like this. I’m not like this.”

Detective Beckett pats Mr Castle’s shoulder. Her arm is still around him.

“Mr Castle, you have forgiven your mother much over the last few months. A moment of temper does not change that. I am sure that you will find an equally appropriate housewarming gift.”

“If I go at all,” Mr Castle bites.

“Indeed,” Dr Burke says smoothly and reassuringly. “However, I believe you have not yet arranged a date for this event, and so you need not concern yourself with that for now.” He steeples his fingers, and ignores the knowing look with which Detective Beckett regards the action. “Do you consider that you have been telling Mrs Rodgers the truth about your emotions over the last few days?”

Mr Castle quite definitely squirms. Dr Burke allows him to ponder the point, and the extent to which he may have been evading the truth.

“Um… mostly?”

Detective Beckett raises an exceedingly cynical eyebrow out of Mr Castle’s view; a gesture with which Dr Burke is entirely in agreement. Her fingers tap meaningfully on his shoulder.

“Mostly not,” he confesses. I didn’t want to lose my temper and yell. I was trying not to make matters worse,” he adds plaintively. “So I was patient and just tried to find out what she was thinking. But then she said that I was evicting her so Beckett could move in and I lost my temper then. But I didn’t say how much she’d hurt me. I only said that she had.”

“So your mother’s only knowledge of your true feelings has come from Detective Beckett’s commentary on Saturday, since when no-one has apprised her of the depth of your anger and distress?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Mr Castle, is your mother likely to believe Detective Beckett?”

Mr Castle opens his mouth, stops, and shuts it again. The thought that Mrs Rodgers might not believe Detective Beckett does not appear to have occurred to him. Thankfully, Mr Castle takes a short time to contemplate it.

“I don’t know.” He hesitates. “I don’t think Mother would have tried to come round Sunday if she hadn’t believed at least part of it.” He hesitates again. “She was upset. But… she would be upset just because someone didn’t believe her version of the narrative, whether she believed what Beckett said or not.”

“And what do you think the narrative is?”

“Right now? She gave up everything for me and I’m cruelly evicting her to move Beckett in tomorrow.” Detective Beckett emits a strangulated squeak. Dr Burke does not conclude that she is entirely impressed by the concept. How sensible.

“Why have you concealed the true depth of your hurt from your mother?” he asks. It is obvious why, but Mr Castle must analyse his actions for himself.

“I didn’t want to make it worse. I said that.”

“Make what worse?”

“The whole situation.   Getting into a fight with Mother wouldn’t help.”

“Why not?” Dr Burke asks mildly. Mr Castle has continually mentioned that confronting his mother would not help, but has yet to articulate why that should be the case.

“She’d just get louder and more upset.”

“And so?”

“What do you mean? The louder she gets the less likely she’ll listen. How does that help? If I stay calm, then there’s a better chance she’ll hear me.”

“Have you ever lost your temper with your mother in a way which means that you have raised your voice to her for more than a brief time?”

“No.” Mr Castle scowls. “What’s the point of this? I keep telling you that yelling at her won’t help.”

“I am not at all sure that you are correct in that supposition.”

Mr Castle goggles at Dr Burke.

“Say what?”

“Mr Castle,” Dr Burke says patiently, “throughout this chain of events – I refer to Detective Beckett’s entire relationship with your family – you have consistently preserved calm, considered responses to your mother’s actions and statements. I have inferred, and you have not contradicted me, that you have previously always been calm and stable in the face of emotional upheaval.” Mr Castle nods. “It appears to me that this may have misled your mother into believing that she has not caused you any significant feeling of hurt.” Mr Castle opens his mouth, but Dr Burke continues before he can speak. “She is wrong. However, you must understand why she might think in this manner. Your mother is used to, and indeed is an exemplar of, the theatrical type. These personalities are quick to express their emotions, and often display them in a highly exaggerated fashion. It appears to me that your mother has become used to an excessive level of emotions, and therefore has come to believe that more restrained behaviour merely means that a more limited emotional response has been felt.”

Detective Beckett’s face indicates that she is following this argument with considerable understanding. No doubt this is because she is fully aware that she conceals her emotions as often, and as extensively, as possible, and is in this respect exactly the opposite of Mrs Rodgers.

“Oh,” Mr Castle says. “You mean that because I’m not yelling, she thinks I don’t care?”

“Exactly so.”

Mr Castle ponders for a while, his brow furrowed. “But what if you’re wrong? You told me to trust my instincts and this doesn’t feel right.”

“Let us explore your concerns, then. I would not lightly discount your instincts.” Dr Burke thinks, however, that whereas Mr Castle’s instincts have run true in relation to Detective Beckett, he is not as convinced that they are accurate in relation to his mother, not least because Mr Castle has resided with his mother for the majority of his existence.

“Um…”

“Detective Beckett, have you at any time raised your voice to Mrs Rodgers?”

“No.”

“And yet you appear to have made enough of an impression on her without so doing that she has admitted her actions to Mr Castle on two separate occasions.”

“Yeah?” says Detective Beckett.

“Why do you think that is?”

Detective Beckett appears completely blank. Mr Castle, however, does not.

“You scared the shit out of her,” he says, profanely. “Just like you do with suspects.”

“I didn’t yell,” Detective Beckett snips.

“You don’t have to. You project intimidation.” Mr Castle stops. “You project massive intimidation. Even if it’s not exactly an emotion, it’s heavy.” He stops again. Realisation is dawning. “Massive projection. Oh.” He slumps back on the couch. “No, Beckett didn’t raise her voice,” he says to Dr Burke. “But that’s not what you mean, is it? What you really mean is that Mother felt her – er – strong emotion and reacted to it.”

Mr Castle’s brow wrinkles again. “That sort of feels better. Fits better.”

He relapses into silence, his fingers twitching. Dr Burke is still not inclined to provide Mr Castle with a writing implement. He must articulate his thoughts, not inscribe them. Based on Dr Burke’s one opportunity to view Mr Castle’s writing technique, allowing him to inscribe his thoughts will not clarify any matter whatsoever.

Dr Burke is confounded when Mr Castle extracts a small memo pad from his pocket, together with a stub of pencil, and starts to scribble. Detective Beckett sighs, and exchanges a look of some resignation with Dr Burke.

“He thinks with his fingers,” she says. “Trust me, you don’t want him to start wandering around touching things.” Dr Burke raises an eyebrow. “Pick up, put down, turn round, tap, turn upside down…lather, rinse, repeat.”

“Perhaps not,” Dr Burke agrees dryly. Mr Castle is entirely oblivious to the conversation. He is scribbling, rapidly. After a moment or two, he stops and stares at the page for a further two minutes. Then he scribbles some more, stares hard at the page, and eventually sighs deeply.

“Ugh,” he says gloomily. Dr Burke regards him fixedly. “I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. The story works.”

The story?, Dr Burke thinks with indignation. This is no story. Mr Castle should realise that this is an important point in real life, not a fictional invention.

“I guess I’m going to have to yell,” he says unhappily.

“Guess so,” Beckett says.

“It might be the best strategy,” Dr Burke says sententiously. “Now, we appear to have exceeded our time. Perhaps you might return next week, Mr Castle, and we may discuss how your meeting with Mrs Rodgers progressed.”

“Mm,” Mr Castle says very dubiously.

“C’mon, Castle. Let’s go,” Detective Beckett says, before Mr Castle can say anything unfortunate. “Night, Dr Burke.”

“G’night,” Mr Castle says, as Detective Beckett leads the way to the door.

“Good night.”