“Not unless you want to.”
“I don’t want to. It affected my sister and me differently. She turned wild and chased men and drank and took every drug she could get her hands on. She’s gone, now, motorcycle crash.” Short, deep breath. “I became a Goody Two-shoes. The two of us weren’t very close. As it turned out, I have no interest in men. None. Or women, in case you’re curious.”
“I’m always curious, but that hadn’t occurred to me.”
“No?” she said. “Some folks think I’m pretty butch.”
I said nothing.
“Also, seeing as how Richard—Dr. Silverman—was the one who referred me and how people jump to conclusions, I could understand you thinking I was gay.”
“I work hard at not jumping to conclusions.”
“It wouldn’t bother me if I was gay, but I’m not. I have no interest in anybody’s anything below the waist. If you need a label, how about asexual? That make me crazy in your book?”
“Nope.”
Another partial smile. “You’re probably just saying that because you want to develop whatchamacallit rapport.”
I said, “You’re not interested in sex. That’s your prerogative. So far I’ve heard nothing crazy.”
“Society thinks it’s weird.”
“Then we won’t let Society into the office.”
She smiled. “Moving on: My sister—Lydia, she went by Liddie—couldn’t keep her pants on. Maybe God played tricks, huh? Two girls dividing up one sex drive?”
“Hers on Monday, yours on Tuesday but she got greedy?”
She laughed. “Sense of humor’s important in your business.”
“Your business, too.”
“You know much about my job?”
“Dr. Silverman told me you’re the best nurse he’s ever worked with.”
“The man exaggerates,” she said, but her eyes sparkled. “Okay, maybe just a slight exaggeration, ’cause off the bat I can’t think of anyone better. Last night we had a guy, a gardener, mangled both hands in a lawn mower. Too much empathy and you find yourself depressed all the time…speaking of bad stuff, plenty happened to my sister, but nothing she didn’t earn. She died on back of a Harley on the way to a big bike meet in South Dakota. No helmet, same for the genius driving. He took a turn wrong, they went flying off the road.”
“Sorry to hear about that.”
She squinted. “I cried some but—and this is going to sound cold—the way Liddie lived it was a miracle it didn’t happen sooner. Anyway, the gist of all this is to explain how I came to have Tanya. She’s Liddie’s biologically but one day when she was three, Liddie decided she didn’t want her anymore and dumped her on my doorstep. Literally, middle of the night, I hear the doorbell, go out, find Tanya clutching a stuffed toy, some killer whale souvenir she got in Alaska. Liddie’s parked in a hotwheels at the curb and when I go to talk to her, the car peels out. That was four years ago and I never heard from her again, didn’t even get the death notice until a year after the accident because Liddie was carrying fake I.D., it took the highway cops awhile to figure out who she was.”
“How did Tanya react?”
“She cried for a few days, then she stopped. She’d ask about Liddie from time to time but nothing chronic. My answer was always Mommy loved her, had left her with me ’cause I could take better care of her. I bought a book on explaining death to kids, used the parts that made sense and discarded the parts that didn’t. Overall, Tanya seemed to accept it pretty well. Asked the right questions. Then she went about her business. I kept telling her Mommy loved her, would always love her. After maybe the gazillionth time I said it, Tanya looks up at me and says, ‘You’re my mommy. You love me.’ Next day I started the adoption process.” Blinking and looking away. “This at all helpful, so far?”
“Perfect,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll find out something I missed but she really seemed to deal with it okay. She’s a smart kid, her teacher has her at a half year ahead of the class. Got a grown-up way about her, which makes sense, given the years she spent traipsing around with Liddie. My influence, too, maybe. I’m no kid person, don’t have a clue about ’em. So I treat her like she understands everything.”
“Sounds like that’s working.”
“So how come I’m here, huh?” She looked down at her shoes, placed them together. Moved them a foot apart. “You probably noticed I’m a little strange in the neatness department. Need to have everything just so, nothing out of place, no surprises. Maybe because of the things my father did to me, but who cares why, the point is that’s how I am and I like it. Keeps life organized and when you’re busy, believe me, that’s a big help.”
“Making things predictable.”
“Exactly. Like the way I hang my clothes. Everything’s grouped by color, style, sleeve length. Blouses in one section, then jeans, then uniforms, et cetera. Why waste time looking in the morning? A couple of times, when I was working a shift that had me getting up when it was still dark, there were power outages. I’m talking a pitch-black house. I could get dressed, no problem, because I knew exactly where everything was hanging.”
“It works for you.”
“Sure does,” she said. “But now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve kept some of that to myself, not revealed it to Tanya.”
“She’s doing the same things?”
“She’s always been neat for a kid, which is fine by me. We clean house together, have fun doing it. But lately, it’s more than that. She’s got these little routines, won’t go to sleep until she checks under her bed, first it was five times, then ten, now it’s twenty-five, maybe even more. Top of that, she’s got to straighten her drapes and kiss them, goes to the bathroom five times in a row, washes her hands until the soap’s gone. I went in there once and she was polishing the spigots.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“It started right around when she turned five.”
“Two years ago.”
“Give or take. But it wasn’t a big deal until recently.”
“Any recent changes?”
“We moved to a new place—got a sublease in a house in Hancock Park. No problems, there. Tanya’s fine except for the routines.”
“Do the routines always begin before bedtime?”
“That’s the peak period,” she said, “but it’s moved into other times and it’s starting to affect her schoolwork. Not in terms of neglecting her obligations—just the opposite. She’ll tear up her work and redo it, over and over, unless I make her stop. Lately, she started getting real picky about her school lunch. If the sandwich isn’t cut exactly on the right bias, she wants to make another one.”
Reaching down, she touched the briefcase. “Want to see any of her records?”
“Has she had any unusual illnesses or injuries?”
“Nope.”
“Then I’ll read the records later. Do you have information about her birth?”
“Nothing. I had to run titers on her to make sure she’d been vaccinated. She had, I’ll grant Liddie that.” She leaned forward. “You need to understand, Doctor, the only time I met Tanya before Liddie dropped her off was once, when she was two. She and Liddie stayed with me a couple of weeks before heading up to Juneau, Alaska. Like I said, I’m no kid person. But I ended up liking her. Sweet, quiet, didn’t get underfoot. She’s still that way, I couldn’t ask for a better daughter. It’s just these new habits are making me wonder about my approach. I did some reading on OCD in kids and they say it could be genetic, in the brain, serotonin uptake, they’re trying various meds as treatment.”
“Nowadays, most everything is attributed to neurotransmitters.”
“You don’t recommend meds on scientific grounds? Or you don’t like them because Ph.D.’s can’t use them?”
“Meds have their place and if you’re interested in that route, I’d be happy to refer you to a good child psychiatrist. I’ve found childhood OCD to respond well to nondrug treatments.”
“Such as?”
“Cognitive behavior therapy, other anxiety-reduction techniques. Sometimes just finding out what’s making the child tense and remedying it is enough.”
“Tanya doesn’t seem nervous, Doc. Just intensely focused.”
“OCD’s rooted in anxiety. Her habits are doing their job so the tension’s masked, but you’re describing a steadily expanding pattern.”
She thought about that. “Guess so…listen, no offense meant by that remark about Ph.D.’s.”
“None taken,” I said. “You’re an informed consumer who wants the best for her child.”
“I’m a mother who feels bad because her kid seems to be losing control. And I blame myself because I need for everything to be predictable and everyone to be happy. And that’s about as realistic as world peace.”
“I’m a people-pleaser, too, Ms. Bigelow. If I wasn’t, I could’ve been a lawyer and billed more per hour.”
She laughed. “Now that I fixed your pictures, you do seem like a pretty organized guy. So you think you can help Tanya just by talking?”
“My approach would be to develop whatchamacallit rapport, see if there’s anything on her mind that you’re unaware of, find out if she’s interested in changing, and help her change.”
“What if she doesn’t want to change?”
“My experience has been that kids aren’t happy being bound by all those routines. They just don’t see a way out. Have you talked to her about any of this?”
“I started to,” she said. “Last week or so, when she got into the curtain-kissing. I guess I lost my patience and told her to stop being silly. She gave me a look that cut me right here.” Touching her left breast. “Like I’d wounded her. I immediately felt like a truckful of manure and had to leave the room to do some breathing. When I gathered the gumption to go back in there and apologize, the lights were off and she was in bed. But when I leaned down to kiss her, her body was all tight and she was gripping the covers—with the fingernails, you know? I told myself whoa, Patty, you’re screwing the kid up, time for professional advice. I talked to Richard—Dr. Silverman—and first thing out of his mouth is your name. He said you’re the best. After meeting you, I’m feeling good. You don’t judge, you listen. And those degrees ain’t too shabby, either. So when can you see Tanya?”
“I’ve got an opening in a couple of days, but if it’s urgent, I’ll make time tonight.”
“Naw,” she said. “I think I can handle a couple of days. Got any advice beyond lay off and don’t say anything stupid?”
“Explain to Tanya that you’re bringing her to a doctor who doesn’t give shots and won’t hurt her in any way. Use the word ‘psychologist’ and tell her I help kids who are nervous or worried by talking to them, drawings, playing games. Tell her she won’t be forced to do anything she doesn’t want to.”
She opened the briefcase, found a legal pad, scrawled notes. “I think I’ve got all that…sounds fine except for the games. Tanya doesn’t like games, can’t even get her to use a deck of cards.”
“What does she like?”
“Drawing’s okay, she’s pretty good at that. Also, she does cutouts—paper dolls, she can handle a scissors like a pro. Maybe she’ll be a surgeon.”
“Like Rick.”
“That would be okay with me. So what time in a couple of days?”
We set up the appointment. She said, “Fine, thanks much,” and paid me in cash. Smiling. “You’re sure you only want half?”
I smiled back, photocopied Tanya’s medical records, and returned the originals to her. Five minutes to go, but she said, “We covered everything,” and got up.
Then: “Just talking helps, even if it’s genetic?”
I said, “There may be a genetic component. Most tendencies are a combination of nature and nurture. But tendencies aren’t programmed like blood types.”
“People can change.”
“If they didn’t, I’d be out of business.”
That evening at five, she called me through my service. “Doc, if an appointment tonight’s still an option, I’ll take you up on it. Tanya started in on her homework, tore it up, redid it, then she got all hysterical. Crying that she could never do anything right. Saying I was ashamed of her, she was a bad girl, like Liddie. Nothing like that ever came out of my mouth but maybe I somehow communicated…Right now she’s calm, but not a calm I like. Way too quiet, generally she chatters away. I haven’t told her I made an appointment with you. If you say tonight’s okay, I’ll explain it to her in the car.”
“C’mon over,” I said.
“You’re a saint.”
She showed up an hour later, with a little blond girl in hand. In her other hand was a small white jar.
“Museum wax,” she said. “Long as I was coming here. This is Tanya Bigelow, my beautiful, smart daughter. Tanya, meet Dr. Delaware. He’s going to help you.”
CHAPTER
6
Milo touched a corner of the newspaper he’d slid across the booth. “Cute, huh?”
Ten a.m., North Hollywood. Hot Friday in the Valley, the Du-par’s on Ventura east of Laurel Canyon.
I’d left a message for Tanya about no malpractice issue, told her I’d be contacting Detective Sturgis. An hour later I was watching him jab the front-page Times article with his fork.
Breathless coverage of the founding of a mental health program in Tahiti by a former film agent and a retired studio head. Diploma mill doctorate for her, deep pockets and May–December infatuation for him. The agenda was past-life regression, a Chinese menu of meditation games, all the therapy you could eat for two hundred grand a pop, no refunds. The projected client base was “people in the public eye.”
I said, “What a scoop.”
“Probably some kiss-ass reporter with a screenplay.”
“That’s networking, dude.”
“Curse of the millennium. Hollywood sharks peddling mental health, what a concept. If you get in a tropical mood, maybe they’re hiring.”
I laughed and slid the paper back.
“Hey,” he said, “you’re not on the stand, volunteer an opinion.”
“I get paid for opinions.”
He grumbled something about “dogmatism.”
I said, “How’s this: Taking life advice from people like that is like learning the tango from gorillas.”
“Eloquent. Now I might even listen to the further details of your little mystery.”
We were putting away stacks of pancakes and drinking coffee strong enough to make my pulse race. With Milo, food smooths the process.
I’d driven out to Studio City because he’d been on the other side of the hill since midnight, cleaning up the details of a Mar Vista gang homicide whose tentacles had spread into Van Nuys and Panorama City. Another big one that would finally close. One more meeting with the D.A. and he’d be on a two-week vacation.
Rick was scheduled tight and couldn’t travel. Too bad for Milo, lucky for me. I had designs on his leisure.
I told him everything Tanya had said.
He said, “First a ‘terrible thing,’ now it’s a murder? Alex, I’m not prying into clinical details, but be brutally frank: Is this kid stable?”
“Nothing points otherwise.”
“Meaning you’re not sure.”
“She’s functioning well,” I said. “All things considered.”
“Mommy offed some neighbor? But she really didn’t? What exactly does she want?”
“I’m not sure she knows. I figure we do a little searching, come up empty, I’ll have more authority to ease her away from it. If I don’t make an attempt, I lose her as a patient. She talks a good case about handling her grief, but there’s a long way to go. If she falls I’d like to be around to catch her.”
He played with the edge of the newspaper. “Sounds like you’re a bit involved in this one.”
“If it’s too much of a hassle—”
“I’m not refusing, I’m contextualizing. Ev
en if I wanted to say no, there are domestic issues at stake. Rick thinks Patty was some kind of saint. ‘It’s great you’ll be free to help, Alex.’”
“Let’s hear it for the zeitgeist,” I said.
He threw money on the table that I returned to him.
“Fine, you’re in a higher tax bracket.” Hoisting his bulk out of the booth.
“When do we start?” I said.
“We?”
“You lead the way, I’ll be your loyal assistant.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “And I’ve got a life regression package to sell you.”
I walked him to his unmarked as he studied the list of addresses.
He copied it into his notepad. “She moved around a bit, didn’t she…so the kid’s theory is Mommy was trying to protect her from some kind of revenge?”
“Less than a theory,” I said. “She was tossing out possibilities.”
“Here’s one: Mommy was impaired and talked gibberish.”
“Tanya’s not ready to see that.”
“I asked Rick about the whole brain damage thing,” he said. “Unwilling to commit—all you doctor types are alike. Okay, let’s be organized so we don’t have to backtrack. You talk to Patty’s oncologist and see if you can nail down some medical specifics. I’ll hit the assessor’s office and find out Patty’s local residences before she took Tanya in. She from SoCal?”
“New Mexico.”
“Where in New Mexico?”
“Outside Galisteo.”
“If this terrible thing went down out of state, good luck.” He snorted. “Listen to me. Like it really happened.”
“I appreciate this—”
“I will file your gratitude under Things To Exploit At An Opportune Time. Another thing you can do is play computer games, see if Patty shows up anywhere in cyberspace. Plug in those four addresses. Anything else that strikes your fancy.”
“Has the department database gotten any better?”
“Last coupla times I’ve able to boot up and not blow a fuse.”
“Given an address, can you pull up crimes on neighboring streets?”
“Oh, sure, me and Bill Gates just did that yesterday. No, it’s a mess. Recent cases have been entered but for the most part we’re talking cardboard boxes in storage. Department’s notion of pattern-tracing is the pin board and the board changes every year. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it is something recent. ‘Close by,’ huh? That could be the same street but down the block, one street over, a quarter mile up to the cul-de-sac, turn left, toss salt over your left shoulder. For all we know, Alex, she meant something ungeographical. Close by as in a friend.”
Obsession Page 4
