by Smith, Julie
It was too much to handle by myself. I sailed past Kruzick and right into Chris’s office, where I plopped down in the client’s chair. Chris looked up, alarmed. “What is it? You feel awful, don’t you? Omigod, you’re white as a ghost— which never look white to me, by the way. You must be alive.”
“You see ghosts too?”
“I guess so, if you want to call them that. But not so much anymore— mostly when I was a kid. And never, never anybody I knew or ever even heard of, just sort of nonpeople in period clothes.”
“God, I’m glad it’s you and not me!” That sounded so unpleasant I forgot my troubles for a second.
“So what’s wrong? Have you got the flu? Jeez, I wonder if I can handle this by myself.”
“I’ve got a lump in my breast. I have to have a biopsy.”
“Ohhh.” It was almost a moan, and instantly I felt better. It’s too much, trying to handle a thing that big by yourself. “My poor peachblossom.” But only for a second did I get to see the distress in her blue eyes. She closed them and withdrew, almost physically, like a turtle going into a shell. “It’s okay,” she said. “Thank God, it’s okay.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not cancer— or if it is, it’s not life-threatening. Usually I don’t do that, you know. Health things are too important. And also, I wouldn’t read for you— I know you much too well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The reading can be tainted by my own desires, my wishes for you. But sometimes I can get a hit— just one— without grounding or anything. I can just sort of tune in and there it is.”
“Grounding?”
“It means … I don’t know, focusing is probably the best way to put it. You’ll see us do it at the Raiders meeting.”
“What did you see then? What was it?”
“I took a look at both breasts, and I saw the lump— it’s in the right one, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“It just looked constricted. I guess that’s about the best way I can describe it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, I can’t describe it. That’s the best I can do.”
“How can you tell it’s not serious?”
She shrugged. “I just asked if it’s anything we have to worry about, and I got a no.”
I was starting to feel better. “Do you guarantee your work?”
“I wish.”
Kruzick walked in. “Rob for you, Rebecca.”
“Tell him-”
“He says it’s important.”
I sighed and went to my office. I felt a little drained, but at least my palms were no longer flowing like the Nile. I was out of sorts, not much in a mood to deal with anything that wasn’t life or death. “What’s up?” I more or less snapped.
“Adrienne didn’t show up for work, and she didn’t call in.”
I looked at my watch. It was ten-thirty. If she’d had to walk to work, she should have been there by now. “What do you think’s happened?”
“I called her dad’s, and he said she wasn’t there— that she didn’t stay there last night. I asked him where she did stay, and he said he didn’t know.”
“Fishy.”
“Uh-huh. He says he doesn’t know her friend Danno, which was the only other idea I had. I’m pretty worried, to tell you the truth.”
“Have you called Curry and Martinez?”
“Oh sure. Right after I called the Examiner.”
I closed my eyes and spoke to the darkness: “Should we be worried?”
It didn’t answer.
“Rebecca? Are you there?”
“Listen, let’s go knock on her door. I’d feel better.”
“So would I.”
Adrienne didn’t answer. We looked at each other, shrugged, and started around the building, searching for open windows. There weren’t any, but one window had a crack in it, more or less inviting us to take advantage of its weakness. “There couldn’t be an alarm,” said Rob. “It’s not that kind of building.”
“But there are laws.”
“Something tells me we should go in.”
“You and Chris.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Look, maybe we should call the manager or something.”
“Let’s just test the window.” He stood on a couple of concrete blocks and leaned against it. It gave and he shrugged. “Meant to be.”
He climbed in. “I’ll let you in the front door.”
But I wasn’t waiting. I clambered ungracefully over the sill, shredding my pantyhose in the process. The place smelled awful, mildew mixed with stale sweat. We were in the bedroom, which was dusty and apparently hadn’t been touched. We wandered down the hall, peering in rooms, and near the living room I thought I heard something. What, I couldn’t identify.
It must have been some slight movement, or perhaps nothing at all, just the awareness of another human being. She was there, mouth open, sheet pulled up to her neck.
“Adrienne?” Why hadn’t she heard us break the window? “Adrienne!”
“She’s dead,” said Rob.
But I touched her; she was warm. I felt for a pulse and got one, but it seemed very faint. “I’m no nurse, but I think she’s in a coma. Let’s look in the bathroom.”
My hunch had been right— empty pill bottles were everywhere. One glance convinced us she’d taken everything in sight. We dialed 911, and I rode with her to the hospital, the empty bottles in a plastic bag in my purse. Rob followed in his car. On the way, I talked to her, the way you’re supposed to talk to a person in a coma, begging her to hang on, telling her we all loved her, hoping it sounded okay even if I’d just met her. The truth was that as little as I knew her, I desperately wanted her to live, and thought this must be the way people feel who work in emergency rooms. We all feel, I guess, that life is so fragile we’re frantic to hang on to it, even if it’s someone else’s.
Rob phoned her father, and the two of us waited for him while they pumped her stomach, holding hands as if we were still lovers, and once again my palms could have watered a geranium.
For once, Rob seemed unable to talk. He looked around and said, “It’s all so … stark.” And then he shut up.
Like your life, I thought. Empty. Sad.
I don’t know why I thought that— it just came to me, like one of Chris’s psychic messages. Rob didn’t seem a sad person; he was constantly in motion. But you never got below the surface with him, and it made you wonder if there was anything down there to find. Maybe he really was a human news-gathering machine.
An intern came out. “Are you here for Adrienne Dunson?”
“Yes, but we’re not relatives. We’re just the ones who found her.”
“She’s being moved to intensive care.”
“Will she make it?”
He shrugged. “She’s pretty bad.”
I left to call Dr. Suzawa, who’d just had a cancellation and could see me that afternoon at three. When I got back, Rob was talking to Adrienne’s dad. Not wanting to make his reacquaintance, I hung back, thinking about the coming ordeal.
On the way back to the office, I turned it over and over in my mind— the impulse I had to ask Rob to go with me. Why was it so strong? I wondered.
And decided it was partly because I was so frightened. And also because we’d been close once. But probably most of all because a part of me still loved him and wanted him back, just like it used to be. But it wasn’t fair to call on him now, to ask him for help as if we were still together. Perhaps Chris would go with me.
But she wasn’t in the office, having left to continue reading the seemingly endless output of Jason McKendrick. I ended up going alone, but it turned out fine. Carolyn had apparently called to pave the way.
Suzawa greeted me with a rueful smile. “Dr. Perlmutter tells me you hate the kind of doctor who has you into the office to describe the procedure, has you back for the procedure, and, as she says you put it, makes you
come back a third time to get the results.” He paused. “Of course, most of us feel it’s best for the patient that way.”
“It’s best for your own bank accounts,” I snapped, coming out with something I’d normally be way too wimpy to say. I heard someone say once that anger covers fear and fear covers anger. Meaning I might be talking tough, but underneath I was scared to death.
Unexpectedly, Suzawa laughed. “Well, some people just aren’t ready the first time. But since Carolyn called, I made sure I have time to do the procedure today. And you can phone for the results, but I’m afraid you do have to come back. I’ll need to check on the wound to make sure it’s healing property.”
“That seems okay,” I said, not wanting to give in but unable to refute the logic of it. I’d had a doctor tell me once I had to come back because otherwise there was a likelihood of “misunderstanding.” Like the audio quality was better in his office. And when I got there, sure enough, he mentioned my test was normal and I should go and sin no more. The insurance company lost eighty bucks on the deal, and I’ve been stewing about it ever since.
“Shall we do it?” said Suzawa, “or would you like to watch the video first?”
I loathe the videos specialists show you. “Why don’t you sum it up?” I said.
“Basically, it says there are several methods of screening for cancer. You’ve already had cyst aspiration, which didn’t tell us much, and I’m afraid none of the others would either, if the lump is benign. Some are useful if the result is positive, but if it’s negative, we still can’t rule out cancer. Do you follow?”
“Perfectly.”
“In other words, what we call an open surgical biopsy, as opposed to a core needle biopsy, is what I’d recommend for you.”
I liked his straightforward approach and obvious willingness to accommodate me; and I adored not having to watch the video. I was convinced; there was no alternative but to have the biopsy. “Let’s do it,” I said.
“That’s all the questions you have? Carolyn said you were tough.”
“I haven’t been tough enough?” I thought I’d been downright obstreperous. “Okay, what are the consequences?”
“Well, you will have a scar. And there’ll be bruising and maybe some drainage into the bandage.”
“I can handle it.” Any of that was better than the fear.
The thing itself was nothing, really, not much more than the aspiration. He and his nurse, in surgical greens, painted my breast with iodine, draped it in sterile towels, and then numbed it with novocaine. After that, he made an incision and spread the breast open with what he said were retractors— things that looked like bent forks— and about then I quit watching. I did notice he came for the lump with scissors, which didn’t look too terrifying, and after that, it was only a matter of sewing me up.
No big deal. The hard part would be the waiting.
Chapter Fourteen
I knew I wasn’t going to be walking into a pack of gypsies with head scarves and crystal balls, but the Raiders of the Lost Art were still a pretty daunting bunch. Chris had told me to come to Rosalie’s a little late, that they had some business to do before I got there. She’s never answered my veiled queries on the subject, but I think they wanted to take a psychic peek at the visitor before she arrived in full legal eagledom.
I think I passed. At any rate, Tanesha apologized for being so inhospitable at her office, and I said I was sorry I’d shown up without calling. Ivan said he hoped he hadn’t terrified me with his offers to lay on hands, but he couldn’t help it, he really thought he could help me. Moonblood seemed guarded as ever, and Rosalie was herself— a pretty comfortable and pretty smart person, maternal with an overlay of something that might once have been called wisdom. She was the sort of woman who in tribal times would have been a shaman, I imagined, respected by everyone for her insight and her wisdom. Here, she lived in poverty and more or less disrepute on the edge of the Western Addition. The irony of it suddenly came clear to me: what passes for a shaman these days is ridiculed as hopelessly New Age.
I don’t know, maybe all that’s an exaggeration based on my reaction to her. What I can say objectively is that I was very glad to see her again, that I was drawn to her in the same way I had once been drawn to my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Rooney, fixer of skinned knees and dispenser of hugs.
Rosalie offered tea, which I accepted, very excellent Japanese tea, and said they were pleased to have me there. I thought Moonblood grimaced, but I couldn’t be sure. “We thought you might like a little warm-up,” she said. “What do you know about what we do?”
I thought about it. What had Chris really told me? “Almost nothing,” I said.
“Would you like us to do a little reading for you before we tackle Chris’s problem?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. What you’ll basically see is a group of people closing their eyes— because it’s easier to focus that way— for a few minutes before talking. But what we’re doing behind the eyelids is going to vary. I picked this group for its different talents. Ivan, as you might imagine, is clairsentient.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I get feelings in the body,” said Ivan. “That’s how I take in information. Like, for instance, I’m really good on people’s new sweeties.”
“Yeah, just not your own,” said Tanesha. “I think we read about that Janice Applewhite nine times probably before she finally disappeared with your CD player and your favorite cat.”
“The cat was a blow, goddammit. Why’d she have to take my cat?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one damn thing. If you find that cat, it’s gonna have to be by hiring a detective. I’m not reading about Janice and Babycakes one more time. That girl was a junkie opportunist; you could see it miles away.”
“She was not a junkie!”
“What do you mean she wasn’t a junkie? The girl took your CD player, your cat, every pill in your medicine cabinet, and every drop in your liquor cabinet. Just because you didn’t happen to have any heroin on hand doesn’t mean she wasn’t a junkie.”
“Well, look, did I call it about that Tyson Cooper you almost got involved with?”
“Well, that’s different. That wasn’t about you.”
“That’s what I mean. I can do it as long as it’s somebody else.” He turned to me. “See, I take in information through the body.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Through the solar plexus, or the hara. Not through the head, like most people. I get feelings. You know?”
“Like whether it’s going to rain?”
He shrugged, and there was an uncomfortable silence. I was on the verge of apologizing when Moonblood said, “Look, it’s hard enough to talk about this stuff without a bunch of cheap shots.”
It had been a cheap shot, and I was sorry. On the other hand, surely it was just as hard to understand as it was to talk about. No, I didn’t know what Ivan meant, and yet to say so, I was sure, was just going to elicit a smugness (“Ha, ha, I know and you don’t”) that I’d already seen snatches of.
Rosalie stepped in quickly. “Moonblood,” said Rosalie, “is a true specialist. She can do what’s called psychometry. In fact, we’re going to try it when the police give back Chris’s car. She can probably sit in it and pick up something.”
“But what?”
Moonblood spoke. “Well, I think if I had something belonging to a suspect, I could tell if he’d been there or not.”
“Then there’s Tanesha,” said Rosalie.
Tanesha said, “I hear voices,” and hummed the “Twilight Zone” theme. “That’s the one they put you away for. So s’cuse me if I’m a little nervous at the office.”
“It’s called clairaudient,” said Rosalie.
“You know what I've always wondered? Are they outside your head or inside?”
“Inside. You know how you have a mental TV screen? Well, I’ve got a radio in there.”
I guessed I did, too. I heard voices all
the time: Rebecca, could you try a little harder, please? Would you mind getting it right this time? That sort of thing. Or little warnings in court sometimes: Don’t ask him that. It’s going to start something you don’t want to start.
I’d learned to heed them. But it was hard to imagine that David Berkowitz, Tanesha, and I were all clairaudients.
“I guess the difference in me and crazy people,” Tanesha said, “is I only get them when I ask something. I mean, the information just comes in words instead of pictures.”
“Chris and I are clairvoyants,” Rosalie said. “Although I guess all of us do a little bit of everything. You can’t predict how the information is going to come. And of course most of us see energy to some extent. That can also take a lot of forms. And it can look different at different times. Once a client came in and he had a great big red circle around him. Now I don’t see that every day— just then.”
“What did it mean?”
“That was a seriously angry man. He was getting divorced, and it got ugly.”
“That was the sort of thing that made me think I was going crazy,” said Chris. “These wild things that seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“Some of them,” I said, “in costume, right?”
She flushed. “Listen, Rebecca. If we ever split up the partnership, don’t tell anyone I see ghosts, okay?” It was a joke, but it brought home once again how much it had cost her to let me in on her secret.
“Before we do your reading,” Chris said, “I have to ask Rosalie something.”
She whispered; Rosalie shook her head; they negotiated; and finally Rosalie nodded. She said, “Chris wants me to do my parlor trick. I hate doing it because it’s sort of showoffy, but she talked me into it.”
“Yaaay,” said Ivan.
Tanesha said, “You’re not going to believe what this woman can do.”
Rosalie rummaged, finally found a pad and an envelope. “Here’s what you do. Write me a question on this pad, fold the paper up, and seal it in the envelope. And make it a different question from the one you’re going to ask us all to read about.”
