by Sarah Lovett
Dr. Tompkins gave an audible sigh. "If she's suffered abuse, or if she's witnessed traumatic events—"
"Then the normal response would be obsessive oral repetition—a verbal reliving of the trauma."
"Exactly." Margaret Tompkins continued: "Eventually she'll expel what she can't stand to keep inside." Pause. "The interesting question will be how she expels the experience . . . because it probably won't be verbal."
"Through her drawings?"
"You say she drew a demon . . . . Beware the interpretation of some demonic abuser; the demon may well be inside the child." She suppressed a sneeze. "Damn this cold. Let her know that silence is acceptable. Are you still doing that meditation of yours?"
"I try to sit every day, if that's what you mean."
"It will come in handy." Margaret Tompkins's smile was clear in her voice. "But don't be too patient, Sylvia. I don't want to be a doomsayer, but you know how intractable this disorder can be. Especially for children older than ten. It's crucial that the effects of additional trauma be identified and dealt with as quickly as possible—that is, if you want this child to have a fighting chance."
"If you're trying to alarm me, you're succeeding."
"Oh, dear." Dr. Tompkins lightened her tone. "What you need is a detective who can get to the bottom of the facts."
"I've got a detective. I sleep with him on a regular basis."
Sylvia was startled by an intrusive electronic beep that signaled a call on her other line. She gave a frustrated groan. "I'm sorry, Margaret, can you hold?"
A few seconds later, she was back. "I'm going to have to say good-bye; I've got an emergency—"
"Then go." Margaret Tompkins's voice grew faint. "Sylvia? Don't forget how infatuating wounded children can be."
Sylvia started to thank the psychiatrist, but Margaret had already hung up.
Nellie Trujillo, Serena's foster mother, was waiting on the second line. She spoke rapidly, her voice full of worry and frustration. "You need to get over here right away. She's driving me crazy—"
"Slow down." Sylvia heard the sound of keening in the background. "Is that Serena? What's happening?"
"She's throwing things around, dragging them outside, acting crazy. Crying and screaming—"
"Is there anything around that can hurt her—broken glass, scissors?"
"I don't think so. I can see her from here—" Nellie yelled suddenly, "Put that down!"
"What set her off?"
"Nothing. She was watching TV. Then she just went nuts. I thought she was a nice kid, but she's a little monster!"
"What was on the television?"
"Cartoons."
"Cartoons? Nothing else?"
"I don't know, I was in the kitchen." The high-pitched cries in the background turned to shrieks. "Dammit!" Nellie Trujillo whispered. "I never swear. Now look at me." She sounded like a woman who had used up all her emotional reserves.
"Did you call her social worker?"
"I called, but Dolores wasn't there. They took a message. I've had lots of kids in my home, some of them really screwed up, but they never acted like this. I mean it, you have to come now."
Sylvia's hand grazed Serena's drawing, and the impulse to tell Mrs. Trujillo to wait for Dolores Martin died on her tongue. As a court-appointed evaluating psychologist, her professional boundaries were wider than those of a clinical therapist. This situation qualified as a crisis, and a home visit would not compromise her ability to do her job; if anything, it would give her the chance to assess Nellie Trujillo's ability to continue as foster mother. All these thoughts raced through Sylvia's mind, but they didn't sway her—it was the child's distress that made her agree.
"Keep an eye on her until I get there. I'm leaving my office now. Tell me exactly where you are on De Fouri Street so I don't get lost."
WHEN SYLVIA ARRIVED at the Trujillo home, she found Serena in the backyard on her hands and knees in a large sandbox. She was dressed only in underpants—with the medallion dangling around her neck. Her long hair had fallen forward across her young face, her skin shiny with sweat. She was digging in the sand with quick and methodical strokes.
All around Serena, isolated objects were scattered in the sand: articles of clothing, dolls, crayons, and other toys, even food. Her hands scraped sand from a deepening hole. When she reached solid clay, she snatched up a piece of clothing—the cotton T-shirt she had worn in Sylvia's office. She stuffed it into the hole and covered it with sand, obsessively patting and smoothing the surface particles. She scrambled on all fours, moving a few inches away to begin the process again. She buried the next item—a sock. And the next—a red ribbon. A piece of bread. A hairbrush.
As Sylvia stood watching the bizarre scene, she realized her mouth was open. She closed it and took a few steps toward the sandbox. Serena gave no sign of recognition or acknowledgment but a high, thin hum seemed to come from the child.
Definitely Twilight Zone time.
"Serena," Sylvia murmured.
Serena lifted her gaze toward Sylvia. Her dirt-smeared face was blank—except for a tiny spark of rebellion in those charismatic eyes.
Sylvia walked across the lawn until she was a penny's toss from Serena. The neighborhood was quiet except for the sound of barking dogs. It took her a moment to realize the dogs were her own; they were shut in the back of her truck. She sat down, prepared to wait, willing to watch the show. Recognizing the stir of excitement in the pit of her stomach, she felt slightly uncomfortable. It was the excitement a psychologist feels when presented with an especially interesting case, an exotic psyche.
Sylvia found herself asking silent questions: Was this very bizarre behavior ritualistic? Repetitive? Were the gestures ceremonial? Practical? Had the child done this before—was the behavior studied?
She remembered Margaret Tompkins's words: "If she's suffered abuse, or if she's witnessed traumatic events . . . eventually she'll expel what she can't stand to keep inside."
Psychologist and child were the yard's only occupants. Nellie Trujillo was watching from her kitchen. Her blue-and-white apron was visible through the window; the soft chink of glass against glass drifted out from the house.
Sylvia kept the child in focus. Behind Serena, the rest of the world blurred into a soft backdrop. October's Indian-summer sun shone through tree branches, and the ground was dappled with light and shadow. Another rainstorm was blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico, its eventual arrival announced by intermittent thunder. At the moment, however, the sky was clear.
What would the child do when she ran out of things to bury? Was every possession—old and new—going to its grave? A stuffed animal disappeared beneath the sandy surface. A bar of soap was next. A few scraps of paper. When all the items were buried, Serena sat very still—for one minute, two . . .
Sylvia felt Serena's eyes. The child studied her for several seconds before breaking contact. Then Serena wrapped her arms around her knees and began sucking on the soft skin of her own wrist; her eyelids lowered, her lips pulled rhythmically. Sylvia had to admit it to herself—Serena unnerved her.
The sound of a screen door caught Sylvia's attention. She shifted her body to look at Nellie Trujillo just as a golden airborne blur flew over the backyard gate and raced into the yard.
Nikki had escaped from the truck. Now the dog charged toward the child, sand and dirt flying, and Nellie Trujillo screamed in horror. Sylvia lunged toward the animal, yelling out a command to sit.
She was sure she saw Serena's lips moving.
Nikki hesitated, kept coming. Sylvia bellowed. This time, the Malinois stopped, fur on scruff and tail erect, black lips stretched back from sharp canines. Drool glistened on the animal's teeth. Only eight feet separated child and growling dog.
Nellie Trujillo cried out again. The shepherd was inching forward.
Sylvia stopped breathing. "Nikki, stay!"
The dog refused to respond.
Serena sucked in her breath, and her small hand reached out to
clutch one of the metal posts that anchored the swing set to the earth. Then she did something that astounded Sylvia. She took a step toward the threatening dog and dropped to her knees. Her face was raised, her arms extended, palms upward—as if she were praying.
Nikki sat, whining feverishly. Her bristly tail picked up tempo on the sand. Thump thump thump.
Sylvia began to breathe again when the Malinois inched forward to lick Serena's face. Nikki almost ate her. Jesus.
Nellie Trujillo made a small sound of amazement that couldn't quite mask the discomfort in her voice and said, "Look at that."
"Yeah." Sylvia nodded, trying to dredge up a relieved smile. She whistled, but Nikki was glued to Serena, fur flush against her new mistress. To top it off, Nikki growled at Sylvia when she approached. Her own dog was protecting a child. From her. Fabulous.
But Serena seemed oblivious to the animal—and to the world. Her deep-set eyes were still focused on some heavenward point, her entire being engaged in what could only be described as communion. In a moment of unguarded repose, the child's features softened and her expression filled with longing.
Abruptly, her body relaxed—and she nodded as if a question had been answered.
Serena made one more move. She scooted toward Sylvia and wrapped both her arms around the psychologist's legs. Her grip was hot and fast. Tight. Like she was never, ever going to let go.
WHEN THE TIME came to leave, Sylvia resigned herself to chaos. She explained to Serena that she had to go away. She cajoled. Soothed. Stood firm. But she was right. Chaos was inevitable.
Nellie Trujillo disappeared into her house dragging a furious child by the hand.
There was nothing wrong with Serena's lungs. She sounded like a kid screaming bloody murder because she was about to be thrown to the wolves.
Sylvia put Nikki in the back of her truck, where the shepherd settled down with Rocko amid the clutter of toolbox, blankets, and a bundle of clothes destined for the secondhand store. When she lifted the camper shell's rear window, she discovered Nikki's avenue of escape: Albert Kove had neglected to secure the latch.
She cracked the window open for air and returned to the Trujillo kitchen to make sure Nellie was coping with the distraught child. The room was empty. Following the sound of a woman's voice, Sylvia arrived at Serena's room. She stopped and stood quietly outside the partially closed door. Through the gap, she could see Nellie standing with her arms wrapped around herself; the woman looked weary. The child was curled up, tucked in bed, crying softly. One small fist enclosed the silver medallion.
Minutes later, Nellie joined Sylvia in the kitchen, where she begged her to stay for tea. Sylvia agreed—swayed by the desperation on the woman's face. While Nellie placed two mugs of water in the microwave, the telephone rang. She answered on the first ring, keeping her voice low so that Serena would not be disturbed. "This is Mrs. Trujillo."
Sylvia finished making the chamomile tea and sipped the hot liquid while Nellie carried on a brief conversation. Coming from the street, she heard the faint sound of barking dogs.
Nellie hung up the phone and turned to Sylvia. "They got in touch with the social worker. She may stop by later." Her expression shifted quickly to concern. "I wonder if you'd talk to her about this?"
Sylvia nodded. "I'll call her this afternoon." She held out her business card. "And I want you to call me if you have any questions. Or if anything changes. Anything. Especially if she starts talking!"
Nellie Trujillo nodded as she accepted the card, and her eyes swept over Sylvia's bare fingers.
"You don't have children of your own?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"But you specialize in kid psychology?"
"No."
The woman looked confused. "Then why . . . ?"
Sylvia frowned. I'm here via a circuitous route that includes managed care and downsized government contracts in addition to an absentee colleague and a boss who won't leave well enough alone. "Let's just blame it on the HMO's."
Nellie Trujillo's fingers tamped stray hairs behind one ear. She seemed to accept the explanation, which wasn't surprising, since she was a veteran of the state's foster-care system. She bit her lip, then said, "About Serena . . . that child's from another world."
When Sylvia didn't respond, Mrs. Trujillo continued. "I feel bad about this, but I really don't think I can handle her. My other kids . . ." She trailed off.
Sylvia nodded. After a moment, she said, "I think Serena may need special care. It's not your fault. We'll get it sorted out."
Relieved, Nellie smiled hesitantly, but her gaze was steadfast. "Foster kids—whether they mean to or not—sooner or later, they break your heart."
Sylvia walked silently to the kitchen door. She'd heard the warning in the woman's words, but she couldn't think of any response.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RENZO SANTOS PARKED his Suburban a hundred feet from the modest one-story house on De Fouri Street. The quiet neighborhood had a muted quality, as if it were covered with soft gray netting. The old Sanctuario was quiet, apparently deserted. Along the street, the half dozen houses seemed to fade with the late afternoon light. The stillness was broken only when a noisy jay called from one of the staunch old cottonwoods.
Renzo pulled the dark blue baseball cap low over his eyes and took a slow breath. As he'd anticipated, the social worker had led him to the child's foster home. He'd realized he was in the right place as soon as the lady answered her door, stepping onto the front porch. He'd seen her at the courthouse that morning. He'd mistaken her for a clerk, an assumption that had cost him most of a day. But finally, he had the child within his reach.
After the social worker's departure, Renzo had driven the neighborhood, restlessly preparing himself for work. The surrounding streets meandered without coherent design, and the result was a numbing maze that reminded him of Mexico. But it wasn't Mexico; it was smoother, cleaner, less desperate, less alive. It made him hunger for the border.
He stepped out of the Suburban and walked at a medium pace along the sidewalk toward the house. In a dark suit and white shirt, clean-shaven, Renzo Santos wasn't worried about being noticed. At an early age, he had learned the art of invisibility. More than once it had kept him from being slapped around by the puta's men. It had even saved him from death. Always it left him with the excruciating wound of vulnerability: he was a man who would never truly be seen by anyone.
To disappear, Renzo touched a shadow deep inside his mind. Then he let that shadow filter through his body like music. Vaporizing bone. Erasing flesh. Until he was nothing but the purest essence of being. And could be remade. Into a utility repairman. Into a delivery man. Into a Bible convert. Into oxygen.
When he approached the small home on De Fouri Street, he adjusted the smile on his face, adjusted the light in his eyes. He could look benign. Before reaching the front walkway, he cut purposefully along the property's southern boundary. A narrow gate led from front yard to back, and it swung open easily. The small grassy area was empty of occupants. A sandbox and swing set, looking forlorn and abandoned in the shade, occupied one corner of the yard. Here he was shielded from the street and the neighboring homes by fence and trees. He stepped over a low hedge into a flower bed. The earth was soft and spongy, and it gave way slightly beneath his feet. He stood close enough to the plaster walls to feel the warmth left by the sun. Level with his shoulders, a window offered a view of the living room. The television set was on, and two boys were seated cross-legged in front of the screen, eyes glued to wildly energetic cartoon images. He could see another child's leg swinging in and out of view. He shifted position; the child was sprawled on a flowered couch. A girl. His heartbeat picked up for a half second until he registered her unfamiliar features and the fact that she was only three or four years old.
He moved quietly, skirting the side of the house. He passed a bedroom. The curtains on these windows were drawn, but through a one-inch margin the carpet and bedspread of the master bedroom w
ere visible. Lamplight illuminated a wedding picture. Renzo had seen no sign of the woman's husband.
The next window revealed the kitchen, where the woman was cooking an early dinner. Steam rolled off a large aluminum pot. She held dried pasta in one fist and shook it into the pot, recoiling slightly when she was spattered with hot water.
She called out—there was no one else in the kitchen—probably to one of the children. Renzo eased himself quickly around the corner, past the back door, to the other side of the compact home. Three final windows lined the wall ahead, single-framed, simple hinges, break a pane and you're in. He sidled up to the first window. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior light, he discovered he'd found her. A child's night-light illuminated a small room furnished with two bunk beds and a single twin bed. She was a soft shape asleep and hidden beneath a flannel blanket.
Renzo didn't need to break the glass—the window was unlatched.
NELLIE TRUJILLO RAN a wooden spoon through roiling spaghetti. She thought she should probably have added two packages of noodles to feed four children and two adults. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall and sighed; her husband repaired appliances from seven A.M. to four-thirty P.M. He was late as usual. For the third time, she called out to her oldest son. "Rudy, jito, wake Serena to eat!"
When there was still no response, Nellie murmured, "That boy." She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the door just as her twelve-year-old appeared. His eyes were glazed from staring too long at the television.
"Did you hear me, jito?" Nellie snapped. "Check on Serena."
He shrugged, eyes on the stove, on food. "She's not my sister."
"Don't make me tell your father—"
"I'm going." He swung around and stomped down the hallway.
