Guilt

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Kembara said, “Looks like a gremlin.”

  “It’s a bulldog,” said Sam. “They were bred to fight bulls but that was a long time ago, now they’re just pets.”

  Kyle-Jacques said, “That one couldn’t fight nothing.”

  “Anything,” said a new voice, adult, female.

  Familiar. In another context, sultry. What I heard now was gentle, maternal instruction.

  Kyle-Jacques said, “Yeah, whatever.”

  Blanche and I reached the pond with time to spare.

  A couple dozen ducks swam and splashed. Concentric rings on the surface of the water betrayed the presence of fish. Turtles the size of dinner plates lazed on the banks. An old pittosporum tree in the process of dying, it roots decaying slowly, leaned precariously toward the water. A queue of turtles lined its wizened trunk. Half a dozen glossy shells stationed as precisely as marines at roll call, heads and limbs retracted. Arrayed that way, the reptiles looked like exotic pods sprouting from the wood.

  Two benches at the far end of the pond were shaded by sycamores and oak. I selected one, placed my backpack at my feet, lifted Blanche and set her down next to me. Checking out the world beyond the Seville’s passenger window, walking, and pooping had pretty much exhausted her. She snuggled up tight against my thigh, placed her knobby little head in my lap, fluttered her eyes, and began to snore.

  I stroked her neck until her breathing grew rhythmic and slow. Sweet dreams, Gorgeous.

  The group arrived at the pond just as I retrieved the other strategic object I’d stashed in the pack: the current issue of The International Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry. The lead article was a survey of pediatric responses to hospitalization. An area I’d studied years ago. I’d been meaning to get to it.

  As I alternated between reading and peeking above the top of the magazine, the party of seven stopped at the turtle-clad tree branch. Sam pointed and lectured, motioned to Julie, who did the same. The kids—including little Kristina—paid attention. Kion and Kembara stood still. Kyle-Jacques was a little jumpier and he moved toward the old tree to reach for a turtle.

  Julie held him off with a hand on his arm.

  He asked her something. Julie drew him closer to the amphibians, pointed to some detail of the turtle’s shell.

  Kyle-Jacque nodded, backed off.

  Sam opened the wheeled suitcase, removed a blanket, and spread it on the dirt. Extricating a stereoscopic microscope, he carefully placed the instrument in the center of the fabric. The scope was joined, in turn, by a fishnet, a ladle, and a plastic vial. Then a small wooden box whose contents glinted when Sam popped the lid. He held something up to the light.

  Glass specimen slides.

  Julie said something. The older three kids removed their backpacks, laid them down, began unzipping. Kristina held on to the hand of the tall woman in the hat.

  I thought: Time for the latest whiz-bang e-tablets.

  Out came three spiral notebooks and marker pens.

  Wrong, Smart Guy.

  About so much.

  As Julie lectured and pointed, Kion, Kembara, and Kyle-Jacques sat cross-legged on the bank, sketching and jotting notes. Sam walked to the pond’s edge, steered clear of the inert turtles, and ladled water. Transferring the green liquid to the vial, he capped it and brought it back to the microscope on the blanket.

  It took several attempts to set up a slide bearing a water bubble. By the time Sam was finished, Kristina’s interest had been piqued and she’d pulled free from the tall woman in the hat, stood next to the teacher. Sam focused the microscope, narrowed the eyepieces to fit the little girl’s face.

  She peered. Looked up beaming. Peered some more.

  The woman in the hat said something. Kristina joined her sibs. Julie gave her a pad and a green crayon.

  The woman walked a few paces away, stopped, called out, “You okay, now, Boo?”

  Kristina ignored her.

  “Boo, I’m going to sit down over there.” Pointing to the free bench. “Go, Mommy!”

  I continued reading as the woman sat down a few feet away. Out of her purse came a book. Happiest Toddler on the Block.

  She read. I read. She snuck a few peeks at Blanche, now awake and serene.

  I’d canted the journal cover to offer a clear view of the title.

  The woman had another go at her book. Looked at Blanche, again.

  I pretended to focus on the magazine. Read some of the lead article, began skimming. Nothing had changed much since I’d worked in a hospital.

  Blanche stretched, jumped from the bench onto the dirt, stretched some more.

  I said, “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Blanche licked my hand, rubbed her head against my fingers.

  The woman said, “Are you just the cutest?”

  Blanche grinned.

  “Excuse me, but I have to ask. Did she just smile at me?”

  “She does that with people she likes.”

  “Totally adorable. With some dogs it seems like they’re smiling but they’re putting out a different energy—more of a warning? This one … she really is something.”

  “Thanks.”

  The brim of the hat rose, offering me a full view of the face below.

  No makeup. No need. Classic, symmetrical bone structure the camera adored. Fine strands of hair escaped the confines of the hat but most remained tucked in. Mousy brown, now, blow-away fine. Filaments clouded the back of a long, graceful neck.

  Impossible not to know who she was.

  Today, I was playing the most clueless man in L.A. Offering her the merest of smiles, I returned to my magazine.

  Footsteps caused me to lower the pages.

  Kristina, running toward her mother.

  “Easy, Boo, don’t trip.”

  “Mommy, Mommy, it’s a smail!”

  Holding out a brown, cochlear shell.

  “Is there actually a snail in there, Boo, or is it empty?”

  “It’s empty.”

  “So the snail left its home.”

  “Huh?”

  “The shell is the snail’s home, Boo. Maybe this one left to find another one.”

  “Huh?”

  The woman kissed the child’s cheek. “It’s a beautiful shell, Boo.”

  “It’s a smail—aaahh wanna see the doggy!”

  “We don’t bother doggies, Boo—”

  “Wanna see!”

  I closed the magazine. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re sure? I really don’t want to bother you.”

  “Of course. Her name is Blanche and she loves kids.”

  Hand in hand, the two of them approached. On cue, Blanche assumed the sit-stay. Kristina reached to pet the top of her head.

  I said, “Actually, she likes it better when you do it this way.” Placing my hand low, in tongue range. Kristina imitated me. I said, “Perfect.” Blanche licked. Kristina giggled and moved in for another tongue-bath.

  Her mother said, “Okay, that’s fine. Thank the nice man, Boo.”

  Kristina began petting Blanche. Her strokes quickened. Veered on slaps. Her mother took hold of her wrist, guided the tiny hand down.

  Blanche licked pudgy fingers.

  Kristina squealed.

  The woman said, “Blanche. Like in Streetcar.”

  I smiled. “She likes the company of strangers.”

  The woman laughed. “I can see that. Great disposition. It’s a blessing.”

  Kristina showed the shell to Blanche and shouted, “Smail!”

  Blanche smiled.

  Kristina ran off laughing.

  The woman said, “Sorry for interrupting your reading.”

  I said, “Talk about adorable.”

  Her eyes drifted to the magazine. “You’re a psychologist?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m reading something kind of related—hold on.”

  Her walk to her bench was languid, graceful. She returned with the toddler book.

  “I know it’s pop stuff
,” she said. “Would you mind telling me if it’s worth anything?”

  “It is,” I said. “I know the author.”

  “Really.”

  “We trained at the same time. At Western Pediatric Medical Center. Your little one’s a bit past toddler.”

  “I know,” she said. “I just like to learn.” The book dropped to her side. “That hospital, I actually did a— I spent some time there. Not with my kids, thank God. Just … I helped out. Years ago, before I had kids.”

  “It’s a good place.”

  “You bet … anyway, thanks for sharing Blanche with Kristina.”

  She offered her hand. Long graceful fingers, clean nails, no polish.

  I said, “Blanche lives to socialize.”

  Taking a cue with the panache of Streep, Blanche wiggled her hindquarters.

  The woman laughed. “I see that—um, do you happen to have a card?”

  I gave her one.

  She read it. Her eyes saucered.

  I said, “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, sure … it’s just … I almost … this is going to sound totally weird but a few years back someone actually referred me to you.”

  “Small world,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, this is kind of awkward … the appointment got canceled. I listened to someone else who gave me another name. It wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “it’s a matter of fit.”

  “This was a bad fit—listen, this is going to sound pushy but would you be willing to give it another try? An appointment, I mean.”

  “Sure.”

  “Wow,” she said, “that’s gracious of you. Um, could it be relatively soon?”

  I pulled my appointment book out of my pack, knitted my brow.

  She said, “You’re booked solid. Of course.”

  I closed the book. “Got a cancellation tomorrow, but it’s early. Eight thirty if you can make it.”

  “I can. Sure, that’ll be fine.” She looked at the card. “There’s no address here.”

  “I work from home. I’ll give it to you.”

  She produced an iPhone, punched in the info. “Eight thirty it is, thank you so much, Dr. Alexander Delaware—I guess I’d better be getting back to my tribe.”

  We shook hands. Her skin was cool, dry, thrumming with the faintest tremor.

  She said, “I’m Preem, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Flashing a million bucks’ worth of smile, she hurried to her brood.

  I pretended to read another article, slipped Blanche a Milk-Bone. “You earned caviar but this is all I’ve got.”

  When she was finished nibbling, we left, passing the kids and the teachers and Prema Moon, everyone busy with an assortment of vials, slides, leaves, illustrated books.

  Prema Moon gave me a small wave and held a leaf up to Kembara. “Look at this, honey. Tri-lobar.”

  The girl said, “Great, Mom,” in a voice ripe with boredom.

  “Pretty, no?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That means it has three lobes—three of these little roundy things.”

  “Mo-om, I need to draw.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  Hang around L.A. long enough and you’re going to spot actresses. I’ve probably seen more than the average citizen because a few famous butts have warmed the battered leather couch in my office and once in a while I tag along with Robin at the type of party most people imagine to be fascinating but typically turns out to be mind-numbing.

  I’ve learned that cinematic beauty is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s limited to the screen and real life offers up a plain face that closes up like a frightened sea anemone when the camera’s not whirring. Other times, physical perfection transcends time and place.

  Prema Moon sat on the couch wearing couldn’t-care-less clothes: loose jeans, brown sneakers, a shapeless V-necked sweater that had begun life as sad beige and had faded to tragic gray. Her macramé bag was one shade sootier, fraying where the fabric gathered into bamboo handles.

  Like yesterday, she wore no makeup. Indoor lighting turned her hair mousier than it had been at the park. The ends were blunt and uneven, barely reached her shoulders. Homemade hack job or an exorbitant styling meant to look that way.

  If she indulged in Botox, she was overdue. Fine lines scored her brow, the space between her eyes, the sides of her mouth. The skin beneath her eyes was puffy. The indigo of her irises was lovely but oddly low-watt. Warm but sad.

  She was gorgeous.

  She’d arrived precisely on time, driving a small gray Mercedes with black windows and squeaky brakes. Blanche and I greeted her at the door. Prema stooped to pet. “Hello again, Princess.” She did the usual quick-check of the living room, offered the comment I get all the time:

  “Nice place, Dr. Delaware. Kind of hidden away.”

  “Thanks. This way.”

  When we arrived in the office, Blanche waddled to Prema’s feet and sat down.

  “Is she a therapy dog?”

  “She can be,” I said. “But she has no problem waiting outdoors.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that to her—c’mon, baby, you join us.”

  She sank into the couch, turned small, the way skinny, high-waisted people do. Leaning to scratch behind Blanche’s ear, she said, “I don’t want to break any rules, here, but is it okay if she sits up here with me?”

  I clicked my tongue. Blanche jumped up on the couch, settled in close.

  Prema Moon said, “Well, that was pretty nimble.”

  I sat back and waited, the calm, patient therapist. Wondered if someone with her training would see through the act.

  I’d had a restless night, waking up four times with a pounding head and a racing mind. Wondering if I could trust my own judgment.

  Had I dragged Milo’s case into a bog destined to sink it?

  How would I tell Prema I’d stalked her without scaring her out of the office?

  At five a.m., I’d crawled out of bed, padded to my office, scrawled notes.

  I returned an hour later. Gobbledygook.

  However it shook out, Prema passing through my doorway bought her insurance: From now on I was bound by confidentiality, maybe useless to Milo.

  A logistical mess; I hadn’t expected it to turn out this way. Had been aiming for a chance to observe the kids. Hadn’t counted on Prema being in the van.

  Not completely true.

  The slim chance the putative Evil Queen might materialize had led me to bring Blanche and the psych journal, a pair of perfect lures.

  Even with that, I’d expected small talk at best. Some kind of observational insight I could bring back to Milo.

  My clever little plan had worked too well.

  I’d been wrong about so much.

  Prema Moon kept massaging Blanche. Checked out the prints on the wall. Put on dorky glasses and squinted at my diplomas, returned the specs to her macramé bag.

  “Nice,” she said. “The feeling, here. What you imagine a therapist office is like. Should be like. The other one—the doctor I went to instead of you—that was a cold space. Just screamed I don’t care about people. Cold and expensive—what’s your fee, by the way?”

  “Three hundred dollars for forty-five minutes.”

  “Compared with her, you’re a bargain.” She counted out cash, placed the bills on a side table. “This place talks softly. Earnestly.”

  She fooled with her hair. A strand broke off and floated to her knee. She tweezed it between thumb and forefinger, tried to deposit it in the wastebasket. The hair adhered to her fingertip. She rubbed until it dropped. That took a while.

  “As you can see, I’m a little compulsive.”

  I smiled.

  She smiled back. Hard to read the emotion behind it. By comparison, Mona Lisa was blatant.

  “Okay,” she said, “the thing with therapy is to be utterly honest, right?”

  “As honest as you feel you can be.”


  “There are degrees of honesty?”

  “There are degrees of revelation,” I said. “It’s a matter of what you’re comfortable with.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. In the end, we’re all strangers except to ourselves, that’s why your job is so interesting, you try to … span the gap.” Head shake. “That probably didn’t make sense.”

  “It made perfect sense.”

  Her eyes drifted back to the paper on my wall. Blanche snuggled closer. “Never had a pet. Don’t know exactly why.”

  “Four kids,” I said, “I’d imagine you’re pretty busy.”

  “I mean even as a child. I could’ve had a pet if I asked. I could’ve had anything. But I never asked.”

  She blinked. “Okay, time for that honesty: The reason the appointment was canceled wasn’t because I was urged to see someone else. It was because of you specifically. The other work you do. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Police cases.”

  “Exactly. Someone thought it would be a bad idea for someone like me to get involved with a doctor who did that. No one close to me, just a suit—a person paid to be careful.”

  A beat. “But here I am, after all. Which leads me to a second bit of honesty, Dr. Delaware. I suspected you were following us the moment you turned off Coldwater onto Beverly.”

  I took a second to digest that. “You suspected but you didn’t sound an alarm.”

  “If it was me alone, I’d probably have turned around and gotten the heck out of there. But with the tribe, a trip that had been planned for a long time? I suspected but I didn’t know for sure, so no sense scaring them, ruining their day. So I waited to see what you did once you entered the park and you just walked your dog and ignored us and I figured I was wrong, you were just a guy with a dog. Then we met up by the pond and you cleverly ignored me but made sure I’d see that magazine. Even then, I didn’t think much of it. Then I read your card and I remembered your name. Remembered that other work you do and started to wonder.”

  She twisted a thicker clump of hair. Several more strands fell to her lap. She made no attempt to clear them.

  “And yet,” she said, “I’m here.”

  I said, “I’d like to help you.”