Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Just one.”

  “What kind?”

  “It’s a Dodge Dart.”

  “Dodge Dart,” she said, pursing her lips and thinking. “We don’t have one of those.”

  “It’s not very fancy. Kind of beat-up, actually.”

  “We have one like that. A Cadillac Knockabout.”

  “Cadillac Knockabout,” I said. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of that model.”

  “It’s the one we took today. To here. A 1962 Cadillac Fleetwood Knockabout. It’s black and old. Jacob says it’s a workhorse.”

  “Do you like cars, Melissa?”

  Shrug. “Not really.”

  “What about toys? Do you have any favorites?”

  Shrug. “Not really.”

  “I’ve got toys in my office. How about we go check them out?”

  She shrugged a third time but allowed me to usher her into the consult room. Once she was inside, her eyes took flight, darting and alighting upon desk, bookshelves, toy chest, back to the desk. Never settling. She knitted her hands, pulled them apart, and began a curious rolling, kneading motion, turning one set of tiny fingers over the other.

  I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. “I’ve got lots of stuff in here. Box games and dolls and clay and Play-Doh. Paper and pencils, too. And crayons, if you like to draw in color.”

  “Why should I do that?” she said.

  “Do what, Melissa?”

  “Play or draw? Mother said we were going to talk.”

  “Your mother was right. We are going to talk,” I said. “But sometimes kids who come here like to play or draw before they start talking. While they get used to this place.”

  The hands kneaded faster. She looked down.

  “Also,” I said, “playing and talking can help kids express how they feel— help get their feelings out.”

  “I can get my feelings out,” she said, “by talking.”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

  She took a place on the leather sofa and I sat opposite her in my chair. She looked around some more, then placed her hands in her lap and stared straight at me.

  I said, “Okay. Why don’t we start by talking about who I am and why you’re here. I’m a psychologist. Do you know what that means?”

  She kneaded her fingers and kicked the couch with her heel. “I have a problem and you’re the kind of doctor who helps children who have problems and you don’t give any shots.”

  “Very good. Did Jacob tell you all that?”

  She shook her head. “My mother. Dr. Wagner told her about you— she’s my mother’s friend.”

  I remembered what Eileen Wagner had said about a brief chat, about a little girl wandering and hiding in a big, spooky house, and wondered what friendship meant to this child. “But Dr. Wagner met your mother because of you, didn’t she, Melissa? Because of your call to the help line.”

  Her body tightened and the little hands kneaded faster. I noticed that her finger pads were pink, slightly chafed.

  “Yeah, but she likes my mother.”

  Her eyes left mine and stared at the carpet.

  “Well,” I said, backtracking, “Dr. Wagner was right. About the shots. I never give shots. Don’t even know how to give shots.”

  Unimpressed, she looked at her shoes. Sticking her legs straight out, she began bobbling her feet.

  “Still,” I said, “even going to a doctor who doesn’t give shots can be scary. It’s a new situation. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  Her head shot up, the green eyes defiant. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Good.” I smiled. “And I’m not scared of you either.”

  She gave me a look that was part bafflement, mostly scorn. So much for the old Delaware wit.

  “Not only don’t I give shots,” I said, “but I don’t do anything to the children who come here. I work with them. As a team. They tell me about themselves and when I know enough about them, I show them how not to be scared. Because being scared is something we learn. So we can unlearn it.”

  Spark of interest in the eyes. Her legs relaxed. But more kneading, faster.

  She said, “How many other kids come here?”

  “Lots.”

  “How many?”

  “Between four and eight a day.”

  “What are their names?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Melissa.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a secret— just like I couldn’t tell anyone that you came here today unless you gave me permission.”

  “Why?”

  “Because kids who come here talk about things that are private. They want privacy— do you know what that means?”

  “Privacy,” she said, “is going to the bathroom like a young lady, all by yourself, with the door closed.”

  “Exactly. When kids talk about themselves, they sometimes tell me things they’ve never told anyone. Part of my job is knowing how to keep a secret. So everything that goes on in this room is a secret. Even the names of the people who come here are secret. That’s why there’s that second door.” I pointed. “It goes out to the hall. So people can leave the office without going into the waiting room and seeing other people. Would you like to see?”

  “No, thank you.” More tension.

  I said, “Is something bothering you right now, Melissa?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to talk about what scares you?”

  Silence.

  “Melissa?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything scares you?”

  Look of shame.

  “How about we start with one thing.”

  “Burglars and intruders.” Reciting, without hesitation.

  I said, “Did someone tell you the kinds of questions I’d be asking you today?”

  Silence.

  “Was it Jacob?”

  Nod.

  “And your mother?”

  “No. Just Jacob.”

  “Did Jacob also tell you how to answer my questions?”

  More hesitation.

  I said, “If he did, that’s okay. He’s trying to help. I just want to make sure you tell me how you feel. You’re the star of this show, Melissa.”

  She said, “He told me to sit up straight, speak clearly, and tell the truth.”

  “The truth about what scared you?”

  “Uh-huh. And then maybe you could help me.”

  Accent on the maybe. I could almost hear Dutchy’s voice.

  I said, “That’s fine. Jacob’s obviously a very smart person and he takes good care of you. But when you come here, you’re the boss. You can talk about anything you want.”

  “I want to talk about burglars and intruders.”

  “Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  I waited. She said nothing.

  I said, “What do these burglars and intruders look like?”

  “They’re not real burglars,” she said, scornful again. “They’re in my imagination. Pretend.”

  “What do they look like in your imagination?”

  More silence. She closed her eyes. The hands kneaded furiously, her body took on a faint rocking motion, and her face screwed up. She appeared to be on the brink of tears.

  I leaned in closer and said, “Melissa, we don’t have to talk about this right now.”

  “Big,” she said, eyes still closed. But dry. I realized that the facial tightness wasn’t a presage to tears, just intense concentration. Her eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

  Chasing images.

  She said, “He’s big . . . with this big hat . . .”

  Sudden stillness beneath the eyelids.

  Her hands untangled, floated upward, and made wide circles. “. . . and a long coat and . . .”

  “And what?”

  The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.
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br />   Hypnotic.

  Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

  Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

  Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick. . . .

  The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

  I said, “The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat.” Unconsciously, I’d lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

  More tension. No reply.

  “Anything else?” I said gently.

  She was silent.

  I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. “He’s got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn’t he, Melissa? Something in his hand?”

  “Bag.” Barely audible.

  I said, “Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?”

  No reply.

  “To put stuff in?”

  Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

  I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.

  “Do you want to talk about what goes into the bag, Melissa?”

  She closed her eyes and kept rocking. Trembled and hugged herself. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  I patted her again, got a tissue, and wiped her eyes, half expecting her to pull away. But she allowed me to dab the tears.

  Dramatic first session, movie-of-the-week perfect. But too much, too fast; it could jeopardize the therapy. I dabbed some more, searching for some way to slow it down.

  She killed that notion with a single word:

  “Kids.”

  “The burglar puts kids in the sack?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So the burglar is really a kidnapper.”

  She opened her eyes, stood up, faced me, and held up her hands as if praying. “He’s a murderer!” she cried, emphasizing each word with a shake. “A Mikoksi with acid!”

  “A Mikoksi?”

  “A Mikoksi with acidthatmeanspoison! Burning poison! Mikoksi threw it on her and he’s going to come back and burn her again, and me, too!”

  “Who did he throw poison on, Melissa?”

  “Mother! And now he’s going to come back!”

  “Where is this Mikoksi now?”

  “In jail, but he’s going to get out and hurt us again!”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he doesn’t like us. He liked Mother but then he stopped liking her and he threw poison acid on her and tried to kill her but it only burned her on the face and she was still beautiful and could get married and have me!”

  She began pacing the office, holding her temples, stooped and muttering like a little old woman.

  “When did all this happen, Melissa?”

  “Before I was born.” Rocking, face to the wall.

  “Did Jacob tell you about it?”

  Nod.

  “Did your mother talk to you about it, too?”

  Hesitation. Shake of head. “She doesn’t like to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It makes her sad. She used to be happy and beautiful. People took pictures of her. Then Mikoksi burned her face and she had to have operations.”

  “Does Mikoksi have another name? A first name?”

  She turned and faced me, truly puzzled. “I don’t know.”

  “But you know he’s in jail.”

  “Yes, but he’s getting out and it’s no fair and no justice!”

  “Is he getting out of jail soon?”

  More confusion.

  “Did Jacob tell you he was getting out soon?”

  “No.”

  “But he did talk to you about justice.”

  “Yes!”

  “What does justice mean to you?”

  “Being fair!”

  She gave me a challenging look and put her hands on the flat place where one day her hips would be. Tension rumpled the sliver of brow beneath her bangs. Her mouth curled and she wagged a finger. “It was no fair and stupid! They should have a fair justice! They should have killed him with the acid!”

  “You’re very angry at Mikoksi.”

  Another incredulous look at the idiot in the chair.

  I said, “That’s good. Getting really angry at him. When you’re angry at him, you’re not so scared of him.”

  Both hands had fisted. She opened them, dropped them, sighed, and looked at the floor. More kneading.

  I went over to her and kneeled so that we’d be at eye level if she chose to raise her eyes. “You’re a very smart girl, Melissa, and you’ve helped me a lot by being brave and talking about scary things. I know how much you want not to be afraid anymore. I’ve helped lots of other kids and I’ll be able to help you.”

  Silence.

  “If you want to talk some more about Mikoksi or burglars or anything else, that’s okay. But if you don’t, that’s okay, too. We’ve got some more time together before Jacob comes back. How we spend it is up to you.”

  No movement or sound; the second hand on the banjo clock across the room completed half a circuit. Finally she lifted her head. Looked everywhere but at me, then homed in suddenly, squinting, as if trying to put me in focus.

  “I’ll draw,” she said. “But only with pencils. Not crayons, they’re too messy.”

  • • •

  She worked the pencil slowly, a tongue tip extending from one corner of her mouth. Her artistic ability was above average, but all the finished product told me was that she’d had enough for one day: happy-face girl next to happy-face cat in front of red house and a fat-trunked tree full of apples. All of it under a huge golden sun with prehensile rays.

  When she was through she pushed it across the desk and said, “You keep it.”

  “Thank you. It’s terrific.”

  “When am I coming back?”

  “How about in two days? Friday.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  “Sometimes it’s good for kids to take some time to think about what happened before they come in.”

  “I think fast,” she said. “And there’s other stuff I didn’t say yet.”

  “You really want to come in tomorrow?”

  “I want to get better.”

  “All right then, I can see you tomorrow at five. If Jacob can bring you.”

  “He will,” she said. “He wants me to get better, too.”

  • • •

  I saw her out through the separate exit and spotted Dutchy walking down the hall, a paper bag in one hand. When he saw us he frowned and looked at his watch.

  Melissa said, “We’re coming back to him at five tomorrow, Jacob.”

  Dutchy raised his eyebrows and said, “I believe I’m right on time, Doctor.”

  “You are,” I said. “I was just showing Melissa the separate exit.”

  “So other kids won’t see me or know who I am,” she said. “It’s privacy.”

  “I see,” said Dutchy, looking up and down the hall. “I brought you something, young lady. To tide you over until dinner.” The top half of the bag was accordion-folded neatly. He opened it with his fingertips and drew out an oatmeal cookie.

  Melissa squealed, took it from him, and prepared to bite into it.

  Dutchy cleared his throat.

  Melissa held the cookie mid-air. “Thank you, Jacob.”

  “You’re quite welcome, young lady.”

  She turned to me. “Would you like some, Dr. Delaware?”

  “No, thank you, Melissa.” Sounding to myself like a charm school candidate.