Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

Plenty to concentrate on, today.

  She began talking the moment she sat down, looking away from me and reciting her terrors nonstop, in a singsong oral-report voice that told me she’d studied hard for therapy. Closing her eyes as she went on, and climbing in power and pitch until she was nearly shouting, then stopping and shivering with dread, as if she’d suddenly visualized something overwhelming.

  But before I could say anything, she was off again. Fluctuating between blurt and whisper, like a radio with a broken volume control.

  “Monsters . . . big bad things.”

  “What kinds of big bad things, Melissa?”

  “I don’t know . . . just bad.”

  She went silent again, bit down on her lower lip, began rocking.

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  She opened her eyes and said, “I know they’re imaginary but they still scare me.”

  “Imaginary things can be very scary.”

  Saying it in a soothing voice, but she’d reeled me into her world and I was flashing mental pictures of my own: gibbering hordes of fanged and hooded shadow-things that lurked in the nightgloom. Trapdoors unlatched by the death of light. Trees turned to witches; shrubs to hunched, slimy corruptions; the moon, a looming, voracious fire.

  The power of empathy. And more. Memories of other nights, so long ago; a boy in a bed, listening to the winds whip across the Missouri flatlands . . . I broke away from that and focused on what she was saying:

  “. . . that’s why I hate to sleep. Going to sleep brings the dreams.”

  “What kinds of dreams?”

  She shivered again and shook her head. “I make myself stay awake but then I can’t stop it anymore and I sleep and the dreams come.”

  I took her fingers in mine and stilled them with touch and therapeutic murmurings.

  She turned silent.

  I said, “Do you have bad dreams every night?”

  “Yes. And more. Mother said one time there were seven.”

  “Seven bad dreams in one night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  She liberated her hand, closed her eyes, and retreated to a detached tone. A seven-year-old clinician, presenting at Case Conference. The case of a certain nameless little girl who woke up cold and sweating from her sleeping place at the foot of her mother’s bed. Lurching awake, heart pounding, clawing the sheets to keep from falling endlessly, uncontrollably, into a huge black maw. Clawing but losing her grip and feeling everything float away like a kite with a broken string. Crying out in the darkness and rolling— hurtling— toward her mother’s warm body, a love-seeking missile. Mother’s arm reaching out unconsciously and drawing her near.

  Lying there, frozen, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince herself it was just a ceiling, that the things crawling up there weren’t— couldn’t be— real. Inhaling Mother’s perfume, listening to Mother’s light snores. Making sure Mother was deep asleep before reaching out and touching satin and lace, a stretch of soft arm-flesh. Then up to the face. The good side . . . somehow she always ended up next to the good side.

  Freezing again, as she said good side for the second time.

  Her eyes opened. She threw a panicky glance at the separate exit.

  A convict weighing the risks of jailbreak.

  Too much, too soon.

  Leaning in close, I told her she’d done well; we could spend the rest of the session drawing again, or playing a game.

  She said, “I’m scared of my room.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s big.”

  “Too big for you?”

  A guilty look crossed her face. Guilty confusion.

  I asked her to tell me more about her room. She painted more pictures.

  Tall ceiling with pictures of ladies in fancy dresses on it. Pink carpets, pink-and-gray lamb and pussycat wallpaper that Mother had picked especially for her when she was a baby in a crib. Toys. Music boxes and miniature dishes and glass figurines, three separate dollhouses, a zoo of stuffed animals. A canopy bed from somewhere else far away, she forgot where, with pillows and a fluffy comforter filled with goose feathers. Lace-trimmed windows that were round on top and went almost up to the ceiling. Windows with bits of colored glass in them that made colored pictures on your skin. A seat in front of one of the windows that had a view of the grass and the flowers Sabino tended all day; she wanted to call down and say hello to him but was afraid to get too close to the window.

  “Sounds like a huge room,” I said.

  “Not just one room, a bunch. There’s a sleeping room and a bathroom and a dressing room with mirrors and lights all around them, next to my closet. And a playroom— that’s where most of the toys are, but the stuffed animals are in the sleeping room. Jacob calls the sleeping room the nursery, which means a baby room.”

  Frown.

  “Does Jacob treat you like a baby?”

  “No! I haven’t used a crib since I was three!”

  “Do you like having such a big room?”

  “No! I hate it! I never go inside it.”

  The guilty look returned.

  Two minutes until the session was over. She hadn’t budged from her chair since she’d sat down.

  I said, “You’re doing a great job, Melissa. I’ve really learned a lot. But how about we stop for now?”

  She said, “I don’t like to be alone. Ever.”

  “No one likes to be alone for a long time. Even grown-ups get afraid of that.”

  “I don’t like it ever. I waited until my birthday— till I was seven— to go to the bathroom by myself. With the door closed and privacy.”

  Sitting back, daring me to disapprove.

  I said, “Who went with you till you were seven?”

  “Jacob and Mother and Madeleine and Carmela kept me company till I was four. Then Jacob said I was a young lady now, only ladies should be with me, so he stopped going. Then, when I was seven I decided to go there alone. It made me cry and hurt my stomach and once I threw up, but I did it. With the door closed a little, then all the way— but I still don’t lock it. No way.”

  Another dare.

  I said, “You did great.”

  Frown. “Sometimes it still makes me nervous. I’d still like to have someone there— not looking, just there, keeping me company. But I don’t ask them.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “You fought your fear and beat it.”

  “Yes,” she said. Astonished. Translating ordeal into victory for what appeared to be the first time.

  “Did your mother and Jacob tell you you did a good job?”

  “Uh-huh.” Dismissive wave. “They always says nice things.”

  “Well, you did do a good job. You won a tough fight. That means you can win other fights— beat up other fears. One by one. We can work together and pick the fears you want to fight, then plan how we’ll do it, step by step. Slowly. So it’s never scary for you. If you’d like, we can start the next time you’re here— on Monday.”

  I got up.

  She stayed in her chair. “I want to talk some more.”

  “I’d like to, too, Melissa, but our time is up.”

  “Just a little.” Hint of whine.

  “We really have to end now. I’ll see you on Monday, which is only . . .”

  I touched her shoulder. She shrugged me off and her eyes got wet.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Melissa. I wish there—”

  She shot out of the chair and shook a finger at me. “If your job is to help me, why can’t you help me now?” Stamping her foot.

  “Because our sessions together have to end at a certain time.”

  “Why?”

  “I think you know.”

  “ ’Cause you have to see other kids?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’re their names?”

  “I can’t talk about that, Melissa. Remember?”

  “How come they’re more important than me?”

  “The
y’re not, Melissa. You’re very important to me.”

  “Then why are you kicking me out?”

  Before I could answer, she burst into tears and headed for the door to the waiting room. I followed her, wondering for the thousandth time about the sanctity of the three-quarter hour, the idolatry of the clock. But knowing, also, the importance of limits. For any child, but especially this one, who seemed to have so few. Who’d been sentenced to live out her formative years in the terrible, unbounded splendor of a fairy-tale world.

  Nothing scarier than fairy tales . . .

  When I got to the waiting room she was tugging at Hernandez’s hand, crying and insisting, “Come on, Sabino!” He stood, looking frightened and puzzled. When he saw me, puzzlement changed to suspicion.

  I said, “She’s a little upset. Please have her mother call me as soon as possible.”

  Blank look.

  “Su madre,” I said. “El telÉfono. I’ll see her Monday at five. Lunes. Cinco.”

  “Okeh.” He glared and squeezed his hat.

  Melissa stamped her foot twice and said, “No way! I’m never coming back here! Never!”

  Yanking at the rough brown hand, Hernandez stood and continued to study me. His eyes were watery and dark and had hardened, as if he were considering retribution.

  I thought of all the protective layers surrounding this child, how ineffectual all of it was.

  I said, “Goodbye, Melissa. See you Monday.”

  “No way!” She ran out.

  Hernandez put on his hat and went after her.

  • • •

  I checked with my service at day’s end. No messages from San Labrador.

  I wondered how Hernandez had communicated what he’d seen. Prepared myself for a cancellation of the Monday appointment. But no message to that effect came that evening or the next day. Maybe they wouldn’t offer that courtesy to a plebe.

  I phoned the Dickinson household and got Dutchy on the third ring.

  “Hello, Doctor.” That same formality, but no irritation.

  “I’m calling to confirm Melissa’s appointment on Monday.”

  “Monday,” he said. “Yes, I have that. Five o’clock, correct?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Is there anything available earlier, by chance? The traffic from our side of—”

  “That’s all I’ve got, Mr. Dutchy.”

  “Five it is, then. Thank you for calling, Doctor, and good eve—”

  “One second,” I said. “There’s something you need to know. Melissa got upset today, left the office in tears.”

  “Oh? She seemed in fine spirits when she got home.”

  “Did she say anything to you about not wanting to come on Monday?”

  “No. What was the trouble, Doctor?”

  “Nothing serious. She wanted to stay past the appointed time, and when I told her she couldn’t, she burst into tears.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s used to having her way, isn’t she, Mr. Dutchy?”

  Silence.

  I said, “I’m mentioning it because that may be part of the problem— lack of limits. For a child it can be like drifting in the ocean without an anchor. Some changes in basic discipline may be in order.”

  “Doctor, I’m not in any position to—”

  “Of course, I forgot. Why don’t you put Mrs. Dickinson on the phone right now and I’ll discuss it with her.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Dickinson is indisposed.”

  “I can wait. Or call back, if you can let me know when she will be disposed.”

  Sigh. “Doctor, please. I’m not able to move mountains.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was asking you to.”

  Silence. Throat clear.

  I said, “Are you able to deliver a message?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Tell Mrs. Dickinson this is an untenable situation. That although I have compassion for her situation, she’s going to have to stop avoiding me if she wants me to treat Melissa.”

  “Dr. Delaware, please— this is quite— You really mustn’t give up on the child. She’s so . . . such a good, smart little girl. It would be a terrible waste if. . .”

  “If what?”

  “Please, Doctor.”

  “I’m trying to be patient, Mr. Dutchy, but I’m really having trouble understanding what the big deal is. I’m not asking Mrs. Dickinson to leave her house— all I want to do is talk. I understand her situation— I did my research. March 3, ’69. Does she have a phobia of the telephone, too?”

  Pause. “It’s doctors. She had so many surgeries— so much pain. They kept taking her apart like a jigsaw puzzle and putting her back together again. I’m not denigrating the medical profession. Her surgeon was a magician. He nearly restored her. Externally. But inside . . . She just needs time, Dr. Delaware. Give me time. I’ll get her to see how vital it is she contact you. But please be patient, sir.”

  My turn to sigh.

  He said, “She’s not without insight into her . . . into the situation. But after what the woman’s been through—”

  “She’s afraid of doctors,” I said. “Yet she met with Dr. Wagner.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That was . . . a surprise. She doesn’t cope well with surprises.”

  “Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?”

  “Let’s just say it was difficult for her.”

  “But she did it, Mr. Dutchy. And survived. That could be therapeutic in and of itself.”

  “Doctor—”

  “Is it because I’m a man? Would it be easier for her to deal with a female therapist?”

  “No!” he said. “Absolutely not! It’s not that at all.”

  “Just doctors,” I said. “Of any gender.”

  “That’s correct.” Pause. “Please, Dr. Delaware”— his voice had softened—“please be patient.”

  “All right. But in the meantime someone’s going to have to give me facts. Details. Melissa’s developmental history. The family structure.”

  “You deem that absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes. And it needs to be soon.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll fill you in. Within the limitations of my situation.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “Nothing— nothing at all. I’ll give you a comprehensive history.”

  “Tomorrow at noon,” I said. “We’ll have lunch.”

  “I don’t generally have lunch, Doctor.”

  “Then you can watch me eat, Mr. Dutchy. You’ll be doing most of the talking anyway.”

  • • •

  I picked a place midway between the west side and his part of town, one I thought sufficiently conservative for his sensibilities: the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth near Witmer, just a few blocks west of downtown. Dim rooms, polished mahogany paneling, red leather, linen napkins. Lots of financial types and corporate attorneys and political backstagers eating prime beef and talking zoning variances, sports scores, supply and demand.

  He’d arrived early and was waiting for me in a back booth, dressed in the same blue suit or its twin. As I approached he half-rose and gave a courtly bow.

  I sat down, called for the waiter, and ordered Chivas straight up. Dutchy asked for tea. We waited for the drinks without talking. Despite his frosty demeanor he looked out of his element and slightly pitiable— a nineteenth-century man transported to a distant, vulgar future he couldn’t hope to comprehend.

  Caught in an awkward position.

  My ire had faded since yesterday and I’d pledged to avoid confrontation. So I started by telling him how much I appreciated his taking the time to see me. He said nothing and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Small talk was clearly out of the question. I wondered if anyone had ever called him by his first name.

  The waiter brought the drinks. Dutchy regarded his tea with the inherently disapproving scrutiny of an English peer, finally raised his cup to his lips, sipped, and put i
t down quickly.

  “Not hot enough?” I said.

  “No, it’s fine, sir.”