Guilt

CHAPTER 47

I’d eavesdropped half turning from the van and its occupants, outwardly focused on canine toilet behavior.

Blanche obliged by taking care of business in her usual dainty manner, sniffing the dirt to find a perfect spot upon which to bestow her natural resources. Upon finishing, she kicked up some dust. One of the strategic implements I’d retrieved from the backseat was a plastic poop bag and I used it to good effect. The nearest trash basket was right on the way. Karma.

Swinging the bag conspicuously, I sped up and passed the group. The woman in the hat was carrying Kristina again. Julie wheeled the suitcase, Sam toted the plastic bag.

As I got several paces ahead, one of the boys, probably Kyle-Jacques, said, “Cool dog.”

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.”