Melancholy Baby

17

“So when she reached seventh grade... which would be, what, twelve, thirteen... Everything went to hell.” Dr. Silverman nodded.

“And I can’t find out if something happened.”

“You think something happened?”

“Everyone says she changed.”

“Perhaps puberty happened,” Dr. Silverman said.

“I thought of that,” I said. “But I went through puberty without becoming a drugged-out, promiscuous whack job. Didn’t you?”

“Maybe she had more compelling reasons to become a whack job,” Dr. Silverman said. “Or more thoroughly a whack job.”

“So she might have had problems which didn’t become evident until her chemistry changed.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Silverman said.

“So, if puberty is a process of sexual maturation,” I said, “are the problems associated with it sexual?”

“Often,” Dr. Silverman said.

“Boy,” I said. “It is hard to get a straight answer from you.”

“Getting answers from me is not our goal here,” Dr. Silverman said.

“Oh, shit,” I said.

Dr. Silverman raised her eyebrows and tilted her head a little.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I mean, I know that it’s about me, not about you. You’re just so goddamned shrinky.”

“I am, after all, a shrink.”

“I know, I know. There’s just this know-it-all, goddamned, I’m-the-grownup-you’re-the-child quality to it all.”

Dr. Silverman leaned back in her chair. She was wearing a dark pinstripe suit today. Her nails gleamed with clear polish. She wore makeup. Which was good. I was uneasy about women who didn’t wear makeup. But it was very understated makeup. Nothing flamboyant — don’t want to jar the patient. With her hands clasped in her lap, she rubbed the tips of her thumbs together gently. I had already learned that that meant she had encountered something interesting.

“What?” I said.

“Do you really think I treat you like a child?” she said.

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. I was just mad.”

“At what?”

I stared at her. She seemed almost eager as she leaned forward in her chair, though I was pretty certain she wasn’t. Without any real sign that I could pick up, she seemed to be cheering me on. She was like a herd dog: a lean here, an eyebrow there. Rub the thumbs. And all of a sudden, there it was. I was where I’m sure she wanted me to be.

“It’s so corny I’m embarrassed,” I said.

Eyebrow. Head tilt.

“I’m mad at my mother,” I said.

Dr. Silverman smiled. For her, that was like jumping in the air and clicking her heels.

“Let’s talk about that a little,” she said.

“Does this mean you’re not going to solve the Sarah Markham case for me?” I said.

She smiled. “I’m afraid it does,” she said.