Private Eyes

2

The phone was picked up after two rings.

“Hello?” Voice of a stranger, young, female.

“Melissa?”

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware.”

“Oh. Hi! I didn’t… Thanks so much for calling back, Dr. Delaware. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until tomorrow. I didn’t even know if you’d call back.”

“Why’s that?”

“Your listing in the phone boo- Excuse me. Hold on for one second, please.”

Hand over the phone. Muffled conversation.

A moment later she came back on. “There’s no office address for you in the phone book. No address at all. Just your name, no degree- I wasn’t even sure it was the same A. Delaware. So I didn’t know if you were still in practice. The answering service said you were but that you worked mostly with lawyers and judges.”

“That’s basically true-”

“Oh. Then I guess-”

“But I’m always available to former patients. And I’m glad you called. How are things, Melissa?”

“Things are good,” she said quickly. Clipped laugh. “Having said that, the logical question is why am I calling you after all these years, right? And the answer is that it’s not about me, Dr. Delaware. It’s Mother.”

“I see.”

“Not that anything terrible’s- Oh, darn, hold on.” Hand over the phone again. More background conversation. “I’m really sorry, Dr. Delaware, this just isn’t a good time to talk. Do you think I could come and… see you?”

“Sure. What’s a good time for you?”

“The sooner the better. I’m pretty free- school’s out. I graduated.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It feels good to be out.”

“Bet it does.” I checked my book. “How about tomorrow at noon?”

“Noon would be great. I really appreciate this, Dr. Delaware.”

I gave her directions to my house. She thanked me and hung up before I could complete my goodbye.

Having learned much less than I usually do during a preappointment call.

A bright young woman. Articulate, tense. Holding back something?

Remembering the child she’d been, I found none of that surprising.

It’s Mother.

That opened up a realm of possibilities.

The most likely: She’d finally come to grips with her mother’s pathology- what it meant to her. Needed to put her feelings in focus, maybe get a referral for her mother.

So tomorrow’s visit would probably be a one-shot deal. And that would be it. For another nine years.

I closed the chart, comfortable with my powers of prediction.

I might as well have been playing the slots in Vegas. Or buying penny stocks on Wall Street.

I spent the next couple of hours on my latest project: a monograph for one of the psych journals on my experiences with a school full of children victimized by a sniper the previous autumn. The writing was more of an ordeal than I’d expected; the trick was to make the experience come alive within the confines of a scientific approach.

I stared down at draft number four- fifty-two pages of defiantly awkward prose- certain I’d never be able to inject any humanity into the morass of jargon, scholarly references, and footnotes I had no clear memory of creating.

At eleven-thirty I put my pen down and sat back, still unable to find the magic voice. My eyes fell on Melissa’s chart. I opened it and began reading.

October 18, 1978.

The fall of ’78. I remembered it as a hot and nasty one. With its filthy streets and septic air, Hollywood hadn’t worn its autumns well for a long time. I’d just given Grand Rounds at Western Pediatric Hospital and was itching to get back to the west side of town and the half a dozen appointments that made up the rest of my day.

I’d thought the lecture had gone well. Behavioral Approaches to Fear and Anxiety in Children. Facts and figures, transparencies and slides- in those days I’d thought all that quite impressive. An auditorium full of pediatricians, most of them private practitioners. An inquisitive, practical-minded bunch, hungry for what worked, with little patience for academic nit-picking.

I fielded questions for a quarter of an hour and was on my way out of the lecture hall when a young woman stopped me. I recognized her as one of the frequent questioners, thought I’d seen her somewhere else as well.

“Dr. Delaware? Eileen Wagner.”

She had a pleasant full face under cropped chestnut hair. Good features, bottom-heavy figure, a slight squint. Her white blouse was mannish and buttoned to the neck; her skirt, knee-length tweed over sensible shoes. She carried a black Gladstone bag that looked brand-new. I remembered where I’d seen her before: last year’s House Staff Roster. Third-year resident. M.D. from one of the Ivy League schools.

I said, “Dr. Wagner.”

We shook hands. Hers was soft and stubby, bare of jewelry.

She said, “You gave a lecture on fears to the Four West staff last year, when I was PL-three. I thought it was quite good.”

“Thank you.”

“I enjoyed today, too. And I’ve got a referral for you, if you’re interested.”

“Sure.”

She shifted the Gladstone bag to another hand. “I’m in practice now, out in Pasadena, have privileges at Cathcart Memorial. But the kid I have in mind isn’t one of my regular patients, just a phone-in through Cathcart’s help line. They didn’t know how to handle it and sent it over to me because I’m listed as having an interest in behavioral pediatrics. When I heard what the problem was, I remembered last year’s talk and thought it would be right up your alley. Then, when I read the Grand Rounds schedule, I thought: perfect.”

“I’d be glad to help, but my office is on the other side of town.”

“No matter. They’ll come to you- they have the means. I know because I went out a few days ago to see her- it’s a little girl we’re talking about. Seven years old. Actually I came here this morning because of her. Hoping to learn something that could help me help her. But after listening to you it’s clear her problems go beyond office management. She needs someone who specializes.”

“Anxiety problems?”

Emphatic nod. “She’s just racked with fears. Multiple phobias as well as a high level of general anxiety. I’m talking really pervasive.”

“When you say you went out there, do you mean a house call?”

She smiled. “Didn’t think anyone did them anymore? At Yale Public Health they taught us to call them “home visits.’ No, actually I don’t make a habit of it- wanted them to come into the office to see me, but that’s part of the problem. They don’t travel. Or rather, the mother doesn’t. She’s an agoraphobic, hasn’t left her house for years.”

“How many years?”

“She didn’t get any more specific than “years’- and I could see even that much was hard for her, so I didn’t push. She really wasn’t prepared for being questioned at all. So I kept it brief, focused on the kid.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “What did she tell you about the kid?”

“Just that Melissa- that’s her name- was afraid of everything. The dark. Loud noises and bright lights. Being alone. New situations. And she often seems tense and jumpy. Some of it’s got to be constitutional- genetics- or maybe she’s just imitating the mother. But I’m sure some of it’s the way she lives- it’s a very strange situation. Big house- huge. One of those incredible mansions on the north side of Cathcart Boulevard out in San Labrador. Classic San Labrador- acres of land, huge rooms, dutiful servants, everything very hush-hush. And the mother stays up in her room like some Victorian lady afflicted with the vapors.”

She stopped, touched her mouth with a fingertip. “A Victorian princess, actually. She’s really beautiful. Despite the fact that one side of her face is all scarred and there appears to be some mild facial hemiplegia- subtle sagging, mostly when she talks. If she weren’t so beautiful- so symmetrical- you might never notice. No keloiding, though. Just a mesh of fine scars. I’d be willing to bet she had top-level plastic surgery years ago for something really major. Most likely a burn or some kind of deep flesh wound. Maybe that’s the root of her problem- I don’t know.”

“What’s the little girl like?”

“I didn’t see much of her, just caught a glimpse when I walked in the front door. Small and skinny and cute, very well dressed- your basic little rich girl. When I tried to talk to her she scampered away. I suspect she actually hid somewhere in her mother’s room- it’s a bunch of rooms, actually, more like a suite. While the mother and I were talking I kept hearing little rustles in the background and each time I stopped to listen, they’d stop. The mother never remarked on it, so I didn’t say anything. Figured I was lucky enough just getting up there to see her.”

I said, “Sounds like something out of a Gothic novel.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what it was. Gothic. Sort of spooky. Not that the mother was spooky- she was charming, actually. Sweet. In a vulnerable way.”

“Your basic Victorian princess,” I said. “She doesn’t leave the house at all?”

“That’s what she said. What she confessed- she’s pretty ashamed. Not that shame’s convinced her to try to leave the house. When I suggested she see if she could make it to my office, she started to get really tense. Her hands actually started shaking. So I backed off. But she did agree to have Melissa be seen by a psychologist.”

“Strange.”

“Strange is your business, isn’t it?”

I smiled.

She said, “Have I piqued your interest?”

“Do you think the mother really wants help?”

“For the girl? She says she does. But more important, the kid’s motivated. She’s the one who called the help line.”

“Seven years old and she called herself?”

“The volunteer on the line couldn’t believe it either. The line’s not intended for kids. Once in a while they get a teenager they refer to Adolescent Medicine. But Melissa must have seen one of their public service commercials on TV, copied down the number, and dialed it. And she was up late to do it- the call came in just after ten P.M.”

She lifted the Gladstone bag chest-high, popped it open, and pulled out a cassette.

“I know it sounds bizarre, but I’ve got the proof right here. They tape everything that comes over the line. I had them make me a copy.”

I said, “She must be pretty precocious.”

“Must be. I wish I’d had a chance to actually spend some time with her- what a neat kid, to take the initiative.” She paused. “What a hurt she must be going through. Anyway, after I listened to the tape I phoned the number she gave the volunteer and reached the mother. She had no idea Melissa had called. When I told her, she broke down and started to cry. But when I asked her to come in for a consultation, she said she was ill and couldn’t. I thought it was something physically debilitating, so I offered to go out there. Hence, my Gothic home visit.”

She held the tape out to me. “If you’d like, you can have a listen. It’s really something. I told the mother I’d be talking to a psychologist, took the liberty of giving her your name. But don’t feel any pressure.”

I took the cassette. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I honestly don’t know if I can make home visits to San Labrador.”

“She can come to the other side of town- Melissa can. A servant will bring her.”

I shook my head. “In a case like this, the mother should be actively involved.”

She frowned. “I know. It’s not optimal. But do you have techniques that can help the girl at all without maternal involvement? Just lower her anxiety level a bit? Anything you did might reduce her risk of turning out totally screwed up. It would be a real good deed.”

“Maybe,” I said. “If the mother doesn’t sabotage therapy.”

“I don’t think she will. She’s antsy, but seemed to really love the kid. The guilt helps us there- think how inadequate she must feel, the kid calling in like that. She knows this isn’t the right way to raise a child but can’t break out of her own pathology. It’s got to feel horrible for her. The way I see it, this is the right time to harness the guilt. If the kid gets better, maybe Mom’ll see the light, get some help for herself.”

“Is there a father in the picture?”

“No, she’s a widow. It happened when Melissa was a baby. Heart attack. I got the impression he was a much older man.”

“Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.”

Her cheeks colored. “One tries. Listen, I don’t expect you to disrupt your life and drive out there on a regular basis. But getting a referral closer to home wouldn’t make any difference. Mom never leaves to go anywhere. For her, half a mile might as well be Mars. And if they do try therapy and it doesn’t work, they may never try it again. So I want somebody competent. After listening to you I’m convinced you’re right for the case. I’d greatly appreciate it if you could accept less than optimal. I’ll make it up to you with some solid referrals in the future. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I know I sound overinvolved and maybe I am- but the whole idea of a seven-year-old calling in like that… And that house.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I figure it won’t be long before my practice really gets crazy and I don’t have the time to give anyone this kind of individual attention. So I might as well enjoy it while I can, right?”

Another reach into the Gladstone. “Anyway, here’s the relevant data.” She handed me a piece of note paper topped with the logo of a pharmaceutical company. On it she’d printed:

Pt: Melissa Dickinson, DOB 6/21/71.

Mom: Gina Dickinson.

And a phone number.

I took it and put it in my pocket.

“Thanks,” she said. “At least payment won’t be a hassle. They’re not exactly Medi-Cal.”

I said, “Are you the physician of record, or do they have someone they’ve been seeing?”

“According to the mother, there’s a family doctor in Sierra Madre that Melissa’s seen occasionally in the past- immunizations, school physicals, nothing ongoing. Physically, she’s a very healthy girl. But he’s not really in the picture- hasn’t been for years. She didn’t want him contacted.”

“Why’s that?”

“The whole therapy thing. The stigma. To be perfectly frank, I had to do a sell-job. This is San Labrador we’re talking about; they’re still fighting the twentieth century. But she will cooperate- I got a commitment out of her. As to whether or not I’ll end up being their regular doc, I don’t know. Either way, if you want to send me a report, I’d sure be interested in finding out how she does.”

“Sure,” I said. “You just mentioned school physicals. Despite the fears, does she attend classes regularly?”

“She did until recently. Servants drove her and picked her up; parent-teacher conferences were conducted over the phone. Maybe in that neck of the woods it’s not that strange, but it can’t have been great for the kid, the mother never showing up for anything. Despite that, Melissa’s a terrific student- straight A’s. The mother made a point of showing me the report cards.”

I said, “What do you mean by “until recently’?”

“Lately she’s been starting to exhibit some definite symptoms of school phobia: vague physical complaints, crying in the morning, claiming she’s too scared to go to school. The mother’s been letting her stay home. To me that’s a big fat danger sign.”

“Sure is,” I said. “Especially with her role model.”

“Yup. The old biopsychosocial chain. Take enough histories and all you see is chains.”

“Chain mail,” I said. “Tough armor.”

She nodded. “But maybe we can break one this time, huh? Wouldn’t that be uplifting?”

I saw patients all afternoon, finished a stack of charts. As I cleared my desk I listened to the tape.

FEMALE ADULT VOICE: Cathcart help line.

CHILD’S VOICE: (barely audible) Hello.

ADULT VOICE: Help line. How may I help you?

Silence

CHILD’S VOICE: Is this (breathy, inaudible).. hospital?

AV: This is the Cathcart Hospital help line. What can I do for you?

CV: I need help. I’m…

AV: Yes?

Silence

AV: Hello? Are you there?

CV: I… I’m scared.

AV: Scared of what, dear?

CV: Everything.

Silence

AV: Is there something- or someone- right there with you, scaring you?

CV:… No.

AV: No one at all?

CV: No.

AV: Are you in some kind of danger, dear?

Silence

AV: Honey?

CV: No.

AV: No danger at all?

CV: No.

AV: Could you tell me your name, honey?

CV: Melissa.

AV: Melissa what?

CV: Melissa Anne Dickinson. (Starts to spell it out)

AV: (Breaks in) How old are you, Melissa?

CV: Seven.

AV: Are you calling from your house, Melissa?

CV: Yes.

AV: Do you know your address, Melissa?

(Tears)

AV: It’s all right, Melissa. Is something- someone or something bothering you? Right now?

CV: No. I’m just scared… always.

AV: You’re always scared?

CV: Yes.

AV: But there’s nothing there bothering you or scaring you right now? Nothing in your house?

CV: Yes.

AV: There is something?

CV: No. Nothing right here. I… (Tears)

AV: What is it, honey?

Silence

AV: Does someone at your house bother you other times?

CV: (Whispering) No.

AV: Does your mommy know you’re calling, Melissa?

CV: No. (Tears)

AV: Would she be mad if she knew you were calling?

CV: No. She’s…

AV: Yes, Melissa?

CV:… nice.

AV: Your mommy’s nice?

CV: Yes.

AV: So you’re not scared of your mommy?

CV: No.

AV: What about your daddy?

CV: I don’t have a daddy.

Silence

AV: Are you scared of anyone else?

CV: No.

AV: Do you know what you are scared of?

Silence

AV: Melissa?

CV: Darkness… burglars… things.

AV: Darkness and burglars. And things. Can you tell me what kinds of things, honey?

CV: Uh, things… all kinds of things! (Tears)

AV: Okay, honey, just hold on. We’ll get you some help. Just don’t hang up, okay?

Sniffles

AV: Okay, Melissa? Still there?

CV: Yes.

AV: Good girl. Now, Melissa, do you know your address- the street where you live?

CV: (Very rapidly) Ten Sussex Knoll.

AV: Could you please repeat that, Melissa?

CV: Ten. Sussex. Knoll. San Labrador. Cal. Ifornia. Nine-one-one-oh-eight.

AV: Very good. So you live in San Labrador. That’s really close to us- to the hospital.

Silence

AV: Melissa?

CV: Is there a doctor who can help me? Without shots?

AV: Of course there is, Melissa, and I’m going to get you that doctor.

CV: (Inaudible)

AV: What’s that, Melissa?

CV: Thank you.

A burst of static, then dead air. I turned off the recorder and phoned the number Eileen Wagner had written down. A reedy male voice answered: “Dickinson residence.”

“Mrs. Dickinson, please. This is Dr. Delaware, regarding Melissa.”

Throat clear. “Mrs. Dickinson’s not available, Doctor. However, she said to tell you that Melissa can be at your office any weekday between three and four-thirty.”

“Do you know when she’ll be available to talk?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, Dr. Delaware. But I’ll apprise her of your call. Is that time period suitable for you?”

I checked my appointment book. “How about Wednesday? Four o’clock.”

“Very good, Doctor.” He recited my address and said, “Is that correct?”

“Yes. But I would like to talk with Mrs. Dickinson before the appointment.”

“I’ll inform her of that, Doctor.”

“Who’ll be bringing Melissa?”

“I will, sir.”

“And you are…?”

“Dutchy. Jacob Dutchy.”

“And your relationship to-”

“I’m in Mrs. Dickinson’s employ, sir. Now, in the matter of your fee, is there a preferred mode of payment?”

“A check would be fine, Mr. Dutchy.”

“And the fee itself?”

I quoted him my hourly rate.

“Very good, Doctor. Goodbye, Doctor.”

The next morning, a legal-size manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was a smaller, rose-colored envelope; within that, a sheet of rose-colored stationery folded over a check.

The check was for $3,000 and was annotated Medical treatment for Melissa. At my ’78 rate, over forty sessions’ worth. The money had been drawn on a savings account at First Fiduciary Trust Bank in San Labrador. Printed in the upper left corner of the check was:

R.P. DICKINSON, TRUSTEE

DICKINSON FAMILY TRUST UDT 5-11-71

10 SUSSEX KNOLL

SAN LABRADOR, CALIFORNIA 91108

The stationery was heavy stock, folded in half, with a Crane watermark. I opened it.

At the top, in embossed black script:

Regina Paddock Dickinson

Below that, in a fine, graceful hand:

Dear Doctor Delaware,

Thank you for seeing Melissa.

I’ll be in touch.

Faithfully yours,

Gina Dickinson

Scented paper. A mixture of old roses and alpine air. But it didn’t sweeten the message:

Don’t call us, plebe. We’ll call you. Here’s a juicy check to suppress any protests.

I dialed the Dickinson residence. This time a woman answered. Middle-aged, Gallic accent, voice pitched lower than Dutchy’s.

Different pipes, same song: Madame wasn’t available. No, she had no idea when Madame would be available.

I left my name, hung up, looked at the check. All those digits. Treatment hadn’t even begun and I’d lost control. It wasn’t the way to do business, wasn’t in the best interests of the patient. But I’d committed myself to Eileen Wagner.

The tape had committed me.

… a doctor who can help me. Without shots.

I thought about it for a long time, finally decided I’d stick it out long enough to do an intake at least. See if I could get a rapport with the little girl, get some sort of progress going- enough to impress the Victorian princess.

Dr. Savior.

Then, I’d start making demands.

During my lunch hour I cashed the check.