Private Eyes

4

No callback that evening, nor the following day, and as 5:00 P.M. approached I resigned myself to pumping Dutchy for information again- awkward position be damned.

But he didn’t show up. Instead, Melissa was accompanied by a Mexican man in his sixties- broad and low-slung, hard and muscular despite his age, with a thin gray mustache, beak nose, and hands as rough and brown as cedar bark. He wore khaki work clothes and rubber-soled shoes and held a sweat-stained beige canvas hat in front of his groin.

“This is Sabino,” said Melissa. “He takes care of our plants.”

I said hello and introduced myself. The gardener smiled uncomfortably and muttered, “Hernandez, Sabino.”

“Today we took the truck,” said Melissa, “and looked down on everyone.”

I said, “Where’s Jacob?”

She shrugged. “Doing stuff.”

At the mention of Dutchy’s name, Hernandez stood up straighter.

I thanked him and told him Melissa would be free in forty-five minutes. Then I noticed he wasn’t wearing a watch.

“Take a seat, if you’d like,” I said, “or you can leave and come back at five forty-five.”

“Okeh.” He remained standing.

I pointed to a chair.

He said, “Ohh,” and sat down, still holding his hat.

I took Melissa into the consult room.

Healer’s challenge: Put aside my annoyance at the way the adults were fancy-dancing around me and concentrate on the child.

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?”

“They’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 it down quickly.

“Not hot enough?” I said.

“No, it’s fine, sir.”

“How long have you worked for the Dickinson family?”

“Twenty years.”

“Long before the trial, then.”

He nodded and raised his cup again but didn’t put it to his lips. “Being assigned to the jury was a stroke of fate- not one that I welcomed, at first. I wanted to apply for exemption, but Mr. Dickinson preferred I serve. Said it was my civic duty. He was a civic-minded man.” His lip trembled.

“When did he die?”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

Surprised, I said, “Before Melissa was born?”

“Mrs. Dickinson was expecting Melissa when it-” He looked up, startled, and swung his head to the right. The waiter was approaching from that direction, bearing the blackboard. Imperious and well-spoken and black as coal; Dutchy’s African cousin.

I chose the T-bone steak, bloody rare. Dutchy asked if the shrimp was fresh that day and when informed that it certainly was, ordered shrimp salad.

When the waiter left I said, “How old was Mr. Dickinson when he died?”

“Sixty-two.”

“How did he die?”

“On the tennis court.”

The lip trembled some more but the rest of his face remained impassive. He fumbled with his teacup and tightened his mouth.

“Did your serving on the jury have anything to do with getting them together, Mr. Dutchy?”

Nod. “That’s what I meant by a stroke of fate. Mr. Dickinson came with me to court. Sat in during the trial and was… entranced by her. He’d followed the case in the papers before I was impaneled. Had commented several times- over his morning paper- on the profoundness of the tragedy.”

“Had he known Mrs. Dickinson before the attack?”

“No, not in the least. His concern, in the beginning, was… thematic. And he was a kind man.”

I said, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by thematic.”

“Grief for beauty lost,” he said, like a teacher announcing an essay theme. “Mr. Dickinson was a great aesthete. A conservationist and a preservationist. He’d spent much of his life dedicated to beautifying his world, and was terribly hurt by the degradation of beauty. However, he never allowed his concern to cross ethical bounds. When I was selected for the jury he said he’d be accompanying me to court but that both of us needed to be quite scrupulous about not discussing the case. He was also an honest man, Dr. Delaware. Diogenes would have rejoiced.”

“An aesthete,” I said. “What kind of business was he in?”

He looked down his nose at me. “I’m referring to Mr. Arthur Dickinson, sir.”

Once more, no bells. This guy had a way of making me feel like a D student. Rather than come across a complete philistine, I said, “Of course. The philanthropist.”

He continued to stare at me.

I said, “So how did the two of them finally meet?”

“The trial intensified Mr. Dickinson’s concern- hearing her testimony, seeing her face bandaged. He visited her in the hospital. As chance had it, he’d been a benefactor of the very surgical wing in which she’d been placed. He conferred with the doctors and made sure she was receiving the very best care. Brought in the top man in the plastics field- Professor Albano Montecino from Brazil, a true genius. The man had done pioneering work in facial construction. Mr. Dickinson arranged for him to obtain medical privileges and exclusive use of an operating room.”

Sweat had glossed Dutchy’s brow. He pulled out a handkerchief and patted.

“Such pain,” he said, facing me squarely. “Seventeen separate surgeries, Doctor. Someone with your background can appreciate what that means. Seventeen invasions- each one excruciating. Months of recuperation, long stretches of immobility. You can understand why she’s taken to solitude.”

I nodded and said, “Were the operations successful?”

“Professor Montecino was pleased, pronounced her one of his grand triumphs.”

“Does she agree with him?”

Disapproving look. “I’m not privy to her opinions, Doctor.”

“Over how long a period was she operated on?”

“Five years.”

I did some mental calculations. “So she was pregnant during part of it.”

“Yes, well… the pregnancy interrupted the surgical process- tissue changes brought about by hormones, physical risks. Professor Montecino said she’d have to wait and be monitored closely. He even suggested… termination. But she refused.”

“Was the pregnancy planned?”

Dutchy blinked hard and drew back his head- the turtle once more- as if unable to believe what he’d heard. “Good Lord, sir, I don’t pry into the motivations of my employers.”

I said, “Excuse me if I wander into uncharted territory from time to time, Mr. Dutchy. I’m just trying to get as full a background as possible. For Melissa’s sake.”

He harrumphed. “Shall we talk about Melissa, then?”

“All right. She’s told me quite a bit about her fears. Why don’t you give me your impressions.”

“My impressions?”

“Your observations.”

“My observations are that she’s a terribly frightened little girl. Everything frightens her.”

“Such as?”

He thought for a moment. “Loud noises, for one. They can literally make her jump. Even those that aren’t very loud- at times it seems to be the suddenness of it that sets her off. A tree rustling or footsteps- or even music- has the ability to put her in a crying fit. The doorbell. It seems to occur when she’s been in a period of unusual calm.”

“Sitting by herself, daydreaming?”

“Yes. She daydreams a lot. Talks to herself.” Closing his mouth, wanting a comment from me.

I said, “What about bright lights? Have they ever scared her?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised. “Yes, they have. I can recall a specific incident, several months ago. One of the maids purchased a camera with a flashbulb and was traipsing around the house trying it out.” Another disapproving look. “She surprised Melissa as the child ate breakfast and snapped a picture. The sound and sight of the bulb going off distressed Melissa greatly.”

“Distressed her in what way?”

“Tears, screaming, breakfast rejected. She even started hyperventilating. I had her breathe into a paper bag until her respiration returned to normal.”

“Shift in arousal,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Pardon me, Doctor?”

“Sudden changes in arousal- in her psychophysiologic level of consciousness- seem to bother her.”

“Yes, I suppose they do. What can be done about that?”

I held out my hand in a restraining gesture. “She told me she has bad dreams every night.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Often more than once a night.”

“Describe what she does while she’s having them.”

“I can’t say, Doctor. When they occur she’s with her moth-”

I frowned.

He caught himself. “However, I do recall observing a few incidents. She cries a lot. Cries and screams. Thrashes around and fights comfort, refusing to go back to sleep.”

“Thrashes around,” I said. “Does she ever talk about what she saw in the dream?”

“At times.”

“But not always?”

“No.”

“When she does, are there any consistent themes?”

“Monsters, ghosts, that kind of thing. I don’t really pay much mind. My efforts are concentrated on getting her settled.”

“One thing you can do in the future,” I said, “is pay close mind. Keep a written record of what she says during these incidents and bring it in to me.” I realized I sounded imperious. Wanting to make him the D student. Power struggle with a butler?

But he was comfortable with the subservient role, said “Very well, sir,” and raised his teacup to his lips.

I said, “Does she seem completely awake after having a nightmare?”

“No, she doesn’t,” he said. “Not always. Sometimes she sits up with a horrid, frozen look on her little face, screaming inconsolably and waving her hands. We- I try to wake her but it’s impossible. She’s even gotten out of her bed and walked around, still screaming, impossible to wake. We just wait until it subsides, then return her to bed.”

“To her own bed?”

“No. Her mother’s.”

“She never sleeps in her own bed?”

Shake of the head. “No, she sleeps with her mother.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get back to those times when she can’t be awakened. Does she scream about anything in particular?”

“No, there are no words. Just a terrible… howling.” Wince. “It’s really quite disturbing.”

“You’re describing something called night terrors,” I said. “They’re not nightmares, which take place- as do all dreams- during light sleep. Night terrors occur when the sleeper arouses too quickly from deep sleep. Rudely awakened, so to speak. It’s a disorder of arousal, related to sleepwalking and bed-wetting. Does she wet the bed?”

“Occasionally.”

“How often?”

“Four or five times a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more.”

“Have you done anything about it?”

Shake of the head.

“Does it bother her that she wets the bed?”

“On the contrary,” he said. “She seems rather casual about it.”

“So you have talked to her about it.”

“Only to tell her- once or twice- that young ladies need to be careful about their personal hygiene. She ignored me and I didn’t pursue it.”

“How does her mother feel? How does her mother react to the wetting?”

“She has the sheets changed.”

“It’s her bed being wet. That doesn’t bother her?”

“Apparently not. Doctor, what do these attacks- these terrors- mean? Medically speaking?”

“There’s probably a genetic component involved,” I said. “Night terrors run in families. So do bed-wetting and sleepwalking. All of it probably has something to do with brain chemistry.”

He looked worried.

I said, “But they aren’t dangerous, just disruptive. And they usually go away by themselves, without treatment, by adolescence.”

“Ah,” he said. “So time is on our side.”

“Yes, it is. But that doesn’t mean we should ignore them. They can be treated. And they’re also a warning sign- there’s more than just pure biology involved. Stress often increases the number of attacks and prolongs them. She’s telling us she’s troubled, Mr. Dutchy. Telling us with her other symptoms, as well.”

“Yes, of course.”

The waiter arrived with the food. We ate in silence, and though Dutchy had said he didn’t take lunch, he consumed his shrimp with genteel fervor.

When we finished I ordered a double espresso and he had his teapot refilled.

After finishing my coffee, I said, “Getting back to the genetic issue, are there any other children- from a previous marriage?”

“No. Though there was a previous marriage. For Mr. Dickinson. But no children.”

“What happened to the first Mrs. Dickinson?”

He looked annoyed. “She died of leukemia- a fine young woman. The marriage had only lasted two years. It was very difficult for Mr. Dickinson. That’s when he plunged himself more deeply into his art collection.”

“What did he collect?”

“Paintings, drawings and etchings, antiquities, tapestries. He had an exceptional eye for composition and color, sought out damaged masterpieces and had them restored. Some he restored himself- he’d learned the craft as a student. That was his true passion- restoration.”

I thought of him restoring his second wife. As if he’d read my mind, Dutchy gave me a sharp look.

“What else,” I said, “besides loud noises and bright lights, is Melissa afraid of?”

“The darkness. Being alone. And at times, nothing at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’ll throw a fit with no provocation.”

“What does “a fit’ look like?”

“Very similar to what I’ve already described. Crying, rapid breathing, running around screaming. Sometimes she’ll simply lie on the floor and kick her feet. Or clutch the nearest adult and hold on like a… a limpet.”

“Do these fits generally occur after she’s been refused something?”

“Not typically- there is that, of course. She doesn’t take kindly to being restricted. What child does?”

“So she has tantrums, but these fits go beyond that.”

“I’m referring to genuine fear, Doctor. Panic. It seems to come out of nowhere.”

“Does she ever say what’s scaring her?”

“Monsters. “Bad things.’ Sometimes she claims to hear noises. Or see and hear things.”

“Things no one else hears or sees?”

“Yes.” Tremble in his voice.

I said, “Does that bother you? More than the other symptoms?”

“One does wonder,” he said softly.

“If you’re worried about psychosis or some sort of thought disorder, don’t. Unless there’s something else going on that you haven’t told me. Like self-destructive behavior, or bizarre speech.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “I suppose it’s all part of her imagination?”

“That’s exactly what it is. She’s got a good one, but from what I’ve seen, she’s very much in touch with reality. Children her age typically see and hear things that adults don’t.”

He looked doubtful.

I said, “It’s all part of play. Play is fantasy. The theater of childhood. Kids compose dramas in their heads, talk to imaginary playmates. It’s a kind of self-hypnosis that’s necessary for healthy growth.”

He remained noncommittal, but was listening.

I said, “Fantasy can be therapeutic, Mr. Dutchy. Can actually reduce fears by giving children a sense of control over their lives. But for certain children- those who are high-strung, introverted, those living in stressful environments- that same ability to paint mental pictures can lead to anxiety. The pictures simply become too vivid. Once again, there may be a constitutional factor. You said her father was an excellent art restorer. Did he show any other sort of creativity?”

“Most definitely. He was an architect by trade and a gifted painter in his own right- when he was younger.”

“Why’d he stop?”

“He convinced himself he wasn’t good enough to justify devoting much time to it, destroyed all his work, never painted again, and began collecting. Traveling the world. His architecture degree was from the Sorbonne- he loved Europe. He built some lovely buildings before he invented the strut.”

“The strut?”

“Yes,” he said, as if explaining the ABC’s. “The Dickinson strut. It’s a process for strengthening steel, used extensively in construction.”

“What about Mrs. Dickinson?” I said. “She was an actress. Any other creative outlets there?”

“I have no idea, Doctor.”

“How long has she been agoraphobic- afraid to leave the house?”

“She leaves the house,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. She strolls the grounds.”

“Does she ever leave the grounds?”

“No.”

“How large are the grounds?”

“Six and three-quarter acres. Approximately.”

“Does she stroll them extensively- from corner to corner?”

Throat clear. Cheek chew. “She prefers to remain fairly close to the house. Is there anything else, Doctor?”

My initial question remained unanswered; he’d nit-picked his way out of giving a direct reply. “How long has she been that way- not leaving the grounds?”

“From the… beginning.”

“From the time of the attack?”

“Yes, yes. It’s quite logical, really, when one understands the chain of events. When Mr. Dickinson brought her home right after the wedding, she was in the midst of the surgical process. In great agony, still very frightened- traumatized by the… by what had been done to her. She never left her room, on Professor Montecino’s orders- she was ordered to lie still for hours at a time. The new flesh had to be kept extremely supple and clean. Special air filters were brought in to remove particles that might pollute her. Nurses hovered around the clock with treatments and injections and lotions and baths that made her cry out in terrible pain. She couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to. Then, the pregnancy. She was restricted to total bed rest, bandaged and unbandaged constantly. Four months into the pregnancy, Mr. Dickinson… passed on, and she… It was a safe place for her. She couldn’t leave. Surely that’s obvious. So in a sense it’s completely logical, isn’t it? The way she is. She’s gravitated to her safe place. You see that, don’t you, Doctor?”

“I do. But the challenge now is to find out what’s safe for Melissa.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.” Avoiding my glance.

I called the waiter over and ordered another espresso. When it arrived, along with more hot water for Dutchy, he wrapped his hands around his teacup but didn’t drink. As I took a sip he said, “Forgive my presumption, Doctor, but what, in your educated opinion, is the prognosis? For Melissa.”

“Given family cooperation, I’d say good. She’s motivated and bright and has a lot of insight for someone her age. But it’s going to take time.”

“Yes, of course. Doesn’t anything worthwhile?”

Suddenly he pressed forward, hands flapping, fingers wiggling. An odd bit of fluster for such a staid man. I smelled bay rum and shrimp. For a moment I thought he was going to grab my fingers. But he stopped himself abruptly, as if at an electrified fence.

“Please help her, Doctor. I pledge everything in my power to aid your treatment.”

His hands were still in the air. He noticed it and gave a look of chagrin. Ten fingers plummeted to the table like gun-shot ducks.

“You’re very devoted to this family,” I said.

He winced and looked away, as if I’d exposed some secret vice.

“As long as she comes in, I’ll treat her, Mr. Dutchy. What you can do to help is tell me everything I need to know.”

“Yes, of course. Is there something else?”

“McCloskey. What does she know about him?”

“Nothing!”

“She mentioned his name.”

“That’s all he is to her- a name. Children hear things.”

“Yes, they do. And she’s heard plenty- she knows he attacked her mother with acid because he didn’t like her. What else has she been told about him?”

“Nothing. Truly. As I said, children overhear- but he’s not a topic of conversation in our household.”

“Mr. Dutchy, in lieu of accurate information, children make up their own facts. It would be best for Melissa to understand what happened to her mother.”

His knuckles were white around the cup. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

“That someone sit down and talk with Melissa. Explain to her why McCloskey had Mrs. Dickinson attacked.”

He relaxed conspicuously. “Explain why. Yes, yes, I can see your point. There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Nobody knows why. The bastard never let on and nobody knows. Now if you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I really must be going.”