Surprise, surprise.
I looked up at her, touched her bare shoulder, expecting the usual heat. But she felt cold and dry, strangely inorganic.
I leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. She jumped, cried out as if bitten. Striking out with her fists, she fell back on the bed, legs wide-flung in a helpless caricature of sexual welcome, panting, staring up at me.
“Sharon…”
She was looking at me as if I were a monster. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.
The snapshot fell to the floor. Picking it up, I saw something written on the back. A single sentence, in a strong hand.
I turned the photo over, looked at the twins again.
“No!” she screamed as she sprang up and charged me. “No, no, no! Gimme, gimme! Mine, mine! Gimme!”
She clawed for the picture. Her fury was absolute, a hellish transformation. Stunned, I tossed it onto the bed.
She snatched it, clutched it to her chest, got up on all fours and crawled backward until she was up against the headboard. Her free hand struck out at the air between us, defining a no man’s land. Her hair was tangled, Medusa-wild. She got to her knees, swayed and shook, big breasts bobbling.
“Sharon, what’s the matter-”
“Go! Go!”
“Honey-”
“Go! Get out! Go! Go! Get out! Go!”
Sweat poured out of her, flowed down her body. Hot pink patches rose on the snow of her skin, as if she were burning from within.
“Sharon-”
She hissed at me, then whimpered and curled fetally, holding the snapshot to her heart. I watched it rise and fall with each labored breath. Took a step forward.
“No! Get out! Get out!”
The look in her eyes was murderous.
I backed out of the room, ran from the house, feeling dizzy, sick, sucker-punched.
Certain that whatever we had was over.
Not knowing if that was good or bad.
12
Wednesday morning I was back in Beverly Hills, in the penthouse offices of Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa. Waiting to give my deposition in a rosewood-paneled conference room slathered with abstract art and furnished with butter-colored leather chairs and a football-shaped smoked-glass table.
Mal sat next to me, grubbily trendy in an unstructured silver silk suit, five-day beard, and shoulder-length hair. Behind us was a blackboard on a rosewood easel, and a luggage rack holding a calfskin suitcase- Mal’s one-up on briefcase toters. Across the table sat a legal reporter with a steno machine. Surrounding her were eight- not seven- attorneys.
“Insurance company sent three,” Mal whispered to me. “Those first three.”
I looked at the trio. Young, pin-striped, funereal.
Their spokesman was a big, prematurely bald fellow in his early thirties named Moretti. He had a meaty cleft chin, wide shoulders, and the charm of a drill instructor. One of Mal’s secretaries served coffee and sweet rolls, and as we ate, Moretti made a point of letting me know he’d been a psych major at Stanford. He dropped the names of prominent professors, tried unsuccessfully to engage me in shoptalk, and watched me over the rim of his coffee cup with sharp brown eyes.
When I presented my report he moved to the edge of his chair. When I finished he was the first to speak. The other lawyers deferred to him. Like any wolf pack, they’d chosen their lead killer and were content to sit back and let him open the first wounds.
He reminded me that I was legally bound to tell the truth, just as if I were in court, that I was testifying under penalty of perjury. Then he removed a phone-book-thick pile of photocopied articles from his briefcase and made a show of stacking the papers on the table, shuffling and sorting and squaring off the corners. Lifting the top article, he said, “I’d like to read you something, Doctor.”
“Sure.”
He smiled. “I really wasn’t asking permission, Doctor.”
“I really wasn’t granting it.”
The smile disappeared. Mal nudged me under the table. Someone coughed. Moretti tried staring me down, then put on a pair of rimless octagonal glasses, cleared his throat, and began to read. He finished a paragraph before turning to me. “Familiar, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the source?”
“It’s the introduction to an article I published in
He examined the date but didn’t comment on it. “Do you remember the gist of that article, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Could you summarize it for us?”
“The article describes a study I did from 1977 through 1980, when I was at Western Pediatric Hospital. The research was funded by the National Institute of Mental Health and was designed to learn the effects of chronic disease upon the psychological adjustment of children.”
“Was it a well-designed study, Doctor?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so. Tell us what you did in this well-designed study- be specific about your methodology.”
“I administered several tests of psychological adjustment to a sample of sick children and a control group of healthy children. The groups were matched in terms of social class, parental marital status, and family size. There was no significant difference between the groups.”
“No significant difference on any measure of psychological adjustment?”
“That’s correct.”
Moretti looked over at the legal reporter. “He talks fast. Do you have that down?”
She nodded.
Back to me: “For the sake of those of us who aren’t familiar with psychological jargon, specify what
“The groups were statistically indistinguishable. The average scores on these measures were similar.”
“Average?”
“Median- the fifty percent mark. Mathematically, it’s the best measure of typicality.”
“Yes, of course, but what does all of that
“Chronically ill children may develop some problems but being sick doesn’t inevitably make them neurotic or psychotic.”
“Hold on for a moment,” said Moretti, patting the stack of papers. “I don’t see mention of any problems here, Doctor. Your basic finding was that the sick children were normal.”
