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
“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
“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
“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
“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