Private Eyes

“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?”