Readjusted and tried, without success, to smooth a curling corner of paper.
“That bumpy circle,” I said, “could be the start of a person’s face.”
“Can I throw it out?”
“Sure.”
Folding and unfolding the sheet lengthwise, she ripped slowly along the crease. Repeated the process with each of the halves.
“Where, please?”
I pointed at the wastebasket. She dropped the pieces in, one by one, watched them drop, returned to the table.
“So you want to break your habits.”
Nod.
“You and Mommy agree on that.”
“Yup.”
“You and Mommy are a team.”
That seemed to puzzle her.
“You and Mommy agree most of the time.”
“We love each other.”
“Loving means agreeing.”
“Yup.”
She drew a pair of circles, one twice the diameter of the other. Squinted and hunched and added primitive features.
“Lumpy again,” she pronounced. Another trip to the trash can.
“You really don’t like lumpy,” I said.
“I like it to be
Selecting a third piece of paper, she put the pencil down and traced circles with her finger. Looked up at the ceiling. Tapped the fingers of one hand, then the other.
“What kinds of things do you and Mommy do together?”
She retrieved the pencil. Twirled it. “There was a mother when I was a baby. She was too weak and Mommy wanted to take care of me…she was Mommy’s sister.”
“The other mother.”
“She was called Lydia. She died in a accident. Mommy and I get sad when we think about her.”
“Do you think about her a lot?”
Flicking the paper stack, she selected a female figurine, placed it in the house’s living room. “We also have a fish.”
“At home?”
“In the kitchen.”
“In a tank?”
“Uh-uh a bowl.”
“A goldfish?”
“Uh-uh goldfish are too dirty, the man said.”
“What man is that?”
“From the fish store. Mr. Stan Park.”
“What kind of fish did Mr. Park sell you?”
“A guppy. Real small.”
“Does the guppy have a name?”
“We thought it was a girl but it got color on the tail.”
“So it’s a boy.”
“We changed the name.”
“From a girl name to a boy name?”
“He was Charlotte, now he’s Charlie.”
“How does Charlie feel about being a boy instead of a girl?”
“He’s a
“He never thinks about anything? Like ‘I wonder when Tanya will change my water?’”
“His brain is too little for words.”
“So he just swims back and forth and doesn’t worry about anything,” I said.
Silence.
“Do you worry?”
“Fish also don’t have stomachs,” she said. “Food goes in and out so don’t feed them too much.”
“You know a lot about fish.”
“I read a book.” Tiny hands drifted to the stack of paper, squared the corners.
“I have some fish, too.”
“Guppies?”
“No, they’re called koi. Kind of like giant goldfish but all different colors.”
Skeptical stare. “Where?”
“Outside in a pond. Want to see?”
“If Mommy lets me.”
We walked out to the van. Patty looked up from her newspaper. “So soon?”
“He has giant fish, Mommy.” Tanya’s arms spread.
“Really.”
“Outside in a giant pond.”
“We’re going to feed them,” I said. “Want to come along?”
“Hmm,” said Patty. “No, I’ll just let the two of you get to know each other.”
CHAPTER 9
At Beverwil and Pico, less than a mile from Tanya’s house, my service beeped in.
“It’s Flora, Doctor. Detective Sturgis called. He’ll be out for a while but you can try him in a couple of hours.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, Doctor. It was just him being him.”
“Meaning?”
“You know,” she said. “The way he always is, Mr. Jokey. He told me with my voice I should be on the radio selling beachfront condos in Colorado.”
“You do have a nice voice, Flora.”
“I used to,” she said. “If only I could quit smoking. He sounds kind of cute. Is he?”
“Depends on your perspective.”
Canfield Avenue was narrow and dark and quiet, but no sign of anything remotely ominous.
No reason for there to be. I’d slipped into thinking this was real.
Point me at a puzzle and aim.
Years ago, I’d been the perfect therapist for Patty and Tanya. They hadn’t known the real reason why, never would.
Alexander is very bright but he seems to feel a need for absolute perfection that can lead to some emotion in the classroom. I rarely label a child overly conscientious but that may apply, here.
