Obsession

of big trees. I’d find places to hide, pretend I was in a forest somewhere.”

“Who owned the house?”

“The Bedard family,” she said. “The only one living there was the grandfather-Colonel Bedard. The family came by once in a while, but they lived far away. They wanted Mommy there to take care of him at night, after the day nurse went home.”

“An old man,” I said.

“Ancient. All bent over, extremely thin. He had filmy eyes-probably blue originally but now they were milky gray. No hair on his head. There was a huge library in the house and that’s where he sat all day. I remember him smelling of paper. Not gross, just a little stale, the way old people get.”

“Was he nice to you?”

“He really didn’t say or do much, just sat in that library with a blanket over his lap and a book in his hand. His face was kind of stiff-he must’ve had a stroke-so when he tried to smile nothing much happened. At first I was scared of him but then Mommy told me he was nice.”

“Did she move there to make more money?”

“That’s what I assume. Like I said, Dr. Delaware, financial security was important to her. Even in her spare time.”

“Reading financial books.”

“Want to see?”

A bedroom at the end of the hall had been converted to a no-nonsense office. U-build Swedish bookshelves and desk, black swivel chair, white file cabinets, desktop computer and printer.

“I’ve been through her files, it’s all money stuff.” She pointed to shelves stacked with back issues of Forbes, Barron’s, Money. A collection of investment guides ranged from reasoned strategy to improbable hucksterism. The lowest shelf held a pile of thin, glossy magazines. The top issue featured a close-up head-shot of an actress who’d lost her husband to another actress.

Tormented eyes. Perfect hair and makeup.

“The fan rags,” said Tanya. “The hospital boxed them up with her personal effects. Getting them back was a complete hassle. Some form I hadn’t filled out. I could see the box, right there behind the counter, but the woman in charge was being a real beeyotch, said I had to go somewhere else to get the forms and they were closed. When I started crying, she got on the phone, made a personal call, gossiping away as if I didn’t exist. I beeped Dr. Silverman and he just went behind the desk and got it. At the bottom of the box were Mommy’s armband and her reading glasses and the clothes she had on when she was admitted and this.”

She opened a desk drawer, held up a broken plastic band. “Should we go back and finish our coffee?”

Two sips later, I said, “So when you lived on Hudson, she was working two jobs.”

“Yes, but looking after the colonel wasn’t much trouble, he went to sleep at six and we were up early anyway so Mommy could drive me to school and make it to Cedars.”

“How’d she find out about the position?”

“No idea-maybe a bulletin board at the hospital? She never got into those kinds of details with me, just announced one day that we were moving to a big beautiful house in a high-class neighborhood.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“I was used to moving around. From my days with Lydia. And it’s not like I had a ton of friends on Cherokee.”

“Hollywood could be a tough neighborhood back then.”

“It didn’t affect us.”

“Except when drunks pounded on the door.”

“That didn’t happen often. Mommy took care of it.”

“How?”

“She’d shout through the door for them to go away and if that didn’t work, she’d threaten to call the cops. I don’t remember her actually calling the cops, so it must’ve worked.”

“Were you scared?”

“You’re saying that could be it? Some drunk got dangerous and she had to do something to him?”

“Anything’s possible but it’s way too early to theorize. Why’d you move from the mansion?”

“Colonel Bedard died. One morning Mommy went up to his room to give him his meds and there he was.”

“Was leaving such a beautiful place upsetting?”

“Not really, our room was pretty small.” She reached for her coffee. “Mommy liked the colonel but not his family. The few times they’d show up, she’d say, ‘Here they are.’ They rarely visited him, it was sad. The night after he died, I couldn’t sleep and found Mommy in the breakfast room sitting with the maid. Her name was…Cecilia-how did I remember that?-anyway, Mommy and Cecilia were just sitting there, looking down. Mommy led me back to bed, started talking about how money was important for security, but it should never get in the way of appreciation. I thought she meant that for me so I told her I appreciated her. She laughed and kissed me hard and said, ‘Not you, baby. You’re a lot smarter than some so-called grown-ups.’”

“The colonel’s family didn’t appreciate him.”

“That’s what I took it to mean.”

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen while you were living in the mansion?”

“Just the colonel’s death,” she said. “I guess you couldn’t call that out of the ordinary, seeing how old he was.”

She chewed around the rim of her Oreo.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s move on to Fourth Street.”

“That was a duplex, not as large as this one, but with a lot more space than we’d ever had. I was in my own room again with a great walk-in closet. The neighbors upstairs were Asian, quiet.”

“You stayed there less than a year.”

“Mommy said it was too expensive.”

“The first time you came to see me was right after you moved to Hudson Avenue. The second time was right after you moved from Fourth Street to Culver City.”

“You’re thinking I got stressed about moving?”

“Did you?”

“I honestly don’t think so, Dr. Delaware. Did I say anything back then about what was bothering me?”

“No,” I said.

“I guess I’m a pretty closed-up person.”

“You got better very quickly.”

“Is that acceptable from a psychologist’s standpoint? Changing behavior without going deep?”

“You’re the best judge of what’s okay for you.”

She smiled. “You always say that.”

She poured me another cup. Wiped droplets from the rim.

I said, “So Fourth Street was too expensive.”

“The rent was way too high. Mommy wanted to put together a down payment so she could buy.” She glanced at her mother’s photo, looked down at the floor.

“Culver Boulevard was another sketchy neighborhood,” I said.

“It wasn’t that bad. I stayed in the same school, had the same friends.”

“Saint Thomas. Even though you’re not Catholic.”

“You remember that?”

“Your mother felt it was important to tell me.”

“That we weren’t Catholic?”

“That she hadn’t lied about being Catholic to get you in.”

“That was Mommy,” she said, smiling. “She was up front with the priest, said if he could convince me to be Catholic it wouldn’t bother her, but not to get his hopes up.”