Obsession

My house sits high above Beverly Glen, paper-white and sharp-edged, a pale wound in the green. Sometimes as I approach, it seems a foreign place, fashioned for someone with cold sensibilities. Inside, it’s high walls, big windows, hard floors, soft furniture to gentle the edges. An assertive silence I can live with because Robin’s back.

This week she was away, at a luthiers’ convention up in Healdsburg, showing two guitars and a mandolin. But for the trial, I might’ve gone with her.

We’re back together after two breakups, seem to be getting it right. When I start wondering about the future, I stop myself. If you want to get fancy, that’s cognitive behavior therapy.

Along with her clothes and her books and her drawing pencils, she brought a ten-week-old, fawn-colored French bulldog pup and offered me naming honors. The dog flourished in the company of strangers so I christened her Blanche.

She’s six months old now, a wrinkly, soft-bellied, flat-faced ball of serenity who spends most of her day sleeping. Her predecessor, a feisty brindle stud named Spike, had died peacefully at a mature age. I’d rescued him but he’d chosen Robin as his love object. So far, Blanche didn’t discriminate.

The first time Milo saw her, he said, “This one you could think of as almost kinda pretty.”

Blanche made a little purring sound, rubbed her knobby head against his shin, and turned up her lips.

“Is it smiling at me or is it gas?”

“Smiling,” I said. “She does that.”

He got down and took a closer look. Blanche licked his hand, moved in for the cuddle. “This is the same species as Spike?”

I said, “Think of you and Robin.”

No welcoming bark as I passed through the kitchen and entered the laundry room. Blanche dozed in her crate, door open. My whispered “Good afternoon” caused her to open one huge brown eye. The natural stub that serves as a tail for Frenchies began bobbing frenetically but the rest of her remained inert.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

She lifted the other eyelid, yawned, considered her options. Finally padded out and shook herself awake. I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. The liver snap I offered would’ve sent Spike into a feeding frenzy. Blanche allowed me to hold it as she nibbled daintily. I toted her into the bedroom and placed her on a chair. She sighed and went back to sleep.

“That’s because I’m such a fascinating guy.”

I searched the storage closet for Tanya Bigelow’s chart, found it at the bottom of a drawer, and skimmed. Initial treatment at age seven, one follow-up three years later.

Nothing relevant in my notes. No surprise.

At five twenty the bell rang.

A clear-skinned young blonde in a white oxford shirt and pressed jeans stood on the front landing. “You look exactly the same, Dr. Delaware.”

Undersized child had morphed to petite young woman. I searched for memory jags, came up with a few: the same triangular face, square chin, pale green eyes. The tremulous lips.

I wondered if I’d have picked her out on the street.

I said, “You’ve changed a bit,” and motioned her in.

“I sure hope so,” she said. “Last time I was a baby.”

Anthropologists say blond is attractive because so few towheads stay that way, it represents youth. Tanya’s yellow curls had relaxed to honey waves. She wore it long, gathered in a high knot held in place by black chopsticks.

No resemblance to Patty at all.

Why should there be?

We headed up the hallway. As we neared the office, Blanche stepped out. Shook herself, yawned, padded forward. I scooped her up.

“Now, this is different,” said Tanya. “The only livestock you had last time were those gorgeous fish.”

“They’re still here.”

She reached out to pet the dog, changed her mind.

“Her name is Blanche. She’s well beyond friendly and into gregarious.”

Tanya extended a cautious finger. “Hi, cutie.” A puppy shiver jelloed Blanche’s rotund little body. A moist black nose sniffed in Tanya’s direction. Meaty lips curled upward.

“Am I anthropomorphizing, Dr. Delaware, or is she smiling?”

“You’re not, she is.”

“So cute.”

“I’ll put her back in her crate and we can get started.”

“A crate? Is that necessary?”

“It makes her feel more secure.”

She looked doubtful.

I said, “Think of a baby in a crib as opposed to rolling around in open space.”

“I guess,” she said, “but don’t banish her on my account. I love dogs.” She rubbed the top of Blanche’s head.

“Want to hold her?”

“I…if she’s okay with it.”

Blanche went along with the transfer with nary a twitch. Someone should study her brain chemistry and package it.

“She’s so warm-hey, cutie. Is she a pug?”

“French bulldog. If she gets too heavy-”

“Don’t worry, I’m stronger than I look.”

We settled in facing chairs.

“Comfy leather,” she said, stroking an arm. “That’s the same…” Looking down at Blanche. “Am I holding her correctly?”

“Perfect.”

She looked around the room. “Nothing in here has changed but the rest of the house is totally different. It used to be smaller. With wood sides, right? At first I didn’t think I had the right address.”

“We rebuilt a few years ago.” A psychopath had made the decision for us, torching everything we owned.

Tanya said, “It came out extremely stylish.”

“Thank you.”

“So,” she said. “Here I am.”

“Good to see you, Tanya.”

“Same here.” She looked around. “You probably think I should talk about Mommy’s death.”

“If you want to.”

“I really don’t, Dr. Delaware. I’m not in denial, it’s been a nightmare, I never thought I’d experience anything this horrifying. But I’m handling my grief as well as can be expected-does that sound like denial?”

“You’re the best judge of that, Tanya.”

“Well,” she said, “I really feel I am. I don’t bottle up my feelings. On the contrary, I cry. Oh, boy, I cry plenty. I still wake up every morning expecting to see her, but…”

Her eyes misted.

“It hasn’t been long,” I said.

“Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Sometimes, it’s as if she’s been gone forever…I suspected she was sick before she did.”

“She wasn’t feeling well?”

“She just wasn’t herself for a couple of weeks.”