A therapist's work is never over.

Which isn't to say that patients don't get better.

But the bond forged during locked-door three-quarter hours the relationship that develops when private eyes peek into private lives can achieve a certain immortality.

Some patients do leave and never return. Some never leave. A good many occupy an ambiguous space in the middle throwing out occasional tendrils of reattachment during periods of pride or sorrow.

Predicting who'll fall into which group is an iffy business, no more rational than Vegas or the stock market. After a few years in practice I stopped trying.

So I really wasn't surprised when I came home after ajuly nightrun and learned that Melissa Dickinson had left a message with my service.

First time I'd heard from her in... what? It had to be nearly a decade since she'd stopped coming to the office I once maintained in a cold-blooded high-rise on the east end of Beverly Hills.

One of my long-termers.

That alone would have made her stand out in my memory, but there had been so much more.

Child psychology's an ideal job for those who like to feel heroic.

Children tend to get better relatively quickly and to need less treatment than adults. Even at the height of my practice it was rare to schedule a patient for more than one session a week. But I started Melissa at three. Because of the extent of her problems. Her unique situation. After eight months we tapered to twice; at year's anniversary, were down to one.

Finally, a month shy of two years, termination.

She left therapy a changed little girl; I allowed myself a bit of self-congratulation but knew better than to wallow in it. Because the family structure that had nurtured her problems had never been altered.

Its surface hadn't even been scratched.

Despite that, there'd been no reason to keep her in treatment against her will.

I'm nine years old, Dr. Delaware. I'm ready to handle things on my own.

I sent her out into the world, expecting to hear from her soon.

Didn't for several weeks, phoned her and was informed, in polite but firm nine-year-old tones, that she was just fine, thank you, would call me if she needed me.

Now she had.

A long time to be on hold.

Ten years would make her nineteen. Empty the memory banks and be prepared for a stranger.

I glanced at the phone number she'd left with the service.

An 818 area code. San Labrador exchange.

I went into the library, dug into my CLOSED files for a while, and finally found her chart.

Same prefix as her original home number, but the last four digits were different.

Change of number or had she left home? If she had, she hadn't gone very far.

I checked the date of her last session. Nine years ago. A birth date in June. She'd turned eighteen a month ago.

I wondered what had changed about her. What was the same.

Wondered why I hadn't heard from her sooner.

The phone was picked up after two rings.

"Hello?" Voice of a stranger, young, female.

"Melissa?"

"Yes?"

"This is Dr. Alex Delaware."

"Oh. Hi! I didn't Thanks so much for calling back, Dr. Delaware. I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow. I didn't even know if you'd call back."

"Why's that?"

"Your listing in the phone boo Excuse me. Hold on for one second, please."

Hand over the phone. Muffled conversation.

A moment later she came back on. "There's no office address for you in the phone book. No address at all. Just your name, no degree I wasn't even sure it was the same A. Delaware. So I didn't know if you were still in practice. The answering service said you were but that you worked mostly with lawyers and judges."

"That's basically true "Oh. Then I guess "But I'm always available to former patients. And I'm glad you called. How are things, Melissa?"

"Things are good," she said quickly. Clipped laugh. "Having said that, the logical question is why am I calling you after all these years, right? And the answer is that it's not about me, Dr. Delaware.

It's Mother."

"I see."

"Not that anything terrible's Oh, darn, hold on." Hand over the phone again. More background conversation. "I'm really sorry, Dr. Delaware, this just isn't a good time to talk. Do you think I could come and see you?"

"Sure. What's a good time for you?"

"The sooner the better. I'm pretty free school's out. I graduated."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. It feels good to be out."

"Bet it does." I checked my book. "How about tomorrow at noon?"

"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 brandnew. 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 toplevel 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 to3 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?"

"Do you think the mother really wants help?"

"For the girl? She says she does. But more important, the kid's motivated. She's the one who called the help line."

"Seven years old and she called herself?"

"The volunteer on the line couldn't believe it either. The line's not intended for kids. Once in a while they get a teenager they refer to Adolescent Medicine. But Melissa must have seen one of their public service commercials on TV copied down the number, and dialed it.

And she was up late to do it the call came in just after ten PM.

She lifted the Gladstone bag chest-high, popped it open, and pulled out a cassette.

"I know it sounds bizarre, but I've got the proof right here.

They tape everything that comes over the line. I had them make me a copy.

I said, "She must be pretty precocious."

"Must be. I wish I'd had a chance to actually spend some time with her what a neat kid, to take the initiative." She paused.

"What a hurt she must be going through. Anyway, after I listened to the tape I phoned the number she gave the volunteer and reached the mother. She had no idea Melissa had called. When I told her, she broke down and started to cry. But when I asked her to come in for a consultation, she said she was ill and couldn't. I thought it was something physically debilitating, so I offered to go out there.

Hence, my Gothic home visit."

She held the tape out to me. "If you'd like, you can have a listen.

It's really something. I told the mother I'd be talking to a psychologist, took the liberty of giving her your name. But don't feel any pressure.

I took the cassette. "Thanks for thinking of me, but I honestly don't know if I can make home visits to San Labrador."

"She can come to the other side of town-Melissa can. A servant will bring her."

I shook my head. "In a case like this, the mother should be actively involved."

She frowned. "I know. It's not optimal. But do you have techniques that can help the girl at all without maternal involvement?

Just lower her anxiety level a bit? Anything you did might reduce her risk of turning out totally screwed up. It would be a real good deed."

"Maybe," I said. "If the mother doesn't sabotage therapy."

"I don't think she will. She's antsy, but seemed to really love the kid. The guilt helps us there think how inadequate she must feel, the kid calling in like that. She knows this isn't the right way to raise a child but can't break out of her own pathology. It's got to feel horrible for her. The way I see it, this is the right time to harness the guilt. If the kid gets better, maybe Mom'll see the light, get some help for herself."

"Is there a father in the picture?"

"No, she's a widow. It happened when Melissa was a baby. Heart attack. I got the impression he was a much older man."

"Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit."

Her cheeks colored. "One tries. Listen, I don't expect you to disrupt your life and drive out there on a regular basis. But getting a referral closer to home wouldn't make any difference. Mom never leaves to go anywhere. For her, half a mile might as well be Mars. And if they do try therapy and it doesn't work, they may never try it again.

So I want somebody competent. After listening to you I'm convinced you're right for the case. I'd greatly appreciate it if you could accept less than optimal. I'll make it up to you with some solid referrals in the future. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I know I sound overinvolved and maybe I am but the whole idea of a seven-year-old calling in like that... And that house." She raised her eyebrows. "Besides, I figure it won't be long before my practice really gets crazy and I don't have the time to give anyone this kind of individual attention. So I might as well enjoy it while I can, right?"

Another reach into the Gladstone. "Anyway, here's the relevant data."

She handed me a piece of note paper topped with the logo of a pharmaceutical company. On it she'd printed: Pi: Melissa Dickinson, DOB 6/21/71.

Mom: Gina Dickinson.

And a phone number.

I took it and put it in my pocket.

"Thanks," she said. "At least payment won't be a hassle. They're not exactly Medi-Cal."

I said, "Are you the physician of record, or do they have someone they've been seeing?"

"According to the mother, there's a family doctor in Sierra Madre that Melissa's seen occasionally in the past-immunizations, school physicals, nothing ongoing. Physically, she's a very healthy girl.

But he's not really in the picture hasn't been for years. She didn't want him contacted."

"Why's that?"

"The whole therapy thing. The stigma. To be perfectly frank, I had to do a sell-job. This is San Labrador we're talking about; they're still fighting the twentieth century. But she will cooperate-I got a commitment out of her. As to whether or not I'll end up being their regular doc, I don't know. Either way, if you want to send me a report, I'd sure be interested in finding out how she does."

"Sure," I said. "You just mentioned school physicals. Despite the fears, does she attend classes regularly?"

"She did until recently. Servants drove her and picked her up; parent-teacher conferences were conducted over the phone. Maybe in that neck of the woods it's not that strange, but it can't have been great for the kid, the mother never showing up for anything. Despite that, Melissa's a terrific student straight A's. The mother made a point of showing me the report cards."

I said, "What do you mean by "until recently'?"

"Lately she's been starting to exhibit some definite symptoms of school phobia: vague physical complaints, crying in the morning, claiming she's too scared to go to school. The mother's been letting her stay home. To me that's a big fat danger sign."

"Sure is," I said. "Especially with her role model."

"Yup. The old biopsychosocial chain. Take enough histories and all you see is chains.

"Chain mail," I said. "Tough armor."

She nodded. "But maybe we can break one this time, huh?

Wouldn't that be uplifting?"

I saw patients all afternoon, finished a stack of charts. As I cleared my desk I listened to the tape.

FEMALE ADULT VOICE: Cathcart help line.

CHILD'S VOICE (Barely audible): Hello.

ADULT VOiCE: Help line. How may I help you?

Silence CHILD'S VOICE: Is this (Breathy, inaudible)... hospital?

AV: This is the Cathcart Hospital help line. What can I do for you?

CV: I need help. I'm AV: Yes?

Silence AV: Hello? Are you there?

CV: I'm scared.

AV: Scared of what, dear?

CV: Everything.

Silence AV: Is there something or someone right there with you, scaring you?

No.

No one at all?

No.

Are you in some kind of danger, dear? cv: AV: cv: AV: Silence AV: Honey?

CV: No.

AV: No danger at all?

CV: No.

AV: Could you tell me your name, honey?

CV: Melissa.

Av: Melissa what?

CV: Melissa Anne Dickinson. (Starts to spell it out) Av: (Breaks in) How old are you, Melissa?

CV: Seven.

Av: Are you calling from your house, Melissa?

CV: Yes.

Av: Do you know your address, Melissa? (Tears) Av: It's all right, Melissa. Is something someone or something bothering you? Right now?

CV: No. I'm just scared... always.

Av: You're always scared? cv: Yes.

Av: But there's nothing there bothering you or scaring you right now?

Nothing in your house? cv: Yes.

Av: There is something? cv: No. Nothing right here. I. (Tears) Av: What is it, honey?

Silence Av: Does someone at your house bother you other times? cv: (Whispering) No.

Av: Does your mommy know you're calling, Melissa? cv: No. (Tears) Av: Would she be mad if she knew you were calling? cv: No. She's.

Av: Yes, Melissa?

CV:... nice.

Av: Your mommy's nice? cv: Yes.

Av: So you're not scared of your mommy? cv: No.

Av: What about your daddy? cv: I don't have a daddy.

Silence Av: Are you scared of anyone else? cv: No.

Av: Do you know what you are scared of?

Silence Av: Melissa? cv: Darkness.. burglars... things.

Av: Darkness and burglars. And things. Can you tell me what kinds of things, honey? cv: Uh, things... all kinds of things! (Tears) Av: Okay, honey, just hold on. We'll get you some help. Just don't hang up, okay?

Sniffles Av: Okay, Melissa? Still there? cv: Yes.

Av: Good girl. Now, Melissa, do you know your address-the street where you live? cv: (Very rapidly) Ten Sussex Knoll.

Av: Could you please repeat that, Melissa? cv: Ten. Sussex. Knoll. San Labrador. CalIfornia.

Nine-one-one-oh eight.

Av: Very good. So you live in San Labrador. That's really close to us to the hospital.

Silence Av: Melissa? cv: Is there a doctor who can help me? Without shots?

Av: Of course there is, Melissa, and I'm going to get you that doctor. cv: (Inaudible) Av: What's that, Melissa? cv: Thank you.

A burst of static, then dead air. I turned off the recorder and phoned the number Eileen Wagner had written down. A reedy male voice answered: "Dickinson residence."

"Mrs. Dickinson, please. This is Dr. Delaware, regarding Melissa."

Throat cleat. Mrs. Dickinson 5 not available, Doctor. However, she said to tell you that Melissa can be at your office any weekday between three and four-thirty."

"Do you know when she'll be available to talk?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't, Dr. Delaware. But I'll apprise her of your call. Is that time period suitable for you?"

I checked my appointment book. "How about Wednesday? Four o'clock."

"Very good, Doctor." He recited my address and said, "Is that correct?"

"Yes. But I would like to talk with Mrs. Dickinson before the appointment."

"I'll inform her of that, Doctor."

"Who'll be bringing Melissa?"

"I will, sir."

"And you are "Dutchy. Jacob Dutchy."

"And your relationship to "I'm in Mrs. Dickinson's employ, sir. Now, in the matter of your fee, is there a preferred mode of payment?"

"A check would be fine, Mr. Dutchy."

"And the fee itself?"

I quoted him my hourly rate.

"Very good, Doctor. Goodbye, Doctor."

The next morning, a legal-size manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger I Inside was a smaller, rose-colored envelope; within that, a sheet of rose-colored stationery folded over a check.

The check was for $ 3,000 and was annotated Medical treatment frrMelissa. At my "78 rate, over forty sessions' worth. The money had been drawn on a savings account at First Fiduciary Trust Bank in San Labrador. Printed in the upper left corner of the check was: R. P.

DICKINSON, TRUSTEE DICKINSON FAMILY TRUST UDT 5-11-71

10 SUSSEX KNOLL SAN LABRADOR, CALIFORNIA 91108

The stationery was heavy stock, folded in half, with a Crane watermark.

I opened it.

At the top, in embossed black script: Regina Paddock Dickinson Below that, in a fine, graceful hand: Dear Doctor De1a I are, Thank you I for seeing Alehssa.

I']] be in touch.

Faithfully )"vurs Gina Dickinson Scented paper. A mixture of old roses and alpine air. But it didn't sweeten the message: Don't call us, plebe. We'll call you. Here's a juicy check to suppress any protests.

I dialed the Dickinson residence. This time a woman answered.

Middle-aged, Gallic accent, voice pitched lower than Dutchy's.

Different pipes, same song: Madame wasn't available. No, she had no idea when Madame would be available.

I left my name, hung up, looked at the check. All those digits.

Treatment hadn't even begun and I'd lost control. It wasn't the way to do business, wasn't in the best interests of the patient. But I'd committed myself to Eileen Wagner.

The tape had committed me. a doctor who can help me. Without shots.

I thought about it for a long time, finally decided I'd stick it out long enough to do an intake at least. See if I could get a rapport with the little girl, get some sort of progress going enough to impress the Victorian princess.

Dr. Savior.

Then, I'd start making demands.

During my lunch hour I cashed the check.

Dutchy was fiftyish, mid-size and plump, with slicked-down tooblack hair parted on the right, apple cheeks, and razor-slash lips. He had on a well-cut but old-fashioned double-breasted blue serge suit, starched white shirt, linen pocket square, Windsor-knotted navy tie, and mirror-bright black bluchers with extra heel. When I came out of the inner office he and the girl were standing in the middle of the waiting room, she looking down at the carpet, he examining the artwork.

The look on his face said my prints weren't passing muster.

When he turned to face me, his expression didn't change.

All the warmth of a Montana hailstorm, but the girl clutched his hand as if he were Santa Claus.

She was small for her age but had a mature, well-formed face one of those children endowed early with the countenance they'll grow old with. An oval face, just this side of pretty, beneath bangs the color of walnut shells. The rest of her hair was long, almost to her waist, and topped with a pink flowered band. She had big round gray-green eyes with blond lashes, an upturned nose lightly freckled, and a pointy pixie chin under a narrow, timid mouth. Her clothes were too formal for school: puffed-sleeve dress of pink dotted swiss sashed with white satin tied in a bow at the back, pink lace-topped socks, and white patent-leather buckle shoes. I thought of Carroll's Alice encountering the Queen of Hearts.

The two of them stood there, immobile. A cello and a piccolo, cast in odd duet.

I introduced myself, bending and smiling at the girl. She stared back.

To my surprise, no terror.

No response at all, other than flat appraisal. Considering what had brought her to the office, I was doing great, so far.

Her right hand was swallowed by Dutchy's meaty left one.

Rather than have her relinquish it, I smiled again and held out my hand to Dutchy. He seemed surprised by the gesture and took it with reluctance, then let go at the same time he released the girl's fingers.

"I'll be off now," he announced to both of us. "Forty-five minutes correct, Doctor?"

"Correct."

He took a step toward the door.

I was looking at the girl, bracing myself for resistance. But she just stood there, staring down at the carpet, hands pressed to her sides.

Dutchy took another step and stopped. Chewing his cheek, he turned back and patted the girl's head. She gave him what appeared to be a reassuring smile.

"Bye, Jacob," she said. High, breathy voice. Same as on the tape.

The rose tint spread from Dutchy's cheeks to the rest of his face.

He chewed his cheek some more, lowered his arm stiffly, and mumbled something. One last glare at me and he was gone.

After the door closed I said, "Looks like Jacob's a good friend."

She said, "He's my mother's retainer."

"But he takes care of you, too."

"He takes care of everything."

"Everything?"

"Our house." She tapped her foot impatiently. "I don't have a father, and my mother doesn't leave the house, so Jacob does lots of things for us."

"What kinds of things?" got lots of stuff in here. Box games and dolls and clay and PlayDoh.

Paper and pencils, too. And crayons, if you like to draw in color."

"Why should I do that?" she said.

"Do what, Melissa?"

"Play or draw? Mother said we were going to talk."

"Your mother was right. We are going to talk," I said. "But sometimes kids who come here like to play or draw before they start talking.

While they get used to this place."

The hands kneaded fiiste I She looked down.

"Also," I said, "playing and talking can help kids express how they feel help get their feelings out."

"I can get my feelings out," she said, "by talking."

"Great," I said. "Let's talk."

She took a place on the leather sofa and I sat opposite her in my chair. She looked around some more, then placed her hands in her lap and stared straight at me.

I said, "Okay. Why don't we start by talking about who I am and why you're here. I'm a psychologist. Do you know what that means?"

She kneaded her fingers and kicked the couch with her heel. "I have a problem and you're the kind of doctor who helps children who have problems and you don't give any shots."

"Very good. Did Jacob tell you all that?"

She shook her head. "My mother. Dr. Wagner told her about you she's my mother's friend."

I remembered what Eileen Wagner had said about a brief chat, about a little girl wandering and hiding in a big, spooky house, and wondered what friendship meant to this child. "But Dr. Wagner met your mother because of you, didn't she, Melissa? Because of your call to the help line."

Her body tightened and the little hands kneaded faster. I noticed that her finger pads were pink, slightly chafed.

"Yeah, but she likes my mother."

Her eyes left mine and stared at the carpet.

"Well," I said, backtracking, "Dr. Wagner was right. About the shots.

I never give shots. Don't even know how to give shots."

"House things-telling Madeleine and Sabino and Carmela and all the service people and the delivery people what to do. Sometimes he makes food snacks and finger food. If he's not too busy. Madeleine cooks the big hot meals. And he drives all the cars. Sabino only drives the truck."

"All the cars," I said. "Do you have a lot?"

She nodded. "A lot. My father liked cars and bought them before he died. Mother keeps them in the big garage even though she doesn't drive them, so Jacob has to start them and drive them so they don't get sticky inside the engine. There's also a company that comes to wash them every week. Jacob watches them to make sure they do a good job."

"Sounds like Jacob keeps busy."

"He does. How many cars do you have?"

"Just one.

"What kind?"

"It's a Dodge Dart."

"Dodge Dart," she said, pursing her lips and thinking. "We don't have one of those."

"It's not very fancy. Kind of beat-up, actually."

"We have one like that. A Cadillac Knockabout."

"Cadillac Knockabout," I said. "Don't think I've ever heard of that model."

"It's the one we took today. To here. A 1962 Cadillac Fleetwood Knockabout. It's black and old. Jacob says it's a workhorse."

"Do you like cars, Melissa?"

Shrug. "Not really."

"What about toys? Do you have any favorites?"

Shrug. "Not really."

"I've got toys in my office. How about we go check them out?"

She shrugged a third time but allowed me to usher her into the consult room. Once she was inside, her eyes took flight, darting and alighting upon desk, bookshelves, toy chest, back to the desk. Never settling.

She knitted her hands, pulled them apart, and began a curious rolling, kneading motion, turning one set of tiny fingers over the other.

I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. "I've Unimpressed, she looked at her shoes. Sticking her legs straight out, she began bobbling her feet.

"Still," I said, "even going to a doctor who doesn't give shots can be scary. It's a new situation. You don't know what's going to happen."

Her head shot up, the green eyes defiant. "I'm not scared of you."

"Good." I smiled. "And I'm not scared of you either."

She gave me a look that was part bafflement, mostly scorn. So much for the old Delaware wit.

"Not only don't I give shots," I said, "but I don't do anything to the children who come here. I work with them. As a team. They tell me about themselves and when I know enough about them, I show them how not to be scared. Because being scared is something we learn. So we can unlearn it."

Spark of interest in the eyes. Her legs relaxed. But more kneading, faster.

She said, "How many other kids come here?"

"Lots."

"How many?"

"Between four and eight a day."

"What are their names?"

"I can't tell you that, Melissa."

"Why not?"

"It's a secret just like I couldn't tell anyone that you came here today unless you gave me permission."

"Why?"

"Because kids who come here talk about things that are private.

They want privacy do you know what that means?"

"Privacy," she said, "is going to the bathroom like a young lady, all by yourself, with the door closed."

"Exactly. When kids talk about themselves, they sometimes tell me things they've never told anyone. Part of my job is knowing how to keep a secret. So everything that goes on in this room is a secret.

Even the names of the people who come here are secret. That's why there's that second door." I pointed. "It goes out to the hall. So people can leave the office without going into the waiting room and seeing other people. Would you like to see?"

"No, thank you." More tension.

I said, "Is something bothering you right now, Melissa?"

"No."

"Would you like to talk about what scares you?"

Silence.

"Melissa?"

"Everything."

"Everything scares you?"

Look of shame.

"How about we start with one thing."

"Burglars and intruders." Reciting, without hesitation.

I said, "Did someone tell you the kinds of questions I'd be asking you today?"

Silence.

"Was it Jacob?"

Nod.

"And your mother?"

"No. Just Jacob."

"Did Jacob also tell you how to answer my questions?"

More hesitation.

I said, "If he did, that's okay. He's trying to help. I just want to make sure you tell me how you feel. You're the star of this show, Melissa."

She said, "He told me to sit up straight, speak clearly, and tell the truth."

"The truth about what scared you?"

"Uh-huh. And then maybe you could help me."

Accent on the maybe. I could almost hear Dutchy's voice.

I said, "That's fine. Jacob's obviously a very smart person and he takes good care of you. But when you come here, you're the boss. You can talk about anything you want."

"I want to talk about burglars and intruders."

"Okay. Then that's what we'll do."

I waited. She said nothing.

I said, "What do these burglars and intruders look like?"

"They're not real burglars," she said, scornful again. "They're in my imagination. Pretend."

"What do they look like in your imagination?"

More silence. She closed her eyes. The hands kneaded furiously, her body took on a faint rocking motion, and her face screwed up. She appeared to be on the brink of tears.

I leaned in closer and said, "Melissa, we don't have to talk about this right now.

"Big," she said, eyes still closed. But dry. I realized that the facial tightness wasn't a presage to tears, just intense concentration.

Her eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

Chasing images.

She said, "He's big with this big hat Sudden stillness beneath the eyelids.

Her hands untangled, floated upward, and made wide circles. and a long coat and "And what?"

The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.

Hypnotic.

Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick.

The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

I said, "The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat. Unconsciously, I'd lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

More tension. No reply.

"Anything else?" I said gently.

She was silent.

I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. "He's got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn't he, Melissa? Something in his hand?"

"Bag." Barely audible.

I said, "Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?"

No reply.

"To put stuff in?"

Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.

"Do you want to talk about what goes into the bag, Melissa?"

She closed her eyes and kept rocking. Trembled and hugged herselo A tear rolled down her cheek.

I patted her again, got a tissue, and wiped her eyes, half expecting her to pull away. But she allowed me to dab the tears.

Dramatic first session, movie-of-the-week perfect. But too much, too fast; it could jeopardize the therapy. I dabbed some more, searching for some way to slow it down.

She killed that notion with a single word: "Kids."

"The burglar puts kids in the sack?"

"Uh-huh."

"So the burglar is really a kidnapper."

She opened her eyes, stood up, faced me, and held up her hands as if praying. "He's a murderer!" she cried, emphasizing each word with a shake. "A Mikoksi with acid!"

"A Mikoksi?"

"A Mikoksi with acidthatmeanspoison! Burning poison! Mikoksi threw it on her and he's going to come back and burn her again, and me, too!"

"Who did he throw poison on, Melissa?"

"Mother." And now he's going to come back!"

"Where is this Mikoksi now?"

"In jail, but he's going to get out and hurt us again!"

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he doesn't like us. He liked Mother but then he stopped liking her and he threw poison acid on her and tried to kill her but it only burned her on the face and she was still beautiful and could get married and have me!"

She began pacing the office, holding her temples, stooped and muttering like a little old woman.

"When did all this happen, Melissa?"

"Before I was born." Rocking, face to the wall.

"Did Jacob tell you about it?"

Nod.

"Did your mother talk to you about it, too?"

Hesitation. Shake of head. "She doesn't like to."

"Why's that?"

"It makes her sad. She used to be happy and beautiful. People took pictures of her. Then Mikoksi burned her face and she had to have operations."

"Does Mikoksi have another name? A first name?"

She turned and faced me, truly puzzled. "I don't know."

"But you know he's in jail."

"Yes, but he's getting out and it's no fair and no justice!"

"Is he getting out of jail soon?"

More confusion.

"Did Jacob tell you he was getting out soon?"

"No."

"But he did talk to you about justice."

"Yes!"

"What does justice mean to you?"

"Being fair!"

She gave me a challenging look and put her hands on the flat place where one day her hips would be. Tension rumpled the sliver of brow beneath her bangs. Her mouth curled and she wagged a finger.

"It was no fair and stupid! They should have a fair justice! They should have killed him with the acid!"

"You're very angry at Mikoksi."

Another incredulous look at the idiot in the chair.

I said, "That's good. Getting really angry at him. When you're angry at him, you're not so scared of him."

Both hands had fisted. She opened them, dropped them, sighed, and looked at the floor. More kneading.

I went over to her and kneeled so that we'd be at eye level if she chose to raise her eyes. "You're a very smart girl, Melissa, and you've helped me a lot by being brave and talking about scary things.

I know how much you want not to be afraid anymore. I've helped lots of other kids and I'll be able to help you."

Silence.

"If you want to talk some more about Mikoksi or burglars or anything else, that's okay. But if you don't, that's okay, too. We've got some more time together before Jacob comes back. How we spend it is up to you.

No movement or sound; the second hand on the banjo clock across the room completed half a circuit. Finally she lifted her head.

Looked everywhere but at me, then homed in suddenly, squinting, as if trying to put me in focus.

"I'll draw," she said. "But only with pencils. Not crayons, they're too messy.

She worked the pencil slowly, a tongue tip extending from one corner of her mouth. Her artistic ability was above average, but all the finished product told me was that she'd had enough for one day: happy-face girl next to happy-face cat in front of red house and a fattrunked tree full of apples. All of it under a huge golden sun with prehensile rays.

When she was through she pushed it across the desk and said, "You keep it."

"Thank you. It's terrific."

"When am I coming back?"

"How about in two days? Friday."

"Why not tomorrow?"

"Sometimes it's good for kids to take some time to think about what happened before they come in."

"I think fast," she said. "And there's other stuff I didn't say yet."

"You really want to come in tomorrow?"

"I want to get better."

"All right then, I can see you tomorrow at five. IfJacob can bring you.

"He will," she said. "He wants me to get better, too."

I saw her out through the separate exit and spotted Dutchy walking down the hall, a paper bag in one hand. When he saw us he frowned and looked at his watch.

Melissa said, "We're coming back to him at five tomorrow, Jacob."

Dutchy raised his eyebrows and said, "I believe I'm right on time, Doctor."

"You are," I said. "I was just showing Melissa the separate exit.

"So other kids won't see me or know who I am," she said. "It's privacy."

"I see," said Dutchy, looking up and down the hall. "I brought you something, young lady. To tide you over until dinner." The top half of the bag was accordion-folded neatly. He opened it with his fingertips and drew out an oatmeal cookie.

Melissa squealed, took it from him, and prepared to bite into it.

Dutchy cleared his throat.

Melissa held the cookie midair. "Thank you, Jacob."

"You're quite welcome, young lady."

She turned to me. "Would you like some, Dr. Delaware?"

"No, thank you, Melissa." Sounding to myself like a charm school candidate.

She licked her lips and went to work on the cookie.

I said, "I'd like to talk to you for a moment, Mr. Dutchy."

He glanced at his watch again. "The freeway the longer we wait.

I said, "Some things came up during the session. Important things."

He said, "Really, it's quite I forced a patient grin and said, "If I'm to do my job, I'm going to need help, Mr. Dutchy."

From the look on his face, I might have passed wind at an embassy dinner. He cleared his throat again and said, "One moment Melissa," and walked several feet down the corridor. Melissa, her mouth full of cookie, followed him with her eyes.

I smiled at her, said, "We'll just be one second, lion," and joined him.

He looked up and down the hall and folded his arms across his chest.

"What is it, Doctor?"

From a foot away, he was shaven clean as palmar flesh, smelling of bay rum and fresh laundry.

I said, "She talked about what happened to her mother. Some person named Mikoksi."

He flinched. "Really, sir, it's not my place."

"This is important, Mr. Dutchy. It's obviously relevant to her fears."

"It's best that her mother "True. The problem is I've left several messages with her mother that haven't been returned. Normally, I wouldn't even see a child without direct parental participation. But Melissa obviously needs help. Lots of help. I can provide that help but I need information."

He chewed his cheek so long and hard I was afraid he'd gnaw through it.

Down the hall, Melissa was munching and staring at us.

He said, "Whatever happened was before the child's time."

"Chronologically, maybe. But not psychologically."

He stared at me for a long moment. A hint of moisture appeared in the corner of his right eye, no bigger than the diamond on a budget engagement ring. He blinked and made it disappear. "Really, this is quite awkward. I'm an employee I said, "All right. I don't want to put you in a difficult position.

But please deliver the message that someone needs to talk to me as soon as possible."

Melissa scuffed her feet. The cookie was gone. Dutchy gave her a grave but oddly tender look.

I said, "I do want to see her tomorrow at five."

He nodded, took a step closer, so that we were almost touching, and whispered in my ear: "She pronounces it Mikoksi but the damned villain's name was McC/oskey. Joel McCloskey."

Lowering his head and pushing it forward, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Waiting for a reaction.

Expecting me to know something I said, "Doesn't ring any bells."

The head drew back. "Were you living in Los Angeles ten years ago, Doctor?"

I nodded.

"It was in the papers."

"I was in school. Concentrating on my textbooks."

"March of 1969," he said. "March third." A pained look crossed his face. "This is That's all I can say right now, Doctor. Perhaps some other time.

"All right," I said. "See you tomorrow.

"Five it is." He let out his breath and drew himself up. Tugging at his lapels, he cleared his throat. "Getting back to the present, I trust everything proceeded as planned today."

"Everything went fine."

Melissa was coming our way. The white satin sash had come loose and hung from a single loop, scraping the floor. Dutchy rushed over and tied it, brushed crumbs from her dress, braced her shoulders, and told her to stand up straight, young lady, a curved spine simply wouldn't do.

She smiled up at him.

They held hands as they left the building.

I saw another patient a few minutes later, managed to put the cello and the piccolo out of my mind for three quarters of an hour. Leaving the office at seven, I took a five-minute drive to the Beverly Hills Library. The reading room was crowded with retirees checking out the final stock quotations and teenagers doing their homework or faking it.

By seven-fifteen I was sitting at a microfilm viewer with a March "69 spool of the Times. March 4 rolled into view. What I was looking for was on the upper left quadrant.

ACTRESS THE VICTIM OF ACID ATTACK (HOLLYWOOD) A quiet hillside neighborhood above Hollywood Boulevard was the scene of a grisly early-morning assault upon a former fashion model currently under contract to Apex Motion Picture Studios, that left neighbors of the victim horror-struck and wondering why.

Regina Marie Paddock, 23, 2103 Beachwood Drive, Apartment 2, was awakened at home by her doorbell at 4:30 A.M by a man claiming to be a Western Union messenger.

When she opened the door, the man brandished a bottle and flung its contents in her face.

She collapsed screaming and the assailant, described as a male Negro, ve eleven to six two, 190-200 pounds, escaped on foot.

The victim was taken to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital where she was treated for third-degree facial burns. A hospital spokesman described her condition as "serious, but stable.

She's in no mortal danger but is in considerable pain, having sustained extensive tissue damage to the left side of her face. Miraculously, her eyes were unaffected."

An Apex spokesman expressed the studio's "shock and deep regret over the vicious, unprovoked attack on the talented Gina Prince [Miss Paddock's stage namej. We will do everything within our power to work with the authorities in swiftly apprehending the perpetrator of this heinous crime.

The victim was born in 1946 in Denver, Colorado, moved to Los Angeles at the age of 19, was hired as a photographic and fashion model by the prestigious Flax Agency, and quickly advanced to feature spreads in Glamour and Vogue.

After leaving Flax she switched to the now defunct Belle Vue Agency, eventually left modeling, signed with the William Morris Agency and received an acting contract at Apex.

Although she has not yet been cast in a film, the studio spokesman said she had been under consideration for "several important roles. She's a very talented and beautiful young lady We'll do everything to see that her career remains untainted by this tragic occurrence."

Police are actively searching for the assailant and request that any information be directed to Detectives Savage or Flores at the LAPD's Hollywood Division.

At the center of the article was a head shot that could have been reduced from a Vogue cover: oval face on a long stalk of neck, framed by straight, pale hair worn long and layered in a complex style, sophisticated for the time. Arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, huge, pale eyes, pouty mouth. The shadowy perfection of a study by Avedon or someone almost as good.

I thought of what acid could do to perfection, backed away from that, and tried to look at the photo as if it were just a photo.

The features, taken singly, were almost identical to Melissa's, but the gestalt added up to a good deal more than just this side of pretty. I wondered whether puberty would bring Melissa to her mother's level of beauty.

I turned the knob on the viewer. A brief summary of Gina Paddock's medical status appeared in the next day's paper. Condition downgraded to stable. No leads. Another message of sympathy from the studio, augmented by a $5,000 reward for information leading to capture. But no more pledges of an untainted career.

I kept dialing. Two weeks later: SUSPECT IN ACID ATTACK NABBED Apprehended After Police Receive Anonymous Tip (LOS ANGELES) Police announced the arrest of a suspect in the March 3 early-morning acid attack that left actress Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) permanently disfigured.

The arrest, in South Los Angeles, of Melvin Louis Findlay, 28, was announced at an 11:00P.M. press conference at Parker Center by Hollywood Division Squad Commander Bryce Donnemeister, who described Findlay as a known felon and recent parolee from the Men's Colony at Chino, where he served eighteen months of a three-year sentence for extortion. Findlay's other arrests and convictions include aggravated assault, robbery, and vehicular grand theft.

"Physical evidence in our possession leads us to believe we have a strong case against this individual," said Donnemeister. He refused to elaborate on whether the victim had identified Findlay and offered no details on the arrest other than to say that an anonymous phone tip had led the police to Findlay and that "subsequent investigation confirmed that the information provided to us was valid."

Miss Prince continues to convalesce at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where her condition is described as good. Plastic surgeons have been called in to consult on the reconstruction of her face.

Three days after that: FORMER EMPLOYER ARRESTED IN ACID ASSAULT ON ACTRESS (LAS VEGAS) The former employer and onetime companion of acid attack victim Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) was arrested last night by Las Vegas police as a prime suspect in the March 3 assault that left the former fashion model and actress with extensive facial disfiguration.

Joel Henry McCloskey, 34, was arrested in his room at the Flamingo Hotel, where he had registered under a false name, and was placed in the custody of the Las Vegas Police Department in compliance with a warrant issued by the Criminal Division of the Los Angeles Superior Court.

LAPD Hollywood Division Commander Bryce Donnemeister said that information provided by another suspect in the case, Melvin Findlay, 28, arrested March 18, had incriminated McCloskey. "It appears at this time that Findlay was hired help and McCloskey did the alleged hiring.

Donnemeister added that Findlay had worked for McCloskey in 1967 in a "janitorial capacity" but declined further comment pending a full investigation.

McCloskey, a native of New jersey and a former.nightclub singer, came to Los Angeles in 1962 with aspirations of being an actor. When those failed, he opened the Belle Vue Modeling Agency. After luring Miss Prince away from the larger, more established Flax Agency, he tried to serve as her film agent, according to Hollywood sources.

McCloskey and Miss Prince are reported to have developed a personal relationship that ended when Miss Prince left Belle Vue and, in an attempt to trade fashion modeling for screen stardom, signed with the William Morris Agency.

Shortly after, Belle Vue's fortunes plummeted, and McCloskey declared bankruptcy on February 9 of this year.

When asked whether revenge figured as a motive in the attack, Police Commander Donnemeister said, "We're reserving comment until the suspect has been fully and properly questioned."

Miss Prince continues to recuperate at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where plans are being made for her to undergo extensive reconstructive surgery.

There was a photo with this one, too: a small, dark, slender man being led away by two detectives who dwarfed him. He had on a sport coat, slacks, and an open-neck white shirt. His head was lowered and his longish hair hung down over the top half of his face. What was visible of the bottom half was angular, grim, James Deanish, and in need of a shave.

It took a while to locate the conclusion of the case. McCloskey's extradition and arraignment, Melvin Findlay's agreement to plead guilty and testify against McCloskey in return for a simple assault conviction, McCloskey's indictment for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder and mayhem. Arraignment proceedings, then a three-month lag until the trial.

The judicial process was swift. The prosecutor distributed selections from Gina Prince's modeling portfolio to the jurors, followed by close-ups of her ravaged face taken in the emergency room. A brief appearance by the victim, bandaged and sobbing. Testimony by medical experts to the effect that her face would be scarred permanently.

Melvin Findlay testified that McCloskey had hired him to "trash the [obscenityj girl's face, make sure she was no [obscenityj good for nobody, and if she died, he wouldn't have no [obscenityj problem with that, too."

The prosecution produced a taped confession that the defense tried unsuccessfully to challenge. The tape was played in open court: McCloskey tearfully admitting to hiring Findlay to maim Gina Prince but refusing to explain why.

The defense didn't dispute the facts but attempted an insanity defense, which was hampered by McCloskey's refusal to talk to the hired-gun psychiatrists. The prosecution's psychiatric pistol testified to observing McCloskey in the county jail and finding him "uncooperative and depressed, but lucid and free of serious mental disease."

It took two hours for the jury to bring in guilty verdicts on all charges.

At the sentencing hearing, the judge called McCloskey "an abject monster, one of the most despicable defendants it has been my displeasure to encounter in my twenty years on the bench," and handed down a combination of sentences that added up to twenty-three years in San Quentin. Everyone seemed satisfied. Even McCloskey, who fired his lawyers and refused to appeal.

After the trial, the press tried to interview the jurors. They chose to have their foreman speak for them and he was concise: "Only a semblance of justice could be accomplished," said Jacob P Dutchy, 46, an executive aide at Dickinson Industries, Pasadena. "This young lady's life will never be the same. But we did what we could to ensure that McCloskey pays the harshest penalty possible under the law."

A Mikoksi with acid.

Twenty-three years in San Q.

Time off for good behavior could cut it in halo A belated appeal might shave off more. Meaning McCloskey's release could be imminent if it hadn't already taken place.

No doubt Dutchy would know the precise release date he'd be the type to follow that kind of thing closely. I wondered how he and the child's mother had explained it all to Melissa.

Dutchy. Interesting fellow. Throwback to another age.

From juror to retainer. I was curious about the evolution but had little hope of satisfying my curiosity. The way things were going, I'd be lucky to get an accurate history on my patient.

I thought of Dutchy's secretiveness and devotion. Gina Dickinson had the ability to inspire strong loyalties. Was it the helplessness, the same princess-in-distress frailty that had brought Eileen Wagner out on a house call?

What did growing up with a mother like that do to a child?

Men with sacks.

Same dream I'd heard from so many other children, almost an archetype.

Children I'd cured.

But I sensed this child would be different. No easy heroism here.

I had a deli dinner at Nate "n Al, on Beverly Drive: corned beef on rye accompanied by the tape-loop blather of Hollywood types shmoozing about pending deals, drove home, and phoned a San Labrador exchange that had stuck in my head.

This time an answering machine with Jacob Dutchy's voice informed me no one was available and invited me, haiffleartedly, to leave a message.

I repeated my urgent desire to speak with the lady of the house at 10

Sussex Knoll.

No callback that evening, nor the following day, and as 5:00 RM. approached I resigned myself to pumping Dutchy for information again awkward position be damned.

But he didn't show up. Instead, Melissa was accompanied by a Mexican man in his sixties broad and low-slung, hard and muscular despite his age, with a thin gray mustache, beak nose, and hands as rough and brown as cedar bark. He wore khaki work clothes and rubber-soled shoes and held a sweat-stained beige canvas hat in front of his groin.

"This is Sabino," said Melissa. "He takes care of our plants."

I said hello and introduced myself. The gardener smiled uncomfortably and muttered, "Hernandez, Sabino."

"Today we took the truck," said Melissa, "and looked down on everyone.

I said, "Where's Jacob?"

She shrugged. "Doing stuff."

At the mention of Dutchy's name, Hernandez stood up straighter.

I thanked him and told him Melissa would be free in forty-five minutes.

Then I noticed he wasn't wearing a watch.

"Take a seat, if you'd like, back at five forty-five."

"Okeh." He remained standing.

I pointed to a chair.

He said, "Ohh," and sat down, still holding his hat.

I took Melissa into the consult room.

I said, "or you can leave and come Healer's challenge: Put aside my annoyance at the way the adults were fancy-dancing around me and concentrate on the child Plenty to concentrate on, today.

She began talking the moment she sat down, looking away from me and reciting her terrors nonstop, in a singsong oral-report voice that told me she'd studied hard for therapy. Closing her eyes as she went on, and climbing in power and pitch until she was nearly shouting, then stopping and shivering with dread, as if she'd suddenly visualized something overwhelming.

But before I could say anything, she was off again. Fluctuating between blurt and whisper, like a radio with a broken volume control.

"Monsters big bad things."

"What kinds of big bad things, Melissa?"

"I don't know just bad."

She went silent again, bit down on her lower lip, began rocking.

I put my hand on her shoulder.

She opened her eyes and said, "I know they're imaginary but they still scare me.

"Imaginary things can be very scary.

Saying it in a soothing voice, but she'd reeled me into her world and I was flashing mental pictures of my own: gibbering hordes of fanged and hooded shadow-things that lurked in the nightgloom.

Trapdoors unlatched by the death of tight. Trees turned to witches; shrubs to hunched, slimy corruptions; the moon, a looming, voracious fire.

The power of empathy. And more. Memories of other nights, so long ago; a boy in a bed, listening to the winds whip across the Missouri flatlands. I broke away from that and focused on what she was saying: that's why I hate to sleep. Going to sleep brings the dreams.

"What kinds of dreams?"

She shivered again and shook her head. "I make myself stay awake but then I can't stop it anymore and I sleep and the dreams come.

I took her fingers in mine and stilted them with touch and therapeutic murmurings.

She turned silent.

I said, "Do you have bad dreams every night?"

"Yes. And more. Mother said one time there were seven."

"Seven bad dreams in one night?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember them?"

She liberated her hand, closed her eyes, and retreated to a detached tone. A seven-year-old clinician, presenting at Case Conference. The case of a certain nameless little girl who woke up cold and sweating from her sleeping place at the foot of her mother's bed.

Lurching awake, heart pounding, clawing the sheets to keep from falling endlessly, uncontrollably, into a huge black maw. Clawing but losing her grip and feeling everything float away like a kite with a broken string. Crying out in the darkness and rolling hurtling toward her mother's warm body, a love-seeking missile. Mother's arm reaching out unconsciously and drawing her near.

Lying there, frozen, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince herself it was just a ceiling, that the things crawling up there weren't-couldn't be real. Inhaling Mother's perfume, listening to Mother's light snores. Making sure Mother was deep asleep before reaching out and touching satin and lace, a stretch of soft arm-flesh.

Then up to the face. The good side. somehow she always ended up next to the good side.

Freezing again, as she said good side for the second time.

Her eyes opened. She threw a panicky glance at the separate exit.

A convict weighing the risks of jailbreak.

Too much, too soon.

Leaning in close, I told her she'd done well; we could spend the rest of the session drawing again, or playing a game.

She said, "I'm scared of my room.

"Why's that?"

"It's big."

"Too big for you?"

A guilty look crossed her face. Guilty confusion.

I asked her to tell me more about her room. She painted more pictures.

Tall ceiling with pictures of ladies in fancy dresses on it. Pink carpets, pink-and-gray lamb and pussycat wallpaper that Mother had picked especially for her when she was a baby in a crib. Toys. Music boxes and miniature dishes and glass figurines, three separate dollhouses, a zoo of stuffed animals. A canopy bed from somewhere else far away, she forgot where, with pillows and a fluffy comforter filled with goose feathers. Lace-trimmed windows that were round on top and went almost up to the ceiling. Windows with bits of colored glass in them that made colored pictures on your skin. A seat in front of one of the windows that had a view of the grass and the flowers Sabino tended all day; she wanted to call down and say hello to him but was afraid to get too close to the window.

"Sounds like a huge room," I said.

"Not just one room, a bunch. There's a sleeping room and a bathroom and a dressing room with mirrors and lights all around them, next to my closet. And a playroom that's where most of the toys are, but the stuffed animals are in the sleeping room. Jacob calls the sleeping room the nursery, which means a baby room.

Frown.

"Does Jacob treat you like a baby?"

"No! I haven't used a crib since I was three!"

"Do you like having such a big room?"

"No! I hate it! I never go inside it."

The guilty look returned.

Two minutes until the session was over. She hadn't budged from her chair since she'd sat down.

I said, "You're doing a great job, Melissa. I've really learned a lot.

But how about we stop for now?"

She said, "I don't like to be alone. Ever."

"No one likes to be alone for a long time. Even grown-ups get afraid of that."

"I don't like it ever: I waited until my birthday till I was seven to go to the bathroom by myself. With the door closed and privacy."

Sitting back, daring me to disapprove.

I said, "Who went with you till you were seven?"

"Jacob and Mother and Madeleine and Carmela kept me company till I was four. Then Jacob said I was a young lady now, only ladies should be with me, so he stopped going. Then, when I was seven I decided to go there alone. It made me cry and hurt my stomach and once I threw up, but I did it. With the door closed a little, then all the way-but I still don't lock it.

No way.

Another dare.

I said, "You did great."

Frown. "Sometimes it still makes me nervous. I'd still like to have someone there-not looking, just there, keeping me company.

But I don't ask them."

"Good for you," I said. "You fought your fear and beat it."

"Yes," she said. Astonished. Translating ordeal into victory for what appeared to be the first time.

"Did your mother and Jacob tell you you did a good job?"

"Uh-huh." Dismissive wave. "They always says nice things."

"Well, you did do a good job. You won a tough fight. That means you can win other fights beat up other fears. One by one. We can work together and pick the fears you want to fight, then plan how we'll do it, step by step. Slowly. So it's never scary for you. If you'd like, we can start the next time you're here-on Monday."

I got up.

She stayed in her chair. "I want to talk some more."

"I'd like to, too, Melissa, but our time is up."

"Just a little." Hint of whine.

"We really have to end now. I'll see you on Monday, which is only.

.

I touched her shoulder. She shrugged me off and her eyes got wet.

I said, "I'm sorry, Melissa. I wish there She shot out of the chair and shook a finger at me. "If your job is to help me, why can't you help me now?" Stamping her foot.

"Because our sessions together have to end at a certain time.

"Why?"

"I think you know."

"Cause you have to see other kids?"

"Yes."

"What're their names?"

"I can't talk about that, Melissa. Remember?"

"How come they're more important than me?"

"They're not, Melissa. You're very important to me.

"Then why are you kicking me out?"

Before I could answer, she burst into tears and headed for the door to the waiting room. I followed her, wondering for the thousandth time about the sanctity of the three-quarter hour, the idolatry of the clock. But knowing, also, the importance of limits. For any child, but especially this one, who seemed to have so few. Who'd been sentenced to live out her formative years in the terrible, unbounded splendor of a fairy-tale world.

Nothing scarier than fairy tales When I got to the waiting room she was tugging at Hernandez's hand, crying and insisting, "Come on, Sabino!"

He stood, looking frightened and puzzled. When he saw me, puzzlement changed to suspicion.

I said, "She's a little upset. Please have her mother call me as soon as possible."