Blank look.

"Su madre," I said. "El telefono. I'll see her Monday at five.

Lunes.

Cinco."

"Okeh." He glared and squeezed his hat.

Melissa stamped her foot twice and said, "No way! I'm never coming back here! Never!"

Yanking at the rough brown hand. Hernandez stood and continued to study me. His eyes were watery and dark and had hardened, as if he were considering retribution.

I thought of all the protective layers surrounding this child, how ineffectual all of it was.

I said, "Goodbye, Melissa. See you Monday."

"No way!" She ran out.

Hernandez put on his hat and went after her.

I checked with my service at day's end. No messages from San Labrador.

I wondered how Hernandez had communicated what he'd seen.

Prepared myself for a cancellation of the Monday appointment. But no message to that effect came that evening or the next day. Maybe they wouldn't offer that courtesy to a plebe.

I phoned the Dickinson household and got Dutchy on the third ring.

"Hello, Doctor." That same formality, but no irritation.

"I'm calling to confirm Melissa's appointment on Monday."

"Monday," he said. "Yes, I have that. Five o'clock, correct?"

"That's it."

"Is there anything available earlier, by chance? The traffic from our side of "That's all I've got, Mr. Dutchy."

"Five it is, then. Thank you for calling, Doctor, and good eve "One second," I said. "There's something you need to know.

Melissa got upset today, left the office in tears."

"Oh? She seemed in fine spirits when she got home."

"Did she say anything to you about not wanting to come on Monday?"

"No. What was the trouble, Doctor?"

"Nothing serious. She wanted to stay past the appointed time, and when I told her she couldn't, she burst into tears."

"I see."

"She's used to having her way, isn't she, Mr. Dutchy?"

Silence.

I said, "I'm mentioning it because that may be part of the problem lack of limits. For a child it can be like drifting in the ocean without an anchor. Some changes in basic discipline may be in order."

"Doctor, I'm not in any position to "Of course, I forgot. Why don't you put Mrs. Dickinson on the phone right now and I'll discuss it with her."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Dickinson is indisposed."

"I can wait. Or call back, if you can let me know when she will be disposed."

Sigh. "Doctor, please. I'm not able to move mountains."

"I wasn't aware I was asking you to.

Silence. Throat clear.

I said, "Are you able to deliver a message?"

"Certainly."

"Tell Mrs. Dickinson this is an untenable situation. That although I have compassion for her situation, she's going to have to stop avoiding me if she wants me to treat Melissa.

"Dr. Delaware, please this is quite- You really mustn't give up on the child. She's so... such a good, smart little girl. It would be a terrible waste if "If what?"

"Please, Doctor."

"I'm trying to be patient, Mr. Dutchy, but I'm really having trouble understanding what the big deal is. I'm not asking Mrs. Dickinson to leave her house all I want to do is talk. I understand her situation I did my research. March 3, "69. Does she have a phobia of the telephone, too?"

Pause. "It's doctors. She had so many surgeries so much pain.

They kept taking her apart like a jigsaw puzzle and putting her back together again. I'm not denigrating the medical profession. Her surgeon was a magician. He nearly restored her. Externally. But inside... She just needs time, Dr. Delaware. Give me time. I'll get her to see how vital it is she contact you. But please be patient, sir.

My turn to sigh.

He said, "She's not without insight into her into the situation. But after what the woman's been through-" "She's afraid of doctors," I said. "Yet she met with Dr. Wagner."

"Yes," he said. "That was... a surprise. She doesn't cope well with surprises."

"Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?"

"Let's just say it was difficult for her."

"But she did it, Mr. Dutchy. And survived. That could be therapeutic in and of itself."

"Doctor-" "Is it because I'm a man? Would it be easier for her to deal with a female therapist?"

"No!" he said. "Absolutely not! It's not that at all."

"Just doctors," I said. "Of any gender."

"That's correct." Pause. "Please, Dr. Delaware"-his voice had softened- "please be patient."

"All right. But in the meantime someone's going to have to give me facts. Details. Melissa's developmental history. The family structure.

"You deem that absolutely necessary?"

"Yes. And it needs to be soon."

"All right," he said. "I'll fill you in. Within the limitations of my situation."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"Nothing nothing at all. I'll give you a comprehensive history.

"Tomorrow at noon," I said. "We'll have lunch.

"I don't generally have lunch, Doctor."

"Then you can watch me eat, Mr. Dutchy. You'll be doing most of the talking anyway.

I picked a place midway between the west side and his part of town, one I thought sufficiently conservative for his sensibilities: the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth near Witmer, just a few blocks west of downtown.

Dim rooms, polished mahogany paneling, red leather, linen napkins.

Lots of financial types and corporate attorneys and political backstagers eating prime beef and talking zoning variances, sports scores, supply and demand.

He'd arrived early and was waiting for me in a back booth, dressed in the same blue suit or its twin. As I approached he half-rose and gave a courtly bow.

I sat down, called for the waiter, and ordered Chivas straight up.

Dutchy asked for tea. We waited for the drinks without talking.

Despite his frosty demeanor he looked out of his element and slightly pitiable a nineteenth-century man transported to a distant, vulgar future he couldn't hope to comprehend.

Caught in an awkward position.

My ire had faded since yesterday and I'd pledged to avoid confrontation. So I started by telling him how much I appreciated his taking the time to see me. He said nothing and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Small talk was clearly out of the question. I wondered if anyone had ever called him by his first name.

The waiter brought the drinks. Dutchy regarded his tea with the inherently disapproving scrutiny of an English peer, finally raised his cup to his lips, sipped, and put it down quickly.

"Not hot enough?" I said.

"No, it's fine, sir."

"How long have you worked for the Dickinson family?"

"Twenty years.

"Long before the trial, then."

He nodded and raised his cup again but didn't put it to his lips.

"Being assigned to the jury was a stroke of fate not one that I welcomed, at first. I wanted to apply for exemption, but Mr. Dickinson preferred I serve. Said it was my civic duty. He was a civicminded man." His lip trembled.

"When did he die?"

"Seven and a half years ago."

Surprised, I said, "Before Melissa was born?"

"Mrs. Dickinson was expecting Melissa when it " He looked up, startled, and swung his head to the right. The waiter was approaching from that direction, bearing the blackboard. Imperious and well-spoken and black as coal; Dutchy's African cousin.

I chose the T-bone steak, bloody rare. Dutchy asked if the shrimp was fresh that day and when informed that it certainli was, ordered shrimp salad.

When the waiter left I said, "How old was Mr. Dickinson when he died?"

"Sixty-two."

"How did he die?"

"On the tennis court.

The lip trembled some more but the rest of his face remained impassive.

He fumbled with his teacup and tightened his mouth.

"Did your serving on the jury have anything to do with getting them together, Mr. Dutchy?"

Nod. "That's what I meant by a stroke of fate. Mr. Dickinson came with me to court. Sat in during the trial and was... entranced by her. He'd followed the case in the papers before I was impaneled.

Had commented several times over his morning paper on the profoundness of the tragedy."

"Had he known Mrs. Dickinson before the attack?"

"No, not in the least. His concern, in the beginning, was thematic.

And he was a kind man."

I said, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by thematic."

"Grief for beauty lost," he said, like a teacher announcing an essay theme. "Mr. Dickinson was a great aesthete. A conservationist and a preservationist. He'd spent much of his life dedicated to be I utifying his world, and was terribly hurt by the degradation of beauty.

However, he never allowed his concern to cross ethical bounds. When I was selected for the jury he said he'd be accompanying me to court but that both of us needed to be quite scrupulous about not discussing the case. He was also an honest man, Dr. Delaware. Diogenes would have rejoiced."

"An aesthete," I said. "What kind of business was he in?"

He looked down his nose at me. "I'm referring to Mr. Arthur Dickinson, sir."

Once more, no bells. This guy had a way of making me feel like a D student. Rather than come across a complete philistine, I said, "Of course. The philanthropist."

He continued to stare at me.

I said, "So how did the two of them finally meet?"

"The trial intensified Mr. Dickinson's concern hearing her testimony, seeing her face bandaged. He visited her in the hospital.

As chance had it, he'd been a benefactor of the very surgical wing in which she'd been placed. He conferred with the doctors and made sure she was receiving the very best care. Brought in the top man in the plastics field Professor Albano Montecino from Brazil, a true genius.

The man had done pioneering work in facial construction.

Mr. Dickinson arranged for him to obtain medical privileges and exclusive use of an operating room.

Sweat had glossed Dutchy's brow. He pulled out a handkerchief and patted.

"Such pain," he said, facing me squarely. "Seventeen separate surgeries, Doctor. Someone with your background can appreciate what that means. Seventeen invasions each one excruciating.

Months of recuperation, long stretches of immobility. You can understand why she's taken to solitude."

I nodded and said, "Were the operations successful?"

"Professor Montecino was pleased, pronounced her one of his grand triumphs."

"Does she agree with him?"

Disapproving look. "I'm not privy to her opinions, Doctor.

"Over how long a period was she operated on?"

"Five years.

I did some mental calculations. "So she was pregnant during part of it."

"Yes, well... the pregnancy interrupted the surgical process tissue changes brought about by hormones, physical risks. Professor Montecino said she'd have to wait and be monitored closely. He even suggested.

.. termination. But she refused."

"Was the pregnancy planned?"

Dutchy blinked hard and drew back his head the turtle once more as if unable to believe what he'd heard. "Good Lord, sir, I don't pry into the motivations of my employers."

I said, "Excuse me if I wander into uncharted territory from time to time, Mr. Dutchy. I'm just trying to get as full a background as possible. For Melissa's sake."

He harrumphed. "Shall we talk about Melissa, then?"

"All right. She's told me quite a bit about her fears. Why don't you give me your impressions."

"My impressions?"

"Your observations."

"My observations are that she's a terribly frightened little girl.

Everything frightens her."

"Such as?"

He thought for a moment. "Loud noises, for one. They can literally make her jump. Even those that aren't very loud at times it seems to be the suddenness of it that sets her off. A tree rustling or footsteps or even music has the ability to put her in a crying fit.

The doorbell. It seems to occur when she's been in a period of unusual calm."

"Sitting by herself, daydreaming?"

"Yes. She daydreams a lot. Talks to herself." Closing his mouth, wanting a comment from me.

I said, "What about bright lights? Have they ever scared her?"

"Yes," he said, surprised. "Yes, they have. I can recall a specific incident, several months ago. One of the maids purchased a camera with a flashbulb and was traipsing around the house trying it out."

Another disapproving look. "She surprised Melissa as the child ate breakfast and snapped a picture. The sound and sight of the bulb going off distressed Melissa greatly."

"Distressed her in what way?"

"Tears, screaming, breakfast rejected. She even started hyperventilating. I had her breathe into a paper bag until her respiration returned to normal."

"Shift in arousal," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Pardon me, Doctor?"

"Sudden changes in arousal in her psychophysiologic level of consciousness seem to bother her."

"Yes, I suppose they do. What can be done about that?"

I held out my hand in a restraining gesture. "She told me she has bad dreams every night."

"That's true," he said. "Often more than once a night."

"Describe what she does while she's having them."

"I can't say, Doctor. When they occur she's with her moth I frowned.

He caught himself. "However, I do recall observing a few incidents.

She cries a tot. Cries and screams. Thrashes around and fights comfort, refusing to go back to sleep."

"Thrashes around," I said. "Does she ever talk about what she saw in the dream?"

"At times."

"But not always?"

"No."

"When she does, are there any consistent themes?"

"Monsters, ghosts, that kind of thing. I don't really pay much mind.

My efforts are concentrated on getting her settted."

"One thing you can do in the future," I said, "is pay close mind.

Keep a written record of what she says during these incidents and bring it in to me." I realized I sounded imperious. Wanting to make him the D student. Power struggle with a butler?

But he was comfortable with the subservient role, said "Very well, sir," and raised his teacup to his lips.

I said, "Does she seem completely awake after having a nightmare?"

"No, she doesn't," he said. "Not always. Sometimes she sits up with a horrid, frozen look on her little face, screaming inconsolably and waving her hands. We I try to wake her but it's impossible.

She's even gotten out of her bed and walked around, still screaming, impossible to wake. We just wait until it subsides, then return her to bed."

"To her own bed?"

"No. Her mothers.

"She never sleeps in her own bed?"

Shake of the head. "No, she sleeps with her mother."

"Okay," I said. "Let's get back to those times when she can't be awakened. Does she scream about anything in particular?"

"No, there are no words. Just a terrible. howling." Wince.

"It's realty quite disturbing."

"You're describing something called night terrors," I said.

"They're not nightmares, which take place as do all dreams during light sleep. Night terrors occur when the sleeper arouses too quickly from deep steep. Rudely awakened, so to speak. It's a disorder of arousal, related to sleepwalking and bed-wetting. Does she wet the bed?"

"Occasionally."

"How often?"

"Four or five times a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more.

"Have you done anything about it?"

Shake of the head.

"Does it bother her that she wets the bed?"

"On the contrary," he said. "She seems rather casual about it."

"So you have talked to her about it."

"Only to tell her once or twice that young ladies need to be careful about their personal hygiene. She ignored me and I didn't pursue it."

"How does her mother feel? How does her mother react to the wetting?"

"She has the sheets changed."

"It's her bed being wet. That doesn't bother her?"

"Apparently not. Doctor, what do these attacks these terrors mean?

Medically speaking?"

"There's probably a genetic component involved," I said.

"Night terrors run in families. So do bed-wetting and sleepwalking.

All of it probably has something to do with brain chemistry."

He looked worried.

I said, "But they aren't dangerous, just disruptive. And they usually go away by themselves, without treatment, by adolescence."

"Ah," he said. "So time is on our side."

"Yes, it is. But that doesn't mean we should ignore them. They can be treated. And they're also a warning sign there's more than just pure biology involved. Stress often increases the number of attacks and prolongs them. She's telling us she's troubled, Mr. Dutchy. Telling us with her other symptoms, as welt."

"Yes, of course."

The waiter arrived with the food. We ate in silence, and though Dutchy had said he didn't take lunch, he consumed his shrimp with genteel fervor.

When we finished I ordered a double espresso and he had his teapot refilled.

After finishing my coffee, I said, "Getting back to the genetic Issue, are there any other children from a previous marriage?"

"No. Though there was a previous marriage. For Mr. Dickinson.

But no children."

"What happened to the first Mrs. Dickinson?"

He looked annoyed. "She died of leukemia a fine young woman. The marriage had only tasted two years. It was very difficult for Mr. Dickinson. That's when he plunged himself more deeply into his art collection."

"What did he collect?"

"Paintings, drawings and etchings, antiquities, tapestries. He had an exceptional eye for composition and color, sought out damaged masterpieces and had them restored. Some he restored himself-he'd learned the craft as a student. That was his true passion restoration."

I thought of him restoring his second wife. As if he'd read my mind, Dutchy gave me a sharp look.

"What else," I said, "besides loud noises and bright lights, is Melissa afraid of?"

"The darkness. Being alone. And at times, nothing at all."

"What do you mean?"

"She'll throw a fit with no provocation."

"What does "a fit' look like?"

"Very similar to what I've already described. Crying, rapid breathing, running around screaming. Sometimes she'll simply tie on the floor and kick her feet. Or clutch the nearest adult and hold on like a... a limpet."

"Do these fits generally occur after she's been refused something?"

"Not typically there is that, of course. She doesn't take kindly to being restricted. What child does?"

"So she has tantrums, but these fits go beyond that."

"I'm referring to genuine fear: Doctor. Panic. It seems to come out of nowhere."

"Does she ever say what's scaring her?"

"Monsters. "Bad things." Sometimes she claims to hear noises.

Or see and hear things."

"Things no one else hears or sees?"

"Yes." Tremble in his voice.

I said, "Does that bother you? More than the other symptoms?"

"One does wonder," he said softly.

"If you're worried about psychosis or some sort of thought disorder, don't. Unless there's something else going on that you haven't told me. Like self-destructive behavior, or bizarre speech."

"No, no, nothing like that," he said. "I suppose it's all part of her imagination?"

"That's exactly what it is. She's got a good one, but from what I've seen, she's very much in touch with reality. Children her age typically see and hear things that adults don't."

He looked doubtful.

I said, "It's all part of play. Play is fantasy. The theater of childhood. Kids compose dramas in their heads, talk to imaginary playmates. It's a kind of self-hypnosis that's necessary for healthy growth."

He remained noncommittal, but was listening.

I said, "Fantasy can be therapeutic, ML Dutchy. Can actually reduce fears by giving children a sense of control over their lives. But for certain children those who are high-strung, introverted, those living in stressful environments that same ability to paint mental pictures can lead to anxiety. The pictures simply become too vivid.

Once again, there may be a constitutional factor. You said her father was an excellent art restorer. Did he show any other sort of creativity?"

"Most definitely. He was an architect by trade and a gifted painter in his own right when he was younger."

"Why'd he stop?"

"He convinced himself he wasn't good enough to justify devoting much time to it, destroyed all his work, never painted again, and began collecting. Traveling the world. His architecture degree was from the Sorbonne he loved Europe. He built some lovely buildings before he invented the strut."

"The strut?"

"Yes," he said, as if explaining the ABC's. "The Dickinson strut.

It's a process for strengthening steel, used extensively in construction."

"What about Mrs. Dickinson?" I said. "She was an actress. Any other creative outlets there?"

"I have no idea, Doctor."

"How long has she been agoraphobic afraid to leave the house?"

"She leaves the house," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. She strolls the grounds."

"Does she ever leave the grounds?"

"No."

"How large are the grounds?"

"Six and three-quarter acres. Approximately."

"Does she stroll them extensively from corner to corner?"

Throat clear. Cheek chew. "She prefers to remain fairly close to the house. Is there anything else, Doctor?"

My initial question remained unanswered; he'd nit-picked his way out of giving a direct reply. "How long has she been that way not leaving the grounds?"

"From the... beginning."

"From the time of the attack?"

"Yes, yes. It's quite logical, really, when one understands the chain of events. When Mr. Dickinson brought her home right after the wedding, she was in the midst of the surgical process. In great agony, still very frightened traumatized by the... by what had been done to her. She never left her room, on Professor Montecino's orders she was ordered to lie still for hours at a time. The new flesh had to be kept extremely supple and clean. Special air filters were brought in to remove particles that might pollute her. Nurses hovered around the clock with treatments and injections and lotions and baths that made her cry out in terrible pain. She couldn't have left even if she'd wanted to. Then, the pregnancy. She was restricted to total bed rest, bandaged and unbandaged constantly. Four months into the pregnancy, Mr. Dickinson... passed on, and she... It was a safe place for her. She couldn't leave. Surely that's obvious. So in a sense it's completely logical, isn't it? The way she is. She's gravitated to her safe place. You see that, don't you, Doctor?"

"I do. But the challenge now is to find out what's safe for Melissa.

"Yes," he said. "Of course." Avoiding my glance.

I called the waiter over and ordered another espresso. When it arrived, along with more hot water for Dutchy, he wrapped his hands around his teacup but didn't drink. As I took a sip he said, "Forgive my presumption, Doctor, but what, in your educated opinion, is the prognosis? For Melissa."

"Given family cooperation, I'd say good. She's motivated and bright and has a lot of insight for someone her age. But it's going to take time."

"Yes, of course. Doesn't anything worthwhile?"

Suddenly he pressed forward, hands flapping, fingers wiggling.

An odd bit of fluster for such a staid man. I smelled bay rum and shrimp. For a moment I thought he was going to grab my fingers. But he stopped himself abruptly, as if at an electrified fence.

"Please help her, Doctor. I pledge everything in my power to aid your treatment.

His hands were still in the air. He noticed it and gave a look of chagrin. Ten fingers plummeted to the table like gun-shot ducks.

"You're very devoted to this family," I said.

He winced and looked away, as if I'd exposed some secret vice.

"As long as she comes in, I'll treat her, Mr. Dutchy. What you can do to help is tell me everything I need to know."

"Yes, of course. Is there something else?"

"McCloskey. What does she know about him?"

"Nothing!"

"She mentioned his name."

"That's all he is to her a name. Children hear things."

"Yes, they do. And she's heard plenty-she knows he attacked her mother with acid because he didn't like her. What else has she been told about him?"

"Nothing. Truly. As I said, children overhear but he's not a topic of conversation in our household."

"Mr. Dutchy, in lieu of accurate information, children make up their own facts. It would be best for Melissa to understand what happened to her mother."

His knuckles were white around the cup. "What are you suggesting, sir?"

"That someone sit down and talk with Melissa. Explain to her why McCloskey had Mrs. Dickinson attacked."

He relaxed conspicuously. "Explain why. Yes, yes, I can see your point. There's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"Nobody knows why. The bastard never let on and nobody knows.

Now if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I really must be going."

On Monday, Melissa was in a great mood, cooperative and polite, no more testing of limits, no remnants of the last session's power struggle.

But reserved, less eager to talk. Asking if she could draw instead.

The typical new patient.

As if all that had happened till now had been some kind of probation and this was the real beginning.

She started with the same kind of benign productions she'd presented to me during our first session, then progressed quickly to deeper pigments, sunless skies, patches of gray, foreboding images.

She sketched sad-looking animals, anemic gardens, forlorn children in static poses, flitting from subject to subject. But by the second half of the session she found a theme that she stayed with: a series of houses without doors or windows. Bulky, drunkenly listing, visceroid structures fashioned of painstakingly rendered stone and set amidst groves of skeletal trees under a gloomy, crosshatched sky.

Several sheets later she added gray shapes approaching the houses.

Gray that turned to black, and became human. Men-shapes wearing hats and long coats and bearing lumpy sacks.

Drawing with such fury that she ripped the paper. Starting over.

Pencils and crayons diminished to nubs, consumed like kindling. Every finished product was shredded with glee. She worked that way for three weeks straight. Leaving the office without comment, at session's end, marching like a little soldier.

By the fourth week she began to round out the last ten or fifteen minutes with silent stretches of game playing: Chutes and Ladders, Crazy Eights, Go Fish. No conversation. Competing with great determination and little apparent pleasure.

Sometimes Dutchy brought her to the office, but increasingly it was Hernandez, who still regarded me with a jaundiced eye. Then other chaperons began to appear: a series of dark, lean youths young men who smelled of work-sweat and looked so alike that, in my mind, they became interchangeable. I learned from Melissa they were Hernandez's five sons.

Alternating with them was a big, doughy woman about Dutchy's age with tightly braided hair and cheeks like wind-bellows.

The owner of the deep Gallic voice. Madeleine, the cook/maid.

Invariably, she arrived sweating and looking fatigued.

All of them slipped away the moment Melissa stepped over the threshold, returning to pick her up precisely at session's end. Their punctuality and avoidance of eye contact-smacked of Dutchy's tutelage. Dutchy, the few times he showed up, was the most adroit at escape, not even stepping into the waiting room. No follow-up on my request to collect data. I should have been resentful.

But as time went on, it bothered me less and less.

Because Melissa seemed to be getting better. Without him.

Without any of them. Ten weeks since therapy had started and she was a different child, unburdened, conspicuously calm, no more kneading, no more pacing. Allowing herself to smile. Loosening up as she played.

Laughing at my repertoire of grade-school jokes. Acting like a kid.

And though she continued to resist talking about her fears about anything substantive her drawings had become less frantic, the sack-men were vanishing. Windows and doors sprouted like buds on the stone faces of houses that now stood plumb-straight.

Drawings that she preserved and presented to me with pride.

Progress? Or just a seven-year-old putting on a happy face for her therapist's sake?

Knowing what she was like outside the office would have helped my assessment. But those who could tell me shunned me as if I were a virus.

Even Eileen Wagner was out of the picture. I'd phoned her office several times and gotten her answering service, despite being careful to call during business hours. Slow practice, I supposed. She was probably moonlighting to make ends meet.

I called the Medical Staff Office at Western Pediatrics to find out if she had another job. They had nothing else listed. I phoned her office again, left messages that went unanswered.

Strange, considering the dedication she'd shown in arranging the referral, but everything related to this case smacked of strange, and I'd gotten used to it.

Remembering what Eileen had told me about Melissa's fulminating school phobia, I asked Melissa the name of her school, looked up the number, and called it. Presenting myself as her doctor and not clarifying when the clerk assumed pediatrician, I asked to speak with Melissa's teacher a Mrs. Vera Adler, who confirmed that Melissa had missed a good deal of school early in the semester but since then her attendance had been perfect and her "social life" seemed better.

"Was she having social problems, Mrs. Adler?"

"I wouldn't say that, no. I mean, she was never a problem of any sort, Doctor. But she wasn't the most outgoing child kind of shy.

Off in her own world. Now she mixes more. Was she ill before, Doctor?"

"Just the usual stuff," I said. "Just following up.

"Well, she's doing fine. We were starting to worry, she was absent so much, but she's fine now. A very nice, extremely bright little girl she tests out on the Iowa at the ninety-ninth percentile.

We're so glad she's gotten adjusted I thanked her and hung up, heartened. Said to hell with the grown-ups and continued to do my job.

By the fourth month of treatment, Melissa was treating the office as if it were a second home. Sauntering in smiling, making a beeline for the drawing table. She knew every cranny, could tell when a book had been moved from its usual place, was quick to put it back.

Restoring. Showing an unusual eye for derail that jibed with the perceptual sensitivity Dutchy had described.

A child whose senses ran on full throttle. For her, life would never be boring. Could it ever be tranquil?

As the fifth month began she announced she was ready to talk again.

Informing me that she wanted to be a team just like I'd said at the beginning. - I "Sure. What would you like to work on?"

"The dark."

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to muster every kernel of wisdom I'd gathered since grad school. First I taught her to recognize the physical warning signs of anxiety how she ftlt when the fear came on.

Then I trained her in deep relaxation that evolved into full-blown hypnosis because of her ease at drifting into imagery. She learned selfhypnosis in a single session, could sink into trance within seconds. I supplied her with finger signals she could use to communicate while under, and finally began the desensitization process.

Seating her in a chair, I told her to close her eyes and imagine herself sitting in the dark. A dark room. Watching as her body grew taut and her index finger popped up, I warded off the tension with suggestions of deep calm and well-being. When she'd relaxed once more, I had her return to the dark room. On/off, over and over again, until she could tolerate the image. After a week or so, she'd mastered the imaginary darkness and was ready to tackle the real enemy.

I drew the outer office drapes and manipulated the light-switch rheostat, getting her accustomed to gradually increasing dimness.

Stretching the time that she sat in partial darkness and reacting to evidence of tension with instructions for deeper and deeper relaxation.

Eleven sessions into the treatment, I was able to pull the blackout drapes closed, plunging both of us into total darkness.

Counting the seconds out loud and homing in on the sound of her breathing. Ready to move in at the merest catch or quickening, determined she'd never experience prolonged anxiety.

Rewarding each success with high praise and low art cheap plastic toys that I bought in bulk at the five-and-dime. They thrilled her.

By the end of the month, she could sit in blackness which sometimes made me lose my balance for an entire session, free of tension, chatting about school.

Soon, she was as nocturnal as a bat. I suggested it might be a good time to work on her sleep. She smiled and agreed.

I was especially eager, because this was my bailiwick. During my internship I'd been presented with several cases of children with chronic night terrors and had been impressed with the level of disruption the episodes caused in kids and their families. But none of the psychologists or psychiatrists at the hospital knew how to treat the disorder. Officially, there was no treatment other than tranquilizers and sedatives whose effects were unpredictable in children.

I went to the hospital library, chased down references, found plenty of theory but nothing about treatment. Frustrated, I sat for a long time thinking and decided to try something outlandish: operant conditioning.

Bald behavior therapy. Reward the children for not having terrors and see what happened.

Simple-minded-almost crude. Theoretically, it made no sense. As the senior staff was quick to inform me over their fuming pipes. How could unconscious behavior-arousal from profoundly deep sleep-be consciously manipulated? What could voluntary conditioning accomplish in the face of hard-wired deviance?

But research had emerged recently that suggested greater voluntary control over body function than had ever been imagined: patients learning how to raise and lower skin temperature and blood pressure, even mask severe pain. At Psychiatric Case Conference, I asked for permission to try to decondition night terrors, arguing that there was nothing to lose. A lot of head-shaking and words of discouragement, but consent was granted.

It worked. All my patients got better and stayed better. The senior staff started implementing my plan with their patients and achieved similar results. The chief psychologist told me to write it up for a scientific journal, listing him as co-author. I sent the article in, overcame skeptical reviewers with columns of numbers and statistical rests, and got published. Within a year other therapists had begun to replicate my findings. I received requests for reprints and phone calls from all over the world, was asked to give lectures.

Had been doing just that the day Eileen Wagner had approached. It was the lecture that had led me to Melissa.

And now Melissa was ready to be treated by the expert. But there was a problem: The technique-my technique-depended upon family cooperation.

Someone needed to monitor the patient's sleep pattern precisely.

I buttonholed Dutchy on a Friday afternoon, before he had a chance to dash away. He gave a resigned look and said, "What is it, Doctor?"

I handed him a pad of graph paper and two sharpened pencils and, adopting the demeanor of a full professor, gave him his orders: Before bedtime, Melissa was to practice relaxation. He wasn't to badger or remind her; it would be her responsibility I His job was to record the occurrence and frequency of night terrors. Nights without terrors were to be rewarded the following morning with one of the trinkets she seemed to love so much. Nights following terrors were not to be commented on.

"But, Doctor," he said, "she's not having them."

"Not having what?"

"The terrors. Her sleep's been perfectly calm for weeks. The bed-wetting's also ceased."

I looked over at Melissa. She'd stepped behind him. Half a small face peeked out. Enough for me to see the smile.

Pure joy. Reveling in her secret, as if it were confection.

That made sense. The way she'd been brought up, secrets were the coin of the realm.

"The change has really been quite remarkable," Dutchy was saying.

"That's why I didn't feel it was necessary to-" I said, "I'm really proud of you, Melissa."

"I'm proud of you, Dr. Delaware," she said, starting to giggle.

"We're an excellent team."

She continued to get better more rapidly than science could explain.

Leapfrogging over my clinical games plans.

Healing herself Magic, one of my wiser supervisors had once said.

Sometimes they Yl get better and you won't know why Befrre you've even started doing what you think is so goddam clever and hotshot scientific. Don't fight it. Just put it down to magic. It's as good an explanation as any.

She made me feel magical.

We never got into the topics I'd thought essential to explore: death, injury, loneliness. A Mikoksi with acid.

Despite the frequency of sessions, her chart was thin I had very little to record. I began to wonder if I was functioning as anything more than a high-priced babysitter, told myself there were worse things to be. And, faced with the onslaught of difficult cases that seemed to grow each month as my practice burgeoned, I was thankful for the chance to be passive and magical for forty-five minutes a day, three times a week.

After eight months she informed me that all her fears were gone.

Risking her wrath, I suggested reducing our time together to two sessions a week. She agreed so readily that I knew she'd been thinking the same thing.

Nevertheless, I expected a few backward steps as the loss sank in and she attempted to buy herself time and attention. It never happened, and at year's end she was down to one session per week. The quality of the sessions changed, too. More casual. Lots of gameplaying, no drama.

Therapy winding itself down. Triumph. I thought Eileen Wagner would like to know, made one more attempt to reach her, got a disconnected-number recording. Called the hospital and learned she'd closed her practice, resigned from the staff, left no forwarding address.

Puzzling. But she wasn't my concern. And one less report to write wasn't something I'd mourn.

For such a complicated case, it had turned out surprisingly simple.

Patient and doctor, slaying demons.

What could be purer?

The checks from Fiduciary First Trust kept coming, three figures at a shot.

The week of her ninth birthday, she arrived with a gift. I had none for her had decided long ago never to buy patients anything.

But she didn't seem to mind and glowed from the act of giving.

A gift too big for her to carry. Sabino brought it into my office.

Massive basket of crepe-paper-wrapped fruit, cheeses, wine samples, tins of caviar, smoked oysters and trout, chestnut paste, jars of preserves and compotes, from a gourmet shop in Pasadena.

Inside was a card.

TO DOCTOR DELAWARE, LOVE, MELISSA D.

On the reverse side was a drawing of a house. The best she'd ever done-carefully shaded, lots of windows and doors.

"This is beautiful, Melissa. Thank you very much."

"Welcome." Smiling, but her eyes had filled with tears.

"What's the matter, lion?"

"I want.

She turned around and faced one of the bookcases, hugging herself.

"What is it, Melissa?"

"I want... It's time maybe. to for no more.

She trailed off into silence. Shrugged. Kneaded her hands.

"Are you saying you want to stop coming for sessions?"

Multiple rapid nods.

"There's nothing wrong with that, Melissa. You've done great.

I'm really proud of you. So if you want to try it on your own, I understand and I think it's terrific. And you don't have to worry-I'll always be here if you need me."

She whipped around and faced me.

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

"I think you are, too. And don't worry about hurting my feelings."

She started to cry.

I went to her, hugged her. She put her head against my chest and sobbed.

"I know it's hard," I said. "You're worried about hurting my feelings.

Probably been worried about that for a long time."

Wet nods.

"That's very kind of you, Melissa. I appreciate your caring about my feelings. But don't worry I'm fine. Sure, I'll miss seeing you, but I'll always keep you in my mind. And just because you stop coming for regular sessions doesn't mean we can't stay in touch. Over the phone.

Or by writing letters. You can even come in to see me when there's nothing bothering you. Just to say hi."

"Do other patients do that?"

"Sure."

"What're their names?"

Smiling mischievously.

We both laughed.

I said, "The thing that's most important to me, Melissa, is how well you've done. How you've taken charge over your fears. I'm really impressed."

"I really feel I can handle things," she said, drying her eyes.

"I'm sure you can.

"I can," she repeated, looking over at the big basket. "Have you ever had chestnut paste? It's kind of weird doesn't taste like roasted chestnuts at all.

The following week, I phoned her. Dutchy answered. I asked how she was doing. He said, "Very welt indeed, Doctor. Let me get her for you." I couldn't be sure, but I thought he sounded friendly.

Melissa came on the line, polite but distant. Letting me know she was okay, would call me if she needed to come in. She never did.

I called a couple of more times. She sounded distracted and eager to get off the phone.

A few weeks later I was doing my books, reached her ledger sheet, and realized I'd been paid in advance for ten sessions I hadn't conducted.

I wrote out a check and mailed it to San Labrador. The next day a manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was my check, in three neatly torn pieces, along with a sheet of scented stationery.

Dear Dr. Delaware, l I 'ith much gratitude I FaithAill) ) I urs, Gina Dickinson Same fine graceful hand she'd used to promise me, two years ago, that she'd be in touch.

I wrote another check for exactly the same amount, made it out to Western Pediatrics Toy Fund, went down to the lobby, and posted it.

Knowing I was doing it for myself as much as for the kids who'd get the toys, and telling myself I had no damn right to feel noble.

Then I took the elevator back up to my office and got ready for my next patient.

It was one in the morning when I put the file away. Reminiscing was strenuous exercise, and fatigue had enveloped me. I hobbled to bed, slept fitfully, did a good impression of waking at seven, and marched into the shower. A few minutes after I'd dressed, the bell rang. I went to the door and opened it.

Milo stood out on the terrace, hands in his pockets, wearing a yellow golf shirt with two wide horizontal green stripes, tan chinos, and high-top basketball shoes that had once been white. His black hair was longer than I'd ever seen it, the forelock completely hiding the brow, the sideburns nearly at jaw level. His pocked, lumpy face was flecked with three days' worth of patchy beard and his green eyes seemed filmed over the normally startling hue dulled to the color of very old grass.

He said, "The good news is at least now you lock it. The bad news is you open it without checking to see who the hell's out there."

"What makes you think I didn't check?" I said, standing aside and letting him in.

"Latency of response from final footstep to latch-turn. Powers of detection." He tapped his temple and headed straight for the kitchen.

"Good morning, Detective. Leisure becomes you.

He grunted and didn't break step.

I said, "What's up?"

"What should be up?" he called back, face already in the fridge.

Another bona fide random drop-in. They were growing more frequent.

Terminal doldrums.

Halfway into his punishment six months' suspension from the force without pay. The most the department could hand out short of canning him. The department hoping he'd learn to enjoy civilian life and never come back. The department deluding itself.

He scrounged for a while, found rye bread, lox spread, and milk, located a knife and a plate, and began preparing himself some breakfast.

"What are you staring at?" he said. "Never seen a guy cook before?"

I went to get dressed. When I came back he was standing at the counter, eating spread on toast and drinking milk out of the carton.

He'd put on more weight his belly approached sumo-status, meloning the nylon shirt.

"Got a busy day planned?" he said. "Thought we might go down to Rancho and shoot some golf balls."

"Didn't know you golfed."

"I don't. But a guy needs a hobby, right?"

"Sorry, I'm working this morning."

"Oh, yeah? Need me to leave?"

"No, not patients. I'm doing some writing."

"Ahh," he said, giving a dismissing wave. "I meant real work."

"It's real work for me."

"What, the old blockaroo?"

I nodded.

He said, "Want me to do it for you?"

"Do what?"

"Write your paper.

"Right."

"No, I'm serious. Scribbling always came easy for me. That's why I went as far as the master's God knows it wasn't all the academic shit they shoved at me. Not much flair to my prose, but it was... workmanlike, if a bitpeaestrian. In the words of my former academic adviser."

He crunched toast. Crumbs cascaded down his shirtfront. He made no effort to brush them ofo I said, "Thanks, Milo, but I'm not ready for aghostwriter yet." I went to make coffee.

"Whatsamatter?" he said with a full mouth. "Don't trust me?"

"This is scientific writing. The Hate shooting for a psych journal."

"So?"

"So we're talking dry. Maybe a hundred pages of dry."

"Big deal," he said. "No worse than your basic homicide file."

He used a crescent of rye crust to tick his fingers: "Roman Numeral One: Synopsis of Crime. Roman Numeral Two: Chronological Narrative.

Roman Numeral Three: Victim Information. Roman "I get the point."

He shoved the crust in his mouth. "The key to excellent report writing," he said between chews, "is to take every bit of passion out of it. Use an extra heaping portion of superfluously extraneous tautological redundancies in order to make it mind-numbingly boring.

So that when one's superior officers read it, they zone out and start skimming and maybe don't notice the fact that one has been spinning one's wheels since the body turned up and hasn't solved a goddam thing.

Now tell me, is that so different from what you're doing?"

I laughed. "Up till now I've been telling myself I was after the truth. Thanks for setting me straight."

"No problem. It's my job."

"Speaking of job, how'd it go downtown?"

He gave a very long, very dark look. "More of the same. Desk jockeys with smiting faces. This time they brought in the department shrink."

"Thought you refused counseling."

"They got around it by calling it a stress evaluation. Terms of the penalty read the small print."

He shook his head. "All those greasy-faced fuckers talking real softly and slowly, as if I was senile. Inquiring about my adjustment.

My stress level. Sharing their concern. Ever notice how people who talk about sharing never really do? They were also careful to let me know that all my medical bills had been picked up by the department therefore the department had received copies of all my lab tests and there was some concern over my cholesterol level, triglycerides, whatever. Was I really feeling up to returning to active duty?"

He scowled. "What a bunch of princes, huh? I smiled back and said it was funny how they never gave a shit about my stress level or triglycerides when I was out there doing the job."

"How'd they react to that bit of charm?"

"More smiles, then this greasy silence you could deep-fry potatoes in.

Mind-tripping. No doubt the asshole shrink prepped them-no offense.

But that's the military mind: Destroy the individual."

He looked at the milk carton, said, "Ah, low-fat. That's good.

Here's to triglycerides."

I filled the coffee-maker carafe with water, spooned Kenyan into the hatch.

"Give the assholes one thing," he said. "They're getting more assertive. This time they came right out and talked pension. Dollars and cents. Actuarial tables, how much more it added up to when you threw in the interest I could earn if I invested wisely. How nice life could be with what I had coming after fourteen years. When I didn't slaver and snap, they dropped the carrot and picked up the stick, started hinting around about how the pension was by no means a foregone conclusion, given the circumstances. Blah blah blah. How timing was of the essence. Blah blah blah."

He started to work on another piece of bread.

I said, "Bottom line?"

"I let them blah on for a while, then got up, said I had a pressing engagement, and left."

"Well," I said, "if you ever do decide to quit, there's always the diplomatic corps."

"Hey," he said, "I've had it to here." Running a finger across his throat. "Give me the half-year boot, okay. Take my gun and shield and pay, okay. But just let me do my time in peace and quiet, and cool it with the fucking follow-ups. All that phony sensitivity."

He drank and ate. "Course, guess I can't expect much better, given the circumstances." He smiled.

"A-plus in reality testing, Milo."

He said, "Assaulting a superior officer." Bigger smile. "Has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

"You forgot the crucial part. On TV" He grinned, started to drink more milk but was smiting too broadly and lowered the carton. "What the hell, this is the media age, right? The chief wears pancake when he plays meet-the-press. I gave them some soundbites they'll never forget."

"That you did. What's the situation with Frisk?"

"Word has it his cute little nose has healed quite nicety. The new teeth look almost as good as the old ones amazing what they can do with plastic nowadays, huh? But he is gonna look a little different.

Less Tom Selleck, more... Karl Maiden. Which isn't bad for a superior officer, right? That shopworn look implied wisdom and experience."

"He back on duty?"

"Nooo. Seems Kenny-poo's stress level is still pretty high, he's taking a long recuperation. But he'll be back, eventually. Kicked upstairs, where he can screw up on a higher level and do systematic damage."

"He's the assistant chief's son-in-law, Milo. You're lucky to still be on the force."

He put down the carton and glared. "Don't you think if they could have shafted me, they would have? They're in a one-down position and they know it that's why they're going the weasel route.

He slammed his big hand down on the counter. "Asshole used me for fucking bait. The lawyer Rick had me talk to told me I had grounds for a major-league civil suit, could have taken it to the papers and kept it there for months. He would have loved it the shyster.

Big contingency fee. Rick wanted me to do it, too. On principle. But I refused because that wasn't what it was about bunch of goddam shysters quibbling about technicalities for ten years. This was one-onone; it needed to be handled one-on-one. Going the TV route was my extra insurance couple of million witnesses, so no one could say it didn't happen the way it did. That's why I hit him after he said what a great hero I was and gave me the commendation. So no one could say it was sour grapes. The department owes me, Alex. They should be grateful all I did was mess up his face. And if Frisk is smart, he'll be grateful, too stay out of my face. Permanently. Fuck his family connections. He's lucky I didn't rip his lungs out and toss them at the cameras.

His eyes had cleared and his complexion had deepened to hot pink. With his hair over his forehead and thick lips, he resembled a disgruntled gorilla.

I applauded.

He rose a few inches, stared at me, then started laughing. "Ah, nothing like adrenaline to make the day take on a rosy glow. Sure you don't want to golf?"

"Sorry. I really have to get the paper done and there's a patient coming at noon. And, frankly, knocking balls around the green isn't my idea of recreation, Milo."

"I know, I know," he said. "No aerobic benefit. Bet your triglycerides are just peachy."

I shrugged. The coffee was done. I poured two cups, gave one to him.

"So," I said, "what else have you been doing to fill the time?"

He gave an expansive gesture and put on a brogue: "Oh, it's been just grand, lad. Needlepoint, papier-mache', decoupage, crocheting. Little schooners and yachts made of ice-cream sticks and glitter there's a wonderful world ofcrafrs out there just waiting to be explored." He drank coffee. "It's been shit. Worse than a desk job. At first I thought I'd get into gardening grab some sun, a little exercise. Back to the earth to my roots, praise Hibernia."

"Planning to grow potatoes?"

He chuckled. "Planning to raise anything I could, other than hell.

Only problem was, Rick brought in this landscape designer last year, redid the whole yard with all this southwestern shit cactus, succulents, low-moisture ground cover. So we could cut our water usage, be ecologically sound. So much for Farmer Spud. So okay, scratch that, I figured I'd tinker around the house fix everything that needed fixing. I used to be handy when I worked construction in college I learned all the trades. And when I lived by myself I used to do all of it: plumbing, wiring, whatever. The landlord loved me.

Only problem with that plan is, there's nothing to fix. I hadn't been around the house long enough to realize it, but after nagging me for a year or so, Rick finally took care of everything. Seems he found this handyman fellow from Fiji, former patient. Cut himself with a power saw, nearly lost a couple of fingers. Rick sewed him up in the E.R saved the fingers, and purchased eternal gratitude: The guy works for us basically for free, on call twenty-four hours a day. So unless he slips with the saw again, my expertise is not in demand.

Scratch Mr. Fixit. What does that leave? Shopping? Cooking?

Between the E.R. and the Free Clinic, Rick's never home to eat, so I grab whatever and stuff my face. Once in a while I go out to a civilian range in Culver City and shoot. I've been through my record collection twice and read more bad books than I ever want to think about."

"What about volunteer work?"

He clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. When he removed them, I said, "What?"

"Heard it before. Every day, from the altruistic Dr. Silverman.

The Free Clinic AIDS group, homeless kids, Skid Row Mission, whatever.

Find a cause, Milo, and stick wiTh it. Only problem is, I feel too goddam mean. Coiled. Like someone better not say the wrong thing to me or they're gonna end up sucking the sidewalk. This. hot feeling in my gut sometimes I wake up with it; sometimes it just comes on. And don't tell me it's post-traumatic stress syndrome, "cause giving it a name doesn't do squat. I've been there before after the war and I know nothing but time is gonna bleed it out of me.

Meantime, I don't want to be around too many people especially people with heavy-duty misery. I've got no sympathy to give. I'd end up telling them to shape up and get their goddam lives in order."

"Time heals," I said, "but time can be sped along."

He gave me an incredulous look. "What? Counseling?"

"There are worse things."

He slapped his chest with both hands. "Okay, here I am.

Counsel me."

I was silent.

"Right," he said, and looked at the wall clock. "Anyway, I'm gone.

Gonna hit little white balls and pretend they're something else."

He began barreling out of the kitchen. I held out an arm and he stopped.

"How about dinner," I said. "Tonight. I should be free by seven or so.

He said, "Charity meals are for soup kitchens."

"You're a charmer," I said, and lowered my arm.

"What, no date tonight?"

"No date."

"What about Linda?"

"Linda's still in Texas."

"Oh. Thought she was due back last week."

"She was. The stay's been extended. Her father."

"The heart?"

I nodded. "He's gotten worse. Bad enough to keep her there indefinitely."

"Sorry to hear it. When you talk to her, give her my best. Tell her I hope he mends." His anger had given way to sympathy. I wasn't sure that was an improvement.

"Will do," I said. "Have fun at Rancho."

He took a step, stopped. "Okay, so this hasn't been party-time for you either. Sorry."

"I'm doing fine, Milo. And the offer wasn't charity. God knows why, but I thought dinner would be nice. Two guys shooting the bull, all that buddy stuff, like in the beer commercials."

"Yeah," he said. "Dinner. Okay, I can always eat." He patted his gut. And if you're still struggling with your term paper by tonight, bring a draft along. Uncle Milo will render sage editorial input."

"Fine," I said, "but in the meantime why don't you think about getting yourself a real hobby?"

After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.

This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I'd once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping.

I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn't been that much older than Melissa was now.

I opened the door and said, "Hello, Melissa.

She seemed startled, then smiled. "Dr. Delaware! You haven't changed at all!"

We shook hands.

"Come on in.

She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.

The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.

A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.

I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. "You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware."

I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she'd grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, "It's good to see you, Melissa.

"Good to see you, too, Dr. Delaware. And thanks so much for doing it on short notice.

"My pleasure. Any trouble finding the address?"

"No. I used my Thomas Guide I just learned about Thomas Guides.

They're terrific."

"Yes, they are."

"Amazing how so much information can go in one book, isn't it?"

"Sure is.

"I've never really been up to these canyons. It's quite pretty."

Smile. Shy, but poised. Proper: A proper young lady. Was it for my benefit? Did she metamorphose into something giggly and illmannered when she and her friends hit the mall?

Did she go to the mall?

Did she have friends?

The ignorance born of nine years struck home.

Starting from scratch.

I smiled back and, trying not to be obviously analytic, studied her.

Posture straight, maybe a little stifo Understandable, considering the circumstances. But no obvious signs of anxiety. Her hands remained motionless around her knees. No kneading, no evidence of chafing.

I said, "Well. It's been a long time."

"Nine years," she said. "Pretty unbelievable, huh?"

"Sure is. I don't expect you to sum up all nine of them. But I am kind of curious about what you've been up to.

"Just the usual," she said, shrugging. "School, mostly."

She bent forward, straightened her arms, and hugged her knees tighter.

A sheet of hair fell across one eye. She brushed it aside and checked out the room again.

I said, "Congratulations on graduating."

"Thanks. I got accepted to Harvard."

"Fantastic. Double congratulations."

"I was surprised they took me.

"I'll bet there was never any doubt in their minds."

"That's nice of you to say, Dr. Delaware, but I think I was pretty lucky.

I said, "Straight As or close to it?"

Return of the shy smile. Her hands remained clamped on her knees.

"Not in gym."

"Well, shame on you, young lady."

The smile widened, but maintaining it seemed to take effort.

She kept looking around the room, as if searching for something.

I said, "So when do you leave for Boston?"

"I don't know.... They want me to notify them within two weeks if I'm coming. So I guess I'd better decide."

"That mean you're thinking of not going?"

She licked her lips and nodded and brought her gaze to rest, meeting mine. "That's what that's the problem I wanted to talk to you about."

"Whether or not to go to Harvard?"

"What going to Harvard means. In terms of Mother." She licked her lips again, coughed, and began rocking, very gently. Then she freed her hands, picked up a cut-crystal paperweight from the coffee table, and peered through it, squinting. Studying the refraction of the gold-dusted southern light streaming in through the dining room windows.

I said, "Is your mother opposed to your going away?"

"No, she's- She says she wants me to. She hasn't objected at all as a matter of fact, she's been very encouraging. Says she really wants me to go.

"But you're worried about her anyway."

She put down the paperweight, moved to the edge of her chair, and held out her hands, palms up. "I'm not sure she can handle it, Dr. Delaware."

"Being away from you?"

"Yes. She's... It's..." Shrug. She began wringing her hands.

That saddened me more than it should have.

I said, "Is she still Is her situation the same? In terms of her fears?"

"No. I mean, she still has it. The agoraphobia. But she's better.

Because of her treatment. I finally convinced her to get treatment and it's helped."

"Good."

"Yes. It is good."

"But you're not sure treatment's helped her enough to cope with being separated from you."

"I don't know. I mean, how can I be sure She shook her head with a weariness that made her seem very old. Lowered her head and opened her bag. After fumbling for a few moments she drew out a newspaper article and handed it to me.

February of last year. A "Lifestyles" piece entitled "New Hope for Victims of Fears: Husband and Wife Team Fight Debilitating Phobias."

She lifted the paperweight and began toying with it again. I read on.

The article was a profile of Leo Gabney, a Pasadena-based clinical psychologist, formerly of Harvard University, and his psychiatrist wife, Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, alumna and former staff member of that august institution. An accompanying photograph showed the two therapists sitting side by side at a table, facing a female patient.

Only the back of the patient's head was visible. Gabney's mouth was open, in speech. His wife seemed to be looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Both doctors wore expressions of extreme earnestness. The caption read: DRS. LEO AND URSULA GABNEY COMBINE THEIR SKILLS TO WORK INTENSIVELY WITH "MARY," A SEVERE AGORAPHOBIC.

The last word had been circled in red.

I studied the picture. I knew Leo Gabney by reputation, had read everything he'd written, but had never met the man. The camera revealed him to be sixty or close to it, with bushy white hair, narrow shoulders, dark, drooping eyes behind heavy black-framed glasses, and a round, smallish face. He wore a white shirt and dark tie, had rolled his steeves up to the elbow. His forearms were thin and bony almost womanish. My mental image had been something more Herculean.

His wife was brunette and good-looking in a severe way; Hollywood would have cast her as the repressed spinster, ripe for awakening. She was dressed in a cowl-neck knit top with a paisley kerchief draped over one shoulder. A short perm fit nicely around her face.

Glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She was young enough to be Leo Gabney's daughter.

I looked up. Melissa was still turning the crystal. Pretending to be enthralled with the facets.

The knickknack defense.

I'd totally forgotten this particular knickknack. Antique French. A real find, rescued from the back shelves of a tiny curio shop in Leucadia. Robin and me... the amnesia defense.

I resumed reading. The article had the self-consciously laudatory tone of a p.r. release striving to sound like journalism. It recounted Leo Gabney's pioneering work in the research and treatment of anxiety disorders. Cited his "landmark success treating Korean War G.I."s for combat trauma when clinical psychology was still an infant science, pioneering research in frustration and human learning," and tracing his career through three decades of animal and human studies at Harvard.

Thirty years of prolific scientific writing.

No blockaroo for him.

Ursula Cunningham-Gabney was described as a former student of her husband's and possessor of both a Ph. D. in psychology and an M.D. "We joke," said her husband, "that she's a paradox."

Both Gabneys had been tenured members of the staff of Harvard Medical School before relocating to southern California two years previously and establishing the Gabney Clinic. Leo Gabney explained the relocation as "a quest for a more relaxed life-style, as well as the chance to bring to the private sector our combined body of research and clinical skills."

He went on to describe the collaborative nature of the Gabney approach: "My wife's medical training is especially useful in terms of detecting physical disorders, such as hyperthyroidism, that present symptoms similar to those of anxiety disorders. She's also in a unique position to evaluate and prescribe some of the more recent and superior anti-anxiety drugs that have come along."

"Several of the new medications look promising," Ursula Cunningham-Gabney elaborated, "but none is sufficient in and of itself Many physicians